CHAPTER XIV.
I had a good home, and everything pleasant, but I was alone. Some one has asked the question: “What is home without a mother?” Mine was: “What is home without a wife?” I had sadly failed in my first and only effort to get a partner of my joys, a queen for my home, to my sorrow and extreme chagrin and mortification. I had no ambition to encounter another angry mother, though she had her rights, as I believed I had mine. Burnt fingers make us chary of handling fire.
I had been in a number of happy homes, though excluded as I was, and had seen a number of noble wives and mothers, who shed a divine light and influence not only in their family circles, but on all around them.
Mr. Percy’s description of his mother and of his betrothed, gave me a high ideal of the real and true woman. He never spoke of woman but with respect, and I might say with reverence. The influence of his mother had soformed him, that he could no more have injured a woman than he could have hurt his own soul.
I think the opinion a man has of woman is a true index of his character. I have never heard any one speak disparagingly of woman, but I have asked myself, “What must he think of his own mother or sister?”
I had frequently met a young Eurasian woman. I always like the word woman, for God made women; ladies are a society product, and are somewhat like artificial flowers, painted and produced to order. There are to be sure real ladies, but first of all they must be true women, and as I have always preferred flowers of nature’s own making, so I have a preference for a real woman, yet I will have to admit that even the best of us may be deceived by appearances. I once saw some roses painted so true to nature that butterflies came and lit upon them, and I could imagine them saying to each other, “Fooled again!” So we imperfect sighted mortals may be fooled with what we think are roses.
But to my story. The young woman was really handsome, and quite well educated, though to be truthful, her education was somewhat artificial, as the most of her life had been spent in a convent school. On her father’s side of French descent; she was born of lawful wedlock, and in a happy, well-to-do, prosperous family. Cupid shot me with one of his best arrows soon after we became acquainted, and I think she was also hit with the same kind of weapon from the quiver of the famous little sportsman. There seemed to be a mutual sympathy for each other in our wounded hearts. The result was, as it generally happens in such cases, we concluded to cure each other’s wounds, by joining hands and hearts. The wedding took place at the home of the bride, with great ceremony, and a large gathering of friends, and then this Adam and his Eve returned to their garden of Eden, and all went merry as a marriage bell.
It seemed as if I had now reached the acme of my desires, wealth enough, a beautiful home, a fine library, flowers in our garden, and above all—a wife. I had forgotten the story, as probably most of us have, that there wasa serpent even in the garden of Eden, and I never thought that one could enter mine.
I had fine horses and carriages, so we could enjoy our drives. As I have said, I subscribed liberally to all games and entertainments, so we had frequent invitations, and were well received. We also gave our little parties, which were well enjoyed. My wife was an excellent pianist, and entertained our guests with music, in which some of them took part. One of the most frequent callers was an Hon. a young officer of one of the regiments, very gentlemanly in appearance, of a high society family, well read, and one who had traveled and seen the world. He had a good ear for music, and played well, so he and my wife had something in common to interest them, with which I was well pleased. He not only often dined with us alone and with others, but before our evening drives he frequently took tea with us on our veranda, and we talked on various subjects, for he was an excellent conversationalist, full of anecdotes and incidents, which he related in a very fascinating manner. He had style, a quick appreciation of things, and what interested me was his remarks on moral and religious subjects, not connected with churches or creeds, but in their widest meaning, and frequently with me alone he spoke of the beauty of virtue and honor. He seemed to be a devoted church-goer, belonged to the High Church party, was a stickler for ecclesiastical forms, and often talked of the beauty of the services, and the value of the sacraments.
Both my wife and myself were greatly pleased to have such an acquaintance to relieve the monotony that rules even in our best India stations. We had other friends whom we often saw, each excellent in his way. We were happy and time passed rapidly. One of the largest gatherings in the station was at the Birthday Ball, when guests came from outside places. We attended the ball, though I could not dance, yet I was very fond of music, and the social part. My wife excelled in dancing and took great delight in it, so she had plenty of partners, one of whom was our Hon. friend, and he was about the best dancer of them all.
