CHAPTER VIII.
The three weeks’ absence of Monsieur de Serval, was occupied in fulfilling our engagement in Ajesha, which was performed twenty nights, and obtained great popularity for itself and glorious fame for us. Upon the return of my lover, my comet-like career was to terminate into marriage and retirement into private life. Blanche still adhered to her resolution of remaining unmarried, though many good offers had been made her; and of the opinions of Inez in that particular, we had been duly informed by a letter from herself, describing her happiness, and pleasant home, and husband’s love.
The prophecy of old Acte lingered in my mind and constantly haunted me, and Blanche also seemed painfully impressed by her words. I observed for some days before M. de Serval’s return, that she would sit for hours—often all day—in absent thought, noticing no one, answering no one, if spoken to. Wondering at this neglect of my kindness in her, who had always from childhood manifested so much attachment to me, I felt a reproach to this coolness rise to my lips; but when I glanced at that calm, sweet face, and saw the pre-occupation of sad thought, all anger vanished, and quietly coinciding with her wish, I left her to her meditations.
The night before the day on which my lover returned, I sought my pillow early; but sleep fled my eager embrace. Restlessly I tossed: I could not rest. Madame Bonni had a library of select works fitted up in a little room on the ground floor; I remembered this, and wanting to amuse me till repose should come, I arose, slipped on an opera-cloak of blue satin, which happened to be lying near the bed, and thrusting my feet in slippers, descended the stairs: all the household were retired. I got my book from the library, and was about returning, when passing the door which led into the garden, at that late hour I was surprised to see it open. The resplendent moonlight streamed brightly through, disclosing my favorite seat beneath the blooming Acacia and those beds of roses so odorous, and that pretty garden looked so inviting, that I stepped out in the moonlight and looked around. All nature was hushed to repose,—that delightful calm which, unlike death, tells of prostrated strength presently to be revived. As I stood upon the porch, gazing vacantly around, voices struck my ear. Who could be there at that late hour? I thought of robbers, and trembled with fear. A moment’s listening re-assured me: it was a woman’s sweet tones I heard, and then those of a man in reply.
Far down the gravel-walk, at the extreme end of the garden—by the margin of a little fountain which had once played there, but whose source was now neglected and obstructed by weeds and stones—I thought I perceived two forms. Determined to ascertain who and what they were, I stole noiselessly down the walk, to the shade of my favorite tree, which now cast its deep shadow far down the way, and concealing myself behind the broad trunk, peeped from around it, and beheld, to my astonishment, Lord Glenfells and Blanche!
I saw her leaning on his full chest, her arms encircling his neck, her little mouth united to his, her soft eyes fixed on his, and he was gazing into hers with the same fondness—only more animal passion added to it. Tears fell like pearly dew from her eyes, and I saw him pause, as he spoke, and wipe them away with his small hand. I listened to hear their voices speak again, unable to explain to myself this singular scene.
“Is not love the same? Can an empty ceremony—said over two lovers—render more binding the greatest, best, and noblest sentiment of our nature. Say, Blanche!—my beautiful one, my ocean pearl!—could the words of the matrimonial service make me more constant,—make me love you more than I now do? You, my heart’s worship, my idol! shall I not give you my whole soul; and what more can I do? If an unhallowed, a conventional form into which I was persuaded—forced; if that wretched link of earth binds me, in earthly form, to another,—what matters it? Consider, love, it is the same, so long as we are constant to our attachment: that constitutes the perfidy. Oh! listen not to the world’s prudence—to the cold calculations of a prudish moral. Let feeling usurp its place, and that I know will triumph—will plead my cause. Come with me this night—now; beneath the light of yonder bright silver. We will seek some other land, or a distant part of this country, where your fault—if that can be called fault which consumates my bliss—will be unknown, unheard of; and we will live in blest harmony and love. Come, dearest; come?”
“No, no!” and her voice was choked by tears. “My love is all wrong: it is unhallowed. You are a married man. If I fly with you, disgrace follows me: you have a wife in England: you must forget me, and I, you. Even were you free, would you marry me? Consider your rank, and I an actress.”
“Blanche, you mean not what you say, when you tell me to forget you. Do you really wish me to return to England to my dull wife—ten years my senior—and the stupidity of home—a home like that? Do you really wish it? If so,—farewell.”
