Crusoe in New York, and other tales

by Edward Everett Hale

CHAPTER IV.

Dear Psyche, could you not cast the future better?

That day, as they had arranged, she packed her things and Geoffrey's for the country, and the next day they went, bag and baggage, to a beautiful place Mr. Ross had hired, at the corner of Hale Street and Beach Street, for a sea-shore home in Beverly, so that dear Geoffrey might have the south wind off the sea, the purest of air, and the freshest of salt-water brought up for his daily bath.

The only grief was that Edward had to take the evening train for Boston five nights in the week. But he always appeared fresh and bright at breakfast; and in the bath at noon, in the daily walk, or in the evening ride to the station, life seemed all the happier because the three hags of Painted Post had returned to their lair.

But this paradise lasted only a fortnight, when the tempter came. This letter arrived from Priscilla:—

"Very Private.

"PAINTED POST, June 5.

"MY DEAREST PSYCHE,—Your sisters and I have had a very serious conversation about you and the life you are leading. You seem to be very happy; but have you thought, my dear Psyche, that you are dancing on the edge of a volcano? Have you asked no question as to the future? Are you so blinded as to forget that the wages of sin is death, and that the joys of this moment are as nothing compared with the terrors of eternity?

"Your sisters and I have spoken to dear papa about the life you lead. He has bidden me write to you just what I think, and your sisters also say it is my duty to do so. I write you, therefore—how sadly you know—to say that, as a Christian woman, you ought not to continue in this life. You should rise above it, and assert the freedom of a child of God. What is a dinner at Parker's if eaten with a guilty conscience? Better is a dinner of herbs where love is.

"I am sorry to write you a letter which seems severe. But you know, my dear child, that I am as a mother to you. And surely the counsels of a mother will be sweeter to you than the flatteries of any not so near as she.

"Always your loving sister,
"PRISCILLA."

"Counsels of a fiddlestick!" said Psyche; and she wrote this answer:—

"What in the world is the matter? I saw no dislike of Parker's dinners when you were here. I believe you are crazy.

"Always yours,
"PSYCHE."

And she threw Priscilla's letter into the kitchen-fire. This was her mistake. She would have been wiser had she shown it to Edward, as she did the other. But she was ashamed to.

Another week brought her another letter.

"Private and Particular.

"PAINTED POST, June 13.

"MY DEAR CHILD,—I am shocked with the levity of your note, without date, which lies before me.

"Dear Psyche, fools make a mock of sin. How can you exult in your own shame? How can you live as the wife of a man of whom you know nothing, whose whole life is suspicious and a scandal, who is himself so ashamed of it that he does not admit his own wife to a knowledge of its secret ways? I cannot see how a child of Christian parents should be so blinded and misled.

"Rouse yourself in your strength, dear child. Ask your husband honestly and bravely what it is that he does in his nightly orgies. Do not think that we observed nothing in our visit. Do not think that we were lulled or put to sleep in our watch over our sister. Never, dear Psyche. We love you as much as ever. And we are determined to tear every shred of mystery from your life, once so artless and pure.

"Truly, your sister-mother,
"PRISCILLA."

"Sister-mother indeed!" said Psyche; and she wrote this letter:—

"DEAR PRIS,—If you will mind your business, I will mind mine. P."

And she threw Priscilla's letter into the sea at high tide, torn into little bits. This was her second mistake.

This time this answer came:—

"PAINTED POST, June 21.

"MY DEAR LOST LAMB,—I have spent the night in prayer for you. This morning Agnes and Polly and I showed your profligate letter to our dear father. He has charged me to write what I think best to you.

"Is it not my business to care for the life and soul of a dear sister who has no mother's love? Am I not right when I fall on my knees to pray for her welfare? How could I enjoy the good of this life or the hopes of another, knowing that my sister is eating the bread of wickedness and drinking from the cup of sin? Shall the watchman desert his post because the soldier sleeps?

"Ask yourself why no person except the hireling tradesman ever visits at this house of luxury and extravagance, which your husband makes the prison-house of your soul.

"Ask yourself what is the fountain of this gold which he spends so shamelessly.