I had frequently to be absent for several days, to visitmy villages, and to look after my investments. I regretted these absences for my wife’s sake, as she was timid at night, and besides she appeared fond of my company, as I know I was of hers. One day, as I was about to leave, our Hon. friend called, and during our conversation asked me if he could take my wife out driving during my absence. I replied that I would be most pleased to have him do so, and suggested that they should use the phaeton, as it would be more comfortable than a cart, and the horses needed exercise. During my absence I congratulated myself on our happiness and prosperity, and thought with pride of the pleasant reception of my wife in the station.
So the months passed with nothing to cloud my happiness. One day when I was in the garden, looking over my trees and flowers, pruning a limb here and there, my head man or durwan, an elderly Hindu, whom I had kept in my service for years, followed me around. I saw by his manner that he had something to say to me, so I asked “What is it, Ram Kishn?” He replied, “I have been with the Sahib for years and have eaten his salt, and I would shed my blood for him.”
“I know that, Ram Kishn, but what do you wish to say?”
“Sahib!” he said with hesitation, “I have often thought of telling you something, but I was afraid. I have seen something that even we poor ignorant idol worshipers—Kam ackl, bhut parast log, as the Sahibs call us, think is not right.”
I quickly asked, “Has somebody been stealing my fruit or flowers, or the bearer been cheating with the grain?”
“No, Sahib! nothing of that kind, something worse than that.”
I began to be impatient and said, “Out with it then, what is it?”
“Sahib, you know I love you, and think much of your izzat, honor. I would let you beat me, or you might put your feet upon me,” and he threw himself upon the ground toward me. I began to be alarmed, thinking there must be something serious, or he would not act in that way, for he was a very reliable, sensible man. I told him to get up, and urged him to tell me what he meant. He said, “Iwould rather die than say it, but I tell you for the sake of your honor, I must tell you.” ‘Well, then tell it,’ I urged.
Said he, “If the sahib will not kill me with the knife in his hand.”
I hurled the knife away, and said, “There goes the knife,” and then I folded my arms and stood waiting. He went on:
“Now, if the Sahib will not call me a liar, or the son of a dog, or curse me.”
I held up my right hand and said: “Ram Kishn! I will eat an oath before God, that I will not touch you with my hands or feet, neither will I harm you with my words, if you tell me what you mean.”
After a few moments, he said, “Sahib, you know the young Sahib who comes here often, and sings with the Mem Sahib, who goes out with her in the phaeton when you are absent?” I nodded my head in reply. “Well, when you are gone to your villages—how can I tell it, Sahib? he comes late at night when the lights are all out, and the Mem Sahib lets him in, and he does not go away till early next morning.”
I staggered and fell. He rushed to me moaning, “Sahib, forgive me, what have I done? I have killed you!” Then he helped me to a seat in the arbor.
It seemed my heart had stopped, and I was choking. He stood with the palms of his hands together, bending towards me, and the tears running down his cheeks.
For some time we were silent. I could not think, it seemed that I had fallen from some house or tree and was insensible. After awhile I said. “Ram Kishn, I don’t doubt that you believe what you say, but there must be some mistake. It is impossible, impossible.”
Then he said, “Sahib, do not say a word, not even to the Mem Sahib. I am the only one of the servants who knows this, for don’t I watch on the front veranda when the Sahib is absent?”
“But, what shall I do?” I asked, for I was in such a dazed stupor that I could not think.
He replied, “The Sahib is going away to-night. Go, but do not go far from the station, and return here to this arborat twelve o’clock. Do not come before that time, or the servants will be about, and we do not want them to know anything of this, and then we’ll see that which is to happen, will happen.” I told him I would do as he said, and that he should order the sais to have the cart ready at five o’clock, and to have the bearer put in my luggage. He replied that it should be just as I ordered.
I sat for awhile, and then started for a walk, somewhere, anywhere, I did not know, or care. I did not wish to see my wife, as I could not trust myself to meet her just then. As I expected, when I returned, she had gone out with her Hon. friend for a drive in the phaeton, so I started in the direction of my villages. I halted at a village several miles from the station, telling the sais that I was ill, and very ill I was, too. How long the hours were! How slowly the minutes crept! I held my watch in my hand, counted the tick, ticks, as if every one was taunting me with my wretchedness. So I waited and ate grief for my dinner. Eleven o’clock came, and I turned towards home. Home! How suddenly it had changed to Hell! I formed no plans. I doubted, I feared, I hoped. Nearing the station I went by a back lane to the stables, and taking the luggage myself, went through the garden to the arbor. There I found Ram Kishn. To show his sympathy in the dark, he took both my hands in his and pressed them without uttering a word. After some moments of silence I whispered, “Ram Kishn, is it,” and interrupting me, he said, “We’ll see, sahib, come with me.” I followed him to a side door which we entered, for it seems that he had quietly unfastened this door. He lit the night lantern, and drew the slide to hide the light, and we silently groped our way to our bedroom, yes, our bedroom. As we entered it, he drew the slide, and there upon my bed, our bed, they were both asleep in each other’s arms!
