CHAPTER XLIII.SITTING BY THE DOOR.
A quiet and most beautiful life was that which Catharine led, in her country home. She was left completely mistress of her own time, with those kind old people,who were always too happy when Elsie was alone with themselves; but with all the resources of enjoyment about her, a strange nervousness possessed the young woman. Notwithstanding the entire frankness of the old people, and the paternal interest with which they regarded her, there was a sort of dignified gentleness about them that forbade any allusion to the subject that haunted her thoughts continually.
How came her husband’s portrait in that library, and what was the secret of its strange effect upon the demented daughter of the house? Why did it hang pendent with hers?
Again and again these questions arose to the young woman’s lips; but they always died upon them unuttered. The subject of this closed library was so completely ignored, it seemed so decidedly cast out from the routine of life among them, that she had no way of introducing it that would not seem forced and abrupt.
Besides, a species of superstition seized upon her, regarding this apartment. Like most sensitive persons, who have suffered deeply, she shrunk from turning back to the painful points of her own experience; and blending these objects, as she necessarily must, with her own fate, the reserve which lay upon all the rest, fell like a mist over her also. This feeling grew with time, till she hoarded her own thoughts upon the subject as if they had been a sin.
But she was drawn with irrepressible attraction toward the room. It was the only place on earth where she was certain of perfect solitude. No one ever visited that wing of the building, or at least ever penetrated so far as the library. The grass around the bay-window grew rank, and uncared for, while the lilac-trees and clustering roses remained leafy and unpruned from year to year, though perfect order reigned everywhere else in the grounds.
Early in the morning, before the family were astir, Catharine always spent an hour or two in the room so full of interest,yet which every one seemed to shun. The picture of her husband upon the wall seemed like a living soul. It had brought back her faith in humanity. It had made her less alone in the world.
A wonderful amount of knowledge may be accumulated, by devoting two morning hours out of the twenty-four to study, and, perhaps, the pleasantest acquirements we possess are those gathered up of our own free will, unaided and, as it were, in secret.
Thus it was with Catharine. With a tolerable rudimental education she found no difficulty in a want of masters, and every day saw her naturally fine mind expand itself with freshly gathered ideas, that gradually consolidated and took the form of knowledge.
Among other things she found a portfolio of drawings, rough studies, and bold, spirited sketches, such as genius throws off as it searches for perfect development, with implements and materials of art, which had long slumbered in disuse. The sight of these things awoke a new desire and a new talent in her. She would learn to paint. She would study hard, and so perfect herself, that some day his portrait should be hers. She would work incessantly till her art should achieve a copy of that. This was all the result she thought of—his picture—nothing more.
Here was an object for exertion. So she went to work, heart and soul, to obtain this shadow of a lost happiness; looking dreamily toward the future when he might learn how faithfully she had worked and thought for him.
It may injure Catharine, a deserted wife and childless mother, so young and so wronged, when I say that her life on the Island was one of tolerable happiness; but she was not an angel of suffering, only an earnest, hopeful, young creature, resolved to perform her duties honestly as they arose. Spite of everything, she was looking forward to the possibility of meeting her husband in the future, to rejoiceover him if he was blameless, and to forgive him under any circumstances.
Here again some of her own sex may condemn her for want of pride, and exclaim of what female dignity demands from the sex. But as I have said, Catharine was no heroine, only a beautiful, high-minded and gentle-hearted woman full of feminine compassion, not only for the miseries, but for the weaknesses of mankind. She never thought of her husband so much as having sinned against herself, individually, as of the wrong done to his own manliness.
People who have never loved can talk of that implacable dignity so regal in the proud woman; but those who love know well that affection is stronger than pride, nay, stronger than death itself. The woman who boasts that she would be unforgiving to the man she loves, has very little of tenderness in her nature, or real dignity either. Never does the true Christian, or the true woman, which is much the same thing, appear more beautiful than with a feeling of charity warm at heart. The highest and purest charity is that which refuses to look with implacability on the wrongs from which we have suffered.