"Ask yourself, dear Psyche, what you would have said two years ago had any one told you that you should become the wife of a counterfeiter or a forger or a gambler or a keeper of a dance-house or a detective, or any other of those horrid things which are done in secret. If any one had said to you that you should have pleasure in those that do them, what would you have said? O my dear lost lamb, how often has that sweet text (see Romans i. 32) come back to me since I came to see you, in the faint hope that I might rescue my lamb even as a brand from the burning! My dear Psyche, will you not turn before it is too late? Why will you die?

"Thus asks and prays your own
"PRISCILLA."

"My own cat and dog!" said little Psyche scornfully. But she did not put the letter into the fire, nor did she tear it to shreds to throw them into the sea. I am very sorry; but, even in her wonder, she kept the letter hid away.

"What in the world did they find out about Edward that I do not know?" This was the first fatal question which Psyche asked herself.

"Forger, counterfeiter, detective, gambler—what do the vile creatures mean? They shall not say such horrid things about the best of men!"

"Ask yourself what is the fountain of this gold." Psyche had asked herself very often, and she did not know, and she knew she did not know. Edward was not lavish, and he was not parsimonious. She and he went over the bills together once a month, and when they were too large, they both took care that that should not happen again. And he gave her nice crisp bills to pay them with, and always gave her a separate sum for "P," which he said was her "private, personal, or peculiar share," which she had better not keep any account of. Where it all came from she did not know, and she knew she did not know; and she had promised not to ask him.

As for asking herself why nobody called to see her, she had asked that too, and she had no better answer. The minister did call once a year; but they had been out both times, and he had left his card. The doctor had called before Geoffrey was born, and after; but she had not asked him why nobody else called. She supposed it was the Boston way. Certainly she had called on nobody but on Mrs. Royall and Mrs. Flynn and a few more of her protegées. She was sure she did not want people to call on her, and she did not want to call on them.

Still the iron had entered her soul. And, as Satan ordered, for this week of all weeks, Edward was called away to New York; and although there were two letters a day from dear Edward, and very funny scraps from bills of fare and play-bills, and one or two new novels by post, and an English edition of the new "Morris," still her "earthly paradise" was a very gloomy paradise without him.

And every day the poor child read over Priscilla's venomous letter; and at last she went so far that she determined that she would ask him why nobody except the minister and the doctor ever came to see her.

Of course she did no such thing; for Friday night came, and—joy of joys!—Edward came. And Geoff was dragged out of his crib to see papa, and came down in his dear little flannel night-gown, and really knew papa, or was said to; and Geoff really grabbed at the new coral papa had brought to him, and held it in his hand and swayed it to and fro wildly, as a man very drunk would do; and they laughed happily over Geoff and put him to bed again; and then they sat and talked, and talked and sat, till long after any bedtime Psyche had ever dreamed of; and then they went to bed together, and as Psyche undressed, Edward read the story of the "Four Sons of Aymon" aloud to her. It was all as beautiful as it could be; and was she to bother him with talking about callers? Not she! She had him till Monday night, and she was not going to destroy her own paradise before then.

So there was one long, lovely Saturday, when he worked with her and she worked with him, and they went to the beach together, and went to drive together, and painted together, and in the evening they tried some new music that he had brought home; and he had a whole pile of lovely English and French letters which had come since he went away, and they had those to read together; and there was one German letter from his old Heidelberg friend, Welsted, and Psyche helped him puzzle out the words of the writing: he said she always guessed these riddles better than he did. And Welsted was married too, and he had a little girl baby, and made great fun about marrying her to Geoffrey. And they wrote an answer to Welsted, and it was midnight before they came round to the "Four Sons of Aymon" and to their bed.

And Sunday was another lovely day. They drove to church, and the drive was charming. They drove to Essex Woods, and that was charming. And Edward got out some of his old college diaries and read to her; and she fell to telling him about Ingham University. Oh dear! I do not know what they did not talk about. And it was midnight before they went to bed again.

Edward went right to sleep. Psyche had noticed that before. He would say, "God bless us, darling!" and he would be asleep in two seconds. But Psyche could not sleep. She had lost all her chances to ask him about the calls. She could not bear to wake him up and ask him. Nay, had she not promised him that she would not ask him? Not this very thing, perhaps, but what was just the same thing.