If I had been dazed before, I was paralyzed now. It was well that I had formed no plan and taken no weapon, but it would have been useless, as I could not raise my arms. I could not think; my power of speech was gone.
In an instant, at the glow of the light, they both awoke with a scream of fright. I turned and left the room.
Often since that terrible moment I have thought of what I might, could, would or should have done. That is always the way. Most people can think afterward, when it is too late for thinking. But it was well that my guardian angel or something kept me from taking a pistol or even a stick in my hand. It has all passed, except the sad remembrance, and I console myself with the thought that when one has done his best, that whatever is, is best.
I went out into the darkness, wishing that it could engulf and hide me forever. On and on for miles down the metaled road, thinking, but all my thoughts ran into a delirium.
When the morning sun shone into my face, I found myself seated on the sand by the roadside looking toward home. Home! I had none. It had vanished in the darkness. Strange, is it not, that after a lapse of years old scenes will suddenly flash upon one? It is true that a thousand times I had thought of my mother, but at that moment I saw the dear little mama, with those beautiful eyes wide open, looking, looking while her heart was breaking, dying! I could realize her bitter sorrow, for was not my heart breaking too?
These thoughts of her brought me to life again, to the maddening reality of my own condition. I arose and went back to my infamy and disgrace. I felt but little anger, as the consciousness of my degradation overwhelmed me, and despair paralyzed all my feelings.
As I entered the house, I saw my wife—how I hated that word then—seated in the drawing room. She did not look at me, and I passed on into my private room. When I came out again, she sprang toward me, but I retreated, saying, “Don’t come to me, never touch me again.” She threw herself upon the floor, wailing and begging me to forgive her. My heart was stone, my whole body dead to her. After a while she took a seat and I listened in silence, while she told me all. How the Hon. had flattered her, deceived and so seduced her, that at the Birthday Ball, after a waltz together, he had taken her into the kala jagah—well is it named the black place—and then had taken liberties with her, and then on and on—why repeat the hateful story?
By the time she had finished I had formed my plan, and said this to her, “Your Hon. seducer will probably not tell of this. The only one else who knows it is Ram Kishn, and he will not tell, and we need not say anything. We can live in hell here, and that is enough, without telling others to have them add fuel to the flames. You can have that side of the house entirely to yourself. One of the rooms you can use as a dining room, and you can have the carriage for your evening drives. I will keep this side of the house for myself, and we’ll live as never seeing each other.”
The thought of the pleasant life we had passed, and of this horrible life coming, made me exclaim, “What infamous crimes were my ancestors guilty of, that I should be cursed like this? Why should I be damned for the sins of that villainous father of mine?”
At this she asked, “Am I not to be your wife again?”
“My wife!” I exclaimed; “No, never, never again. Your purity is gone. You are polluted for me. You have violated all your rights, not by a sudden passion, but deliberately, time and again. You took advantage of my absence. You have done your best to degrade me, to ruin me, and to pollute yourself. You have not the slightest claim on me for any rights or privileges. As for love, such as I had for you yesterday, my heart is now dead to you. I forgive you, pity you, and will provide every comfort for you, but you are not my wife except in name, and never can be.”
She fell back in a swoon, and I called her ayah, waiting woman, and left the room.
What else could I do? Since then I have often thought of what I did, and my conscience has never condemned me. I acted toward her as I would have had her act toward me if the circumstances were changed. Had I broken my loyalty to her in but one instance, she would have been right in dealing with me as I dealt with her. I do not believe in two codes, one for erring men, and another for erring women. If men demand virtue in their wives, and cast them off when they fall, then let the men apply the same law to themselves. The man who has commerce with more than one woman, is as guilty as the woman who has hadcommerce with more than one man. If immorality is wrong in a woman, why not in a man? Why should the man have the right to transmit the curse of sensualism or debased appetite to his children more than the woman? Why should a woman in marriage take up a damaged article of a man, any more than a man a disreputable woman for a wife?