These gentle and forgiving feelings grew strong within the heart of the young woman, as she studied in that solitary room, solitary save for the pictured presence of her husband. Her character became fixed and noble, with the gradual expansion of a fine intellect, and it was not long before the frail, fair girl, so rich in all generous feeling, became deep-thoughted as she had hitherto been warmhearted.
For some time after her first discovery of the library, Catharine thought herself sure of solitude whenever she entered it. Once or twice she had heard soft footsteps creeping about the door, but after a moment’s attention forgot the circumstance.
But one morning, while busy at her easel, working desperatelytoward the one object—a copy of her husband’s portrait—she heard the heavy breathing of some object outside the door, followed by a suppressed murmur.
Catharine arose suddenly, and opened the door, holding her palette and brush in one hand. There in the hall, with her long, flowing night-dress lying around her like a snow-drift, sat Elsie, her dark, wild eyes turned wistfully toward the library, as Eve might have been supposed to crouch at the gates of Eden.
With a timid motion of the hand she beckoned Catharine toward her, uttering a low hush with her lips.
Catharine stepped out and bent over her, as she was seated on the floor.
“Hush! hist!” whispered Elsie, lifting her finger with a look of affright. “Is he there? are they together? does he suspect that I am here in the cold, waiting? don’t tell him. I won’t come nearer, but it seems so hard to sit here all alone, and they in there. Please don’t tell them. Is he speaking to her? Does she say anything about me? She shouldn’t, it’s cruel. I carried off all the gray hairs, and the disgrace, and the heart-burn. They might let me stay here, you know.”
The tone in which these words were uttered was so pleading and pitiful, the dark eyes, uplifted like those of a feverish child pleading for drink, had so much pathos in their glance, that Catharine felt tears trembling in her own voice, as she stooped down and endeavored to soothe the poor woman.
“Come in—come sit with me, Elsie dear. They will be glad to see you,” she said, humoring the idea that possessed her charge.
Elsie shook her head. “I couldn’t—it sets my heart afire to see him looking so kindly at her, and so cruelly at me. But listen: I was more beautiful than she is, once, and he thought so—he did, indeed, but somehow—I don’t understand how it was done—they made a division of God’sgifts, do you see. The beauty and love they left with her; to me, they gave age and tears, sinfulness, disgrace, hemp-jackets, and told me to go alone and be still. The evil spirit had been driven out from between them. They called it Elsie. Yes, they gave me her name, and told me to be gone. That is the reason I sit here on the floor, so cold and gray, while she enjoys herself in there. Don’t tell them, for I like to stay!”
“Come back to your chamber,” said Catharine, gently; “put on a nice dress, and we will go in together; they will be very glad to see us!”
“Did they tell you so?” inquired Elsie, quickly.
“Yes, they told me so!”
“Did they?—that was kind. But I can’t accept it, you know. When the people off yonder in the Bible sent their poor goat into the wilderness loaded down with their sins, he never came back to disgrace them, but lay down and died of hunger in the woods.”
“But you are not driven away—you are not alone or hungry!”
“Oh, yes, I am!—here, here!” said the poor creature, pressing a hand to her side, and rocking back and forth as with pain; “but it don’t kill, this hunger. I starve and starve, but never die. Hush, they will hear me. Go back and shut the door. I like to sit just as I am; but don’t tell for anything.”
Catharine hesitated, and made another effort to win the poor creature from her uncomfortable position. But Elsie was in a positive mood, and would neither go into the library or to her own room, though the morning was chilly, and her raiment so insufficient; nothing would urge her to move.
“I know—I know,” she said, impatiently, when Catharine urged this, “it is cold, it makes me shiver all over; but then you can guess how it is. I am to take all the cold, too, with the wakefulness and watching, it is a part of me thiscold; when I tremble, they smile. Do you know I never smile: that is left to them!”
“Then,” said Catharine, gently, “I will stay with you.”
“No, no. The cold is catching, you will take it!”
“But I must, unless you will go with me!”
“Not there,” pleaded Elsie, pointing to the library.
“No, to our room.”
“Well, ifyouare cold, I will go!”
After that day, Catharine often found Elsie watching by the library-door, as she came out from her morning studies.