He made a movement to turn away; but she clung still closer to his bosom, and buried her head there.
“Cruel! oh, cruel! I do not want you to go.”
“Consent, then, to go with me. Come now, this moment? I will get a carriage, and morning light shall find us far away. Decide, Blanche, between my loss and my happiness. No answer? Blanche, are you dreaming, love?”
“No; I was thinking of Genevra, my faithful friend. What will she think of my conduct! How mysterious it will seem to her: how ungrateful! but I love her,—oh, so dearly! She is the only woman who ever loved me, and I return her feelings with usury, too. Let me at least run up to her room, and, as she sleeps, kiss her farewell. I feel, for the last time, and here,—while the moon shines so bright above—while I consent to forfeit, for your sake, my good name, inviolate till this moment,—here let me gaze upon those starry spheres, and call down upon her young head their resplendent blessings. Oh, Heavenly Spirit! preserve her as she now is—beautiful and pure as the lily of the valley. Preserve her from that error of the heart which I now commit, which leads me to sin—knowing that sin. Grant that, in some future state, our souls may meet—may hold communion with each other, and be conscious of affinity. Holy influences of heaven! spirit of night and air! grant my prayer.”
I saw her sink upon her knees, clasp her hands on her white neck, and fix her eyes on the starry firmament. Thus she remained a moment, in a breathless ecstacy of thought, when Lord Glenfells gently raised her, and once more folded her to his bosom.
“Why this tumult of passion, dearest? What agitates you so?”
“Get a carriage: bring it round to the garden-gate: I shall soon be ready for you. Meanwhile, let me go and kiss her good by?”
I saw her break away from his fond arms; and, quick as thought, I retreated to my chamber, unobserved as I had come. I would not for worlds that she should have known that I had overheard her. I got into bed again, and closed my eyes. She passed my door, and ascended to her own room. Her hasty steps sounded overhead for some time,—hurriedly packing up, I suppose,—then she again descended, and paused at my door.
The lock turned, and her sylph-like form glided to my bed side. She stooped over me—imagining I slept—and smoothed my hair beneath my cap with her tiny hand; then she kissed my forehead, and murmured,—
“Genevra! dear Genevra! dear friend! when you awake in the morning you will seek me, but find me not: perhaps you may miss me for a little while,—may sometimes think of me with love and kindness: I hope so. I go to a new life—the life of love! I go to accomplish my destiny.”
Once again she kissed me, then glided from the room. I heard her tell Lord Glenfells to bring the carriage to the garden-gate. My room looked on the street. I rose again from bed, and directed my steps to a little back room, near my own, which overlooked this gate. I wanted to see her go, though she knew not I was a witness of that departure. Her behaviour was an enigma I could not solve, and the reasons for which ever remained a mystery. If she was determined to become the associate of this man, why not go to him in broad daylight: what prevented her? She was her own mistress: no one did, or had the right to control her. She had long ago emancipated herself from her teacher’s guardianship; what, then, was the reason of this secret flight? I knew not then: I know not now.
I had stood watching at the window of the room for some time, when I saw Lord Glenfells and Blanche emerge from the shadow of the porch, and pass through the gate; he put her in the landau, saw the baggage placed behind; seated himself by her, and, like lightning, they vanished from my sight.
The amazement of our hostess can better be imagined than described, when, on going to her room next day, she found it unoccupied—the stage and personal wardrobe of its fair proprietress gone also: and whither had she taken her flight? how strange the gifted child of song should yield to a momentary infatuation; and, listening to impulse, forgetting reason, abandon herself to such a life: what demon possessed her?
I had expected a violent storm on the part of M. Belmont; but, to my astonishment, he received my recital of the night’s adventure with perfect indifference: and remarked, with imperturbable phlegm, that “it was her own affair; she ought to know best what she was about.” I had expected some surprise, sorrow, or at least an emotion of some sort; but I forgot that my teacher had been hardened in the ways of the world; and births, deaths, marriages, seductions, and every other evil thing, was a matter of course to him. He always maintained that every sensible person should be the best judge of their own conduct: like a true Frenchman, he did as he pleased, and allowed every one else to do the same, unmolested, undisturbed by criticism or advice.