Asks a Danish novelist, “Is a woman who has had no relationships with a man before marriage entitled to expect the same in her husband? Is a man who has had relationships with other women before marriage entitled to complain of his wife who has had such relationships?” Another gives this paragraph—a conversation of a father with his daughter. “There,” he says, “is woman’s noblest calling.” “As what?” asks the daughter. “As what! Have you not listened? As—as the ennobling influence in marriage, as that which makes men pure, as—” “As soap?” she suggests. “Soap?” asks he, “what makes you think of soap?” “You make out that marriage is a great laundry for men. We girls are to stand ready, each at her wash-tub with her piece of soap. Is that how you mean it?”
Once conversing with a young man, a full-blooded European in high position, from a remark of mine he was led to ask, “Do you think that children will inherit the disease of their father?” “Inevitably,” I replied, “and I do not believe that God himself can or will avert this natural law.” He replied, with a tremor in his voice, “I am very sorry to hear you say that, as I am going to be married in a few days.” I changed the subject, and made another remark, when he asked, “Don’t you believe in the blood of Jesus to atone for our sins?” “No,” said I, “not at all.” “Well!” he exclaimed, “if I did not believe in that, I do not know what I should do.”
His was a strange mixture of practice and belief, like vice and virtue sleeping in each other’s arms in the same bed. Living in the midst of sin, diseased, and about to commit the meanest of frauds by marrying a pure, noble girl, and yet professing to believe in Jesus, the purest of men, who denounced lust in the severest terms, and taughtthat even lustful desire was as criminal as adultery. Why should there not be pure-minded, physically clean men, for fathers, as well as pure-minded and beautiful women for mothers?
Why not, in the name of all that is just and holy, demand of men the same chastity that they demand of women?
I know this is not the rule in “society”; that there are many men who claim to be men of honor, gentlemen, and many of them professing Christians, who glibly talk about the beauty of chastity and virtue, and yet who feed in every pasture as if they had a right there, but if their wives step aside, then the devil is to pay, and all that.
I acted according to my sense of justice—one law for both sexes, so how could I have done otherwise than I did?
What of the Hon. gentleman, an officer in her majesty’s service? I might have shot him, and been hung for it, as that is justice according to English law. I might have exposed him and created a scandal, to be myself despised as a cuckold, and he be patted on the back by his gentlemen comrades, or laughed at for being caught. Such an escapade, by what I have read and heard, is winked at by mothers in English “society,” and constituents would not hesitate in making such a man a member of Parliament. “Young men will sow their wild oats,” is their excuse. “It is only an exuberance of gaiety—a youthful indiscretion,” say they.
An English writer, a member of Parliament, so the statement is not to be doubted, said in a newspaper article that “An Englishman is never so happy as when stealing his neighbor’s wife,” so the Hon. may still be happy stealing other men’s wives, as he stole mine. But then she was only an “Eurasian,” the wife of that “damned Eurasian,” and so fit game for an Hon. or any other gentleman.
I went to Ram Kishn, and he followed me into the arbor where we could be alone. I told him what I had done. He replied, “Sahib, I am a poor, ignorant, bhut parast, and have no more sense than if I was brother to a donkey, yet I think you are doing right.” “Now, Ram Kishn,” I inquired, “you will never tell a word of this?” Hethrust out his tongue, with his teeth upon it, as if to say, if it ever utters a word may it be bitten off. And his tongue ever remained true and unbitten.
We two lived in this way in a divided house, not a home. Talk about hell fire! It could not be worse than what I endured and suffered during the long and dreary months while we lived and died a living death in every day. I provided everything I could for her comfort, the best of servants, the choicest kinds of food, books, magazines and illustrated papers. She had her drives, but alone, the carriage was for her and no one else. We seldom met, and then only for a word or two, when I asked if she needed anything. I think, as she became conscious of her sin against me, she respected me for the course I took.