Why should she ask him? Why should she not find out without asking him? Priscilla seemed to know, but Priscilla had never asked him. How did Priscilla know? How did Priscilla know?—how? how? how? The poor child said this over to herself in words,—"How? how? how?"—and she fell asleep.

But she did not sleep well. All of a sudden, in a horrid dream, in which they were dragging Edward off to prison, she woke up. Oh, how glad she was to be awake! What in the world were they taking him to prison for? What had he done? Priscilla knew. Did Priscilla know? Why should not Psyche know?

Poor little Psyche! It was very still, and Edward was dead asleep. And one word from him would make her perfectly happy. And yet she did not dare ask him to speak that one word.

Why should she not be perfectly happy? Why should she disturb him at all? Why should she not keep her promise, and be perfectly happy too?

Dear little Psyche! Poor little Psyche! She got out of bed, and she stepped gently across the room to Edward's dressing-room, and she pushed the door to. It was the first time in her life that Psyche had ever tried to part herself from her husband. And she knew it was. And a cold shudder ran through her as she thought of this. But she was not born to be frightened by cold shudders. There was too much Lady Macbeth in her for that. She struck a match, lighted a candle, and sat for a minute thinking. Then she bravely took her husband's coat and drew from the breast-pocket that Russia leather letter-book which she gave him at Christmas. How little she thought then that she should be handling it stealthily at the dead of night!

She opened the book, which was full of letters. She seized the first:—

"MR. EDWARD ROSS, No. 999 State Street, Boston."

Then that was his office. She could drive down State Street some day and just look at the number. She set the candle on her knee to free her hand while she opened the letter.

"DEAR ROSS,—Could you spare me Orton for half an hour?

"E. J. F."

Miserable girl! She had violated all confidence—to learn nothing!

But Lady Macbeth went on.

"Mr. Edward Ross, 999 State Street:

"DEAR ROSS,—If you can come to club again, you will come to-day. Hedge reads, and Emerson and James will be there. We have not seen you for a year."

And she knew why he had not dined at club for a year, why he had spent every moment that he could spend at home. Miserable girl! It was for this that she had stolen out of bed!

So Lady Macbeth read No. 3.

"Mr. Edward Ross, 999 State Street:

"DEAR SIR,—We cannot match the turquoise here. But on the catalogue of Messrs. Roothan, Amsterdam, there are four such stones. Shall we telegraph them? We have very little time before July 31."

July 31 was her birthday. It was for this that she was reading her husband's secrets. Wretched Psyche!

Lady Macbeth went on.

"Private and Confidential.

"Edward Ross, Esq., 999 State Street:

Lady Macbeth paused, but her hand was in.

"DEAR SIR,—The committee met and read your letter with great care. Mr. Potter said that he had seen you on Tuesday, and that you expressed the same view then. I also laid before the committee General G——'s letter to you, and the telegram you had received from Syracuse. If you can persuade your friends to—"

Here the page ended, and Psyche had to turn over. As she turned, the candlestick tipped on her knee, fell bottom up upon the ground, and Psyche was in darkness.

What a noise it made! And what a guilty fool Psyche felt like! No Lady Macbeth now! But she folded the letter and put it back in the letter-case. She put the letter-case in the pocket, and folded the coat. She picked up the candle, and put it on the table. Then she slunk back into her bedroom. All this time Edward was crying out, "Dear Psyche, are you ill? What is it, dear?" He was out of bed, and was fumbling in the dark in Psyche's dressing-room. But the ways of the sea-shore home were not familiar to him.

When Psyche dared—that is, when she was at the foot of the bed—she cried out to Edward that nothing was wrong. She had had a bad dream, and was frightened, and had got up to strike a light, but she had not meant to call him. And he found her shivering on the bedside; and he cooed to her and comforted her, and made her promise to call him another time. And Psyche had just force enough to say sadly, "Call you—yes, if you are here." And then he sang to her a little crooning song his mother sang to him when he was a child, and poor Psyche cried herself to sleep.