After breakfast, Madame Bonni and I sat together speculating and mystifying about Blanche’s strange behaviour: the problem, however, could not be solved by us. It was past elucidation, and the more we talked, the farther we got from the point—the motive of action. While we were discussing, I was called away; my lover had returned.
I found him standing on his feet, hat in hand, facing the door, where I entered—his face calm and happy in expression—and it warmed and brightened when I came towards him; catching my hands in his, he pressed them fervently, and, kissing me, asked,
“Have you missed me, darling?”
“Oh! very much, dear Rinaldo.”
“And I have been dreaming of you during my whole journey; I scarcely had sense enough left from reverie to attend to my business, and I have hurried back, leaving it half incomplete, to be arranged by lawyers.”
“But where is it you have been to, dearest?”
“Genoa and the frontier of Austria: an estate left me I was in danger of losing, through the perfidy of relations; but, thank heaven! their malice is defeated, and I am safe: now, love, come sit here by me on this sofa, and tell me all you have been doing. I left the night Somnambula was to be performed: tell me about it; did it succeed?”
I described the opera, and singing: its success, and subsequently the disappearance of Blanche with Lord Glenfells, the night before.
“Gone with Lord Glenfells! what an unwise action: but who is he?”
“A gay young Englishman, travelling on the continent for amusement; dear Blanche, who would have dreamed, after all the temptations she has evaded, who would have thought she would have acted thus?”
“No one in truth; it is very strange: your friend appeared so gentle, so indifferent to men’s society, and fond of solitude; of all women, I should have thought her the very last one to commit so rash an action.”
“Blanche is one of those strange, impulsive beings, who, if you can only thoroughly warm and interest, will go all lengths to love and please you. Lord Glenfells has acquired a great influence over her, and she has consented to forego respectability, society, everything for him. Oh, how I wish she had not done so; how I regret her loss.”
“She may repent this imprudence some day, and return to propriety; and you, do not grieve about her; summon your stoical philosophy, and practice your favorite aphorism. Never regret that which is past.”
“Yes, I know I ought to practice my precepts: philosophy triumphs over past and future ills, but present troubles overmaster philosophy.”
“True, love: a wise remark.”
“We were engaged to sing five nights yet, to complete our engagement; now she is flown, I shall have to finish alone,” I observed, absently; for, notwithstanding my joy at seeing my lover again, my thoughts reverted to the absent Blanche.
Monsieur de Serval drew me gently toward him, as he sat upon the sofa.
“Come hither dearest, come sit close by me, your presumptive and future lawful protector; do not look so sad; cheer up, and let us talk of happiness and love, and delightful scenes, and conversations, all in store for us in times to come.”
But I could not feel my usual cheerfulness, even for his sake, and after a slight conversation he went away, and I retired to my own room and my solitude; and then I wept for Blanche’s loss, and Blanche’s shame.
Nothing is sooner dried than a tear; and, as de Serval had said, my regrets could not restore her, could not undo her behaviour; and the deprivation of her sweet society, made me fonder still (if that could be) of that of Monsieur de Serval; my whole heart now exclusively centered in him. I performed my last engagement on the Neapolitan boards, and bade adieu to the distinguished patronage of royalty, and the humble, yet heartfelt admiration of the people. The journals doled forth newspaper sentiment and lamentations at the dramatic loss; and private circles wondered at my good fortune. For myself I did not think whether it was good fortune or not. I only knew, I only thought I loved him, and was willing to go any where, do anything, make any sacrifice for him. I will not describe the few weeks of courtship that intervened before my marriage; such scenes can only be felt, be experienced, they cannot be told; they are sad, yet sweet episodes in my memory, and though painful to recur to, yet mentally I treasure them, for that was my first love.
Signor, I married him; my wedding was simple, and celebrated with but little display; his noble friend, the Countess Bramonti honored it with her distinguished presence; and my guardian, teacher, and benefactor, Monsieur Belmont, gave me away. I was united to him in the pretty church of Sacre Cœur, where, some weeks before I had attended mass with Madame Bonni; it was filled with spectators, every one wishing to see the new singer married; and my kind hostess kissed me at the conclusion of the ceremony, and wished me happiness, with tears in her eyes, and smiles on her lips.
“May many blissful days and years be thine, fair girl,” said the countess in her deep tones, as she swept her majestic form toward me, and clasped me in her arms; “may you love each other, and in that love be happy.”