She fell ill. I got the best medical attendance and nurses. The end was approaching, and then she sent for me, and confessed again that she had wronged me, and almost cursed that Hon. gentleman who, by his pious talk and seductive flatteries, had led her astray, and held her in his power, spellbound and powerless as the serpent holds the poor, weak bird, and destroyed our love and home. Why should she not curse him? “For cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it.” She did not blame me for what I had done. My kindness and consideration had made her love me more than ever. She had repented with bitter tears, until her heart was broken, and now, at the close of her life, ending so sadly, she wanted my forgiveness, which I gave most freely. She begged a parting farewell kiss, which I had no desire to refuse, and she departed, once the life of my life, but now no more.
Did I not suffer, and for her? Did I not live down in the valley of despair, and under the shadow of death, all those months and for her sake? I would have given all I possessed, even life itself, to have restored her to me as she once was—my wife.
I buried her body in a beautiful spot in the cemetery, in silence, as not a prayer or funeral note was uttered, for I had been so damnably wronged by my Christian father, and this Hon. Christian gentleman who had murdered my love, whom I had often seen, hail fellow, well met, withthe chaplain, and had noticed in church piously reciting the prayers, that I hated everything associated with him, and wished to have neither priest nor prayers.
My wish is, that if there be a devil, he may get this seducer and give him his just dues, as I would wish to see a murderer caught and hung. I believe in justice to sinners as well as to saints.
Some might say, “Why not have charity?” and my reply would be,
“Urge neither charity nor shame to me,Uncharitably with me have you dealt,And shamefully by you my hopes are butchered,My charity is outrage, life my shameAnd in that shame still lives my sorrow’s rage.”
“Urge neither charity nor shame to me,Uncharitably with me have you dealt,And shamefully by you my hopes are butchered,My charity is outrage, life my shameAnd in that shame still lives my sorrow’s rage.”
“Urge neither charity nor shame to me,Uncharitably with me have you dealt,And shamefully by you my hopes are butchered,My charity is outrage, life my shameAnd in that shame still lives my sorrow’s rage.”
“Urge neither charity nor shame to me,
Uncharitably with me have you dealt,
And shamefully by you my hopes are butchered,
My charity is outrage, life my shame
And in that shame still lives my sorrow’s rage.”
The last mark of respect I could show her was to erect a beautiful monument on her grave, inscribed with “Mary, the wife of Charles Japhet,” which the world may read, though it has never known the secret of our lives until now. Though she had ceased to be in my heart my wife, still she was and ever will be my wife in name.
Years have passed since that awful, memorable event. I have often tried to analyze and comprehend my feelings and condition at that time. I had such implicit, absolute confidence in the virtue of my wife that I would have risked my soul in proof of it. I had such respect for that man that nothing but overwhelming proof could have convinced me of his lack of integrity. I was rather proud of his acquaintance, pleased with what I considered his polite attentions to my wife. I would have felt it degrading, not only to them, but to myself, to have entertained the slightest suspicion of the least impropriety.
This was my condition before the fearful awakening came. Then it came so suddenly, like a flash of lightning before my eyes, that I was bewildered, stupefied. For the moment I could not realize anything, either that I existed or could think or feel—paralyzed is the best word I can use,—in thought and feeling.
Then there flashed through me a contempt, a thorough disgust for those two things as if they were but slimy toads in the mire that were beneath my notice, and toonasty for me to touch or look at. With this latter feeling overpowering me, I escaped from what, had I remained a moment more, would have become a revenge, and I would have committed a terrible deed, not a crime, in killing them both, if I could. I think I would have been justified in doing this, and yet, and yet, there would have been a fearful remembrance of it ever afterward. I wonder why I acted as I did, and still am heartily glad that I did not act otherwise.
Mr. Jasper was my kindest friend when the shadow of death was over my house. He walked beside me to the cemetery, and stood beside me in the silence at the grave, and returned with me in the carriage. He scarcely spoke a word in all that time, but I felt the sympathy of his heart. The shadow of death brooded within my house, the stillness was awful, almost beyond endurance, and I was terribly alone. I could well apply the lines of Shelley to myself:
“As the earth when leaves are dead,As the night when sleep is sped,As the heart when joy is fled,I am left lone, alone.”
“As the earth when leaves are dead,As the night when sleep is sped,As the heart when joy is fled,I am left lone, alone.”
“As the earth when leaves are dead,As the night when sleep is sped,As the heart when joy is fled,I am left lone, alone.”
“As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.”