Monsieur Belmont conducted me to the carriage, which was to bear me away to my future home, in a valley, amid the cloud-capt Appenines. Immediately on arrival there, I promised to write to him, and regularly maintain a correspondence. My husband, (how strange the word sounded to my ears,) joined me, and I was whirled away from the scene of my short-lived, yet brilliant triumphs.
Our journey to his mountain home occupied two days; and during the time my husband exhibited a frenzy of emotion, which terrified more than it pleased me. But the ways and loves of men were then Isiac mysteries to me, and you know their translation of the word love, is rendered differently to ours.
On the evening of the second day of our travel, he told me we were approaching the “Chateau of the Ravine,” for that was the traditionary name of the castle. The scenery was sublime, and lost in contemplation and thought, reposing my head on his shoulder, I silently admired it.
Stupendous rocks, rising perpendicularly in the air, to an immense height, faced the smooth road on either side for some distance; as these declined away, a broad vista of the dark blue mountains far in distance, and a beautiful level plain, such as I had seen when first I came to Naples, met my gaze. Like a panorama these swiftly disappeared, and we entered on a broken chain of the Appenines themselves; the carriage slowly wound round and round the upward ascent of the rocky pass, barely wide enough to allow the vehicle room to roll along; then we descended as rapidly as we had come up, and thus continued on for some miles, when the ridge of mountains suddenly terminated, and I looked down from the great height on which we stood, and beheld at my feet the ravine, and in the midst of it, presenting an imposing appearance of grandeur and decay, the chateau. It had been built, my husband said, in the ancient times of feudal splendor, but its successive possessors, either for want of means or inclination, had suffered it to moulder away, as time, year after year, diminished its magnificence. He said he intended refitting it, and renovating the antique style, and I was pleased to hear the promise that so fine a structure should be rescued from decay.
A few minutes brought us to the gates, which were thrown wide open to receive us, and the carriage rumbled into the great court-yard. M. de Serval alighted, lifted me out, and leaning on his arm, I ascended a marble staircase, and entered a pretty salon, tastefully furnished, where I sat down, quite wearied by fatigue. He left the room for a moment, to order lights and supper to be prepared, for twilight was stealing over us, and leaning back on the couch, I languidly closed my eyes, and was almost dropt asleep, when a heavy footstep startled me; looking up, I saw standing before me, and fixedly looking at me, an old woman; there was nothing strange in the simple fact of her being old, for old women are plentiful as stars; but this one was peculiarly singular in appearance; she wore a scarlet woollen petticoat, black stockings, and a little cap of green; her long, thick, and coarse black hair, fell below her waist in tangled braids; her eyes were piercing in expression, and they seemed to sparkle and glance fire as she fixedly stared at me. She appeared to be beating time to her own thoughts, for she repeatedly struck her breast with her right hand. Perceiving that I saw her, she curtesied, and in a lofty tone said,
“Welcome to your home, fair mistress; welcome to the ‘Chateau of the Ravine.’
“Do you belong to the household of Monsieur de Serval?” I asked, strangely impressed by her manner and appearance.
“Yes, madame: I came here a long time ago, in the service of the first lady.”
“The first lady! who was she?”
“You know, madame, of course, the Lady Isodore, Monsieur’s—”
Abruptly she paused; and, turning, I saw my husband’s stern gaze fastened on her: she cowered beneath that look; and well she might, for even I could not have met it unabashed.
“Pasiphae, you can go; your young mistress is tired; she needs repose after her long travel.”
Silently she retreated.
“Who is that old woman, dearest? her strange ways surprised me.”
“An old domestic I have retained in my service, though almost useless; come Genevra, your chamber is prepared, and supper arranged in the banqueting hall.”
Thither we went: the apartment was magnificent, and one of the tables set with dainties that might have delighted an epicure; the lamps, shrined in vases of alabaster, shed a sweet, soft light; the hush of stillness and repose reigned within and without; and, more than all, my husband’s accents of tenderness, and the tumult of love that had usurped the place of gentler emotions in my breast, have impressed that scene in indelible traits on my memory.
After supper we returned to the salon, and entertained ourselves, till the clock struck the hour for retiring, with a conversation in which words had all to do, not thoughts: they were differently employed.
Then, at ten o’clock, we retired to our bedchamber; the same old woman stood at the door of the room as I entered: an ominous smile sat on her lips; she opened her mouth, as if to speak; but, perceiving my husband close behind me, she went away without expressing the thoughts which seemed to tremble on the point of utterance.
Then, when the door closed behind us, suffocated with joy, we fell into each other’s arms—let me draw a veil over that night, and pass to other scenes.
I wish I could make you realize the ecstatic rhapsody in those first days of wedded love: such emotions as I experienced one can only experience once in a lifetime: for the novelty wears away; they also disappear. I wish I could make you feel as I felt, as we roved together, like children, hand in hand, through those flowery glades, and through the blooming gardens of this old castle—sometimes reading, sometimes talking, always loving, and picturing a continued increase of happiness, and everlasting bliss.
Alas! poor frail human nature! Poor frail, inconstant mortals! What a strange mockery does it not seem to our own hearts to look back after years have changed these delusions of fancy, and stripped them of their false lustre; what a mockery does it not seem to think over what we once thought—and see the folly of dreaming of affections unaltered, and hearts that never could grow cold?
Old Pasiphae was my attendant. I preferred her to another, a younger girl, who had come to the castle to engage in my service. She was a very odd woman, and strongly infected with the popular superstitions of that section of the country. She was avoided by the other domestics as a half lunatic: for low, ignorant, or vulgar minds, always attribute eccentricity of mind or manner to mental perturbation; and, surely, the wise have every inducement to become insane, if they pay attention or depend for happiness on the stupid fools of which the greater portion of mankind are composed.
The chateau was built with two wings each side of the main building: the right wing was always closed, bolted and barred. I had been married two months, when curiosity induced me, one day, to ask Monsieur de Serval the reason why that part of the mansion was unopened, unoccupied, and neglected. He answered carelessly, that the castle was so large, he had not thought it necessary to refit that side of it;—it was more decayed than the rest. This reply satisfied me for the moment, but woman’s curiosity was on the alert, and I wished, I scarce know why, to see the interior of that gloomy side of the chateau.
Six months had glided swiftly on since my marriage. Oh, days of hope! oh, hours of happiness! with what mournful pleasure do I retrace your flight! and with what lingering sadness detail the strange contrast which time developed all too quickly to my wondering eyes!
I had heard several times from my worthy teacher. No tidings had reached him of Blanche. He had heard nothing; knew not if she were dead or alive. This distressed me, even amid my own joy. Madame Bonni was well, and often sent her love; and the theatrical world, they said, still mourned my irreparable loss;—the journals still dwelt upon my merits.
It was at this moment of time that Rinaldo left me for three days, for a hunting party, to come off some fifty miles from the castle. He bade me farewell with great tenderness, and departed. This was a favorable opportunity, I thought, for the execution of my long-cherished project of gaining admission to the closed and, I imagined, haunted rooms. The key my husband always kept locked up in a small casket, and I knew where the key of that was to be found.
Having unlocked the casket and obtained the key, I took a lamp from my dressing table, and directed my steps to that quarter of the house. The quivering flame was often nearly extinguished by gusts of wind, and the shaking of the great oriel windows reminded me of the tread of ghosts. My feet often faltered from fear; but I continued on, and reached the great door in the centre of the long gallery, which gave admission to the interdicted apartments.
When I inserted the key in the lock, and unlocked the door which gave entrance to these deserted rooms, my heart quite failed me, and I regretted my curiosity. What was there to see about old unfurnished, desolate apartments? How foolish of me to pry into nothing! Yet an impulse I could not overcome bade me go onward; and accordingly I pushed open the door, which opened harshly. I went in; the first room was a large anti-chamber, like that on the other side of the house, naked and lonely. Crossing this, I opened another door, which led, as I supposed, into a similar apartment, when, to my utter amazement, I beheld what struck me dumb with astonishment.
The salon in which I stood was well furnished. A Grecian couch occupied one corner; books, and toys, and instruments of music were scattered round, and reclining on this couch lay a woman of handsome form, but wild, haggard features, and insane expression; and on a low stool at her feet sat Pasiphae, my attendant.
Hearing the door open, she glanced around, and seeing me, shrieked, and covered her face with her hands:
“Gracious heavens! madame, how came you here? what brought you to these fated rooms?”
“What does this mean? speak, I command you! Who is this woman?—what are you doing here?”
“Ah, madame, why did you come here? Alas! alas! how unhappy; how unfortunate,” was the only reply she made, as she rocked herself to and fro.
“Tell me! tell me quickly,” I cried, seized with a horrible suspicion of the truth. At this the strange woman raised herself to a sitting posture, and regarding me with a countenance of melancholy wildness, said, clasping her hands together as she spoke:
“Oh, ask him, won’t you, to take me out of this;—I will be good, indeed I will: I never will come near him, if he don’t want to see me, if he will only take me away. Oh, do ask him: pray do?”
I went toward her mechanically, so stunned and stupid was I with astonishment. I sat down beside, and more closely observed the poor lunatic. I could plainly see fine traits in that blurred face; traces of mind, now scarred and erased, like a blotted crimpled page. Love, jealousy, humanity, and disgust, all told me that in this unhappy one I saw my husband’s victim. What could he mean by shutting her up there? Old Pasiphae still sat with her head bowed between her hands, and she momently exclaimed,—“What will master say? oh, how he will curse me!”
“No, no, Pasiphae; you shall not be blamed. Monsieur de Serval shall never know of my visit here. Get up, and tell me what this strange scene means.”
The maniac stared at me with her great black eyes, and then continued on in her sad tones. “No, no ball to-night; I cannot dance: he is coming for you to-morrow,—I cannot dance when I expect him; take away the dress; send away the carriage; I am going to sleep to dream of him,” and languidly closing her eyes, she sunk back on the couch, and lay perfectly still. Thinking the poor creature had fainted, I uttered an expression of fear, when Pasiphae, motioning me to silence, bent over her watchfully. Presently the sound of her regular breathing assured the old domestic that she slept. Smoothing back from her forehead the tangled masses of her hair, and covering the thin form with a large shawl, Pasiphae composed her delicate hands upon her breast, and then rising, took my hand in hers, and said mournfully:
“Come, dear lady, this can be no pleasant sight for you;—if you will return to your own room, I will tell you all. I have been on the point of doing so several times, but fear of master’s anger prevented me; and I am old and broken down, and were he to discharge me, might suffer and die from want. Come, lady, ere she awakes. Poor thing; she will soon be dead and far away. She has been very troublesome of late,—I could scarcely manage her; but now she sleeps quietly—the first time in many days.”
I silently contemplated the fitful repose of the madwoman for a moment before going, and in that instant I saw the whole fabric of delusive happiness I had erected on unstable air, shattered to the earth. I gazed on the neglected, cast-off victim of my lord’s caprice, in whose emaciated form and desert mind I saw the records of long mental and bodily suffering.
Pasiphae interrupted my reverie by twitching my robe; and, after she had arranged the light on the antique mantel-piece, and adjusted her window drapery, taking my lamp in her hand, we left the salon, locking the door upon her insane ward.
The outer door of the anti-chamber she also locked; and, satisfied that if awaking she could not follow us, I returned to my chamber, and overwhelmed with sickness of the soul, threw myself despairingly into a chair, and burying my face in my hands wept bitterly. I felt disappointed—heartbroken;—disappointed that the man in whom I had centred all my hopes, should so utterly have ruined them;—heartbroken at the melancholy sight I had seen. Sobbing like a child I sat and wept, forgetful of my own identity, or Pasiphae’s presence. At length my grief in a slight degree abated, and wiping my eyes, I looked up and perceived the poor old woman sorrowfully looking at me.
“I know, dear Lady Genevra, how sad you feel at this proof of your husband’s infidelity; and sorry am I that you should have come to those rooms and seen my poor charge,” said Pasiphae; and sympathy almost rendered her voice sweet, and almost metamorphosed that weatherbeaten face into one of youth and beauty.
“How long has she been insane?” I asked, my voice almost choked with sobs.
“This autumn coming will be two years.”
“Who was she? how came she here?”
“She was always called the Lady Isodore, that is the only name by which I ever knew her. Four years ago master brought her here one night in a fine carriage, and commanded us to treat her the same as if she were our lawful lady: we always did so, and she ruled the household: master seemed very fond of her; and, although he never took her travelling with him, and no one visited her, yet her great love for him appeared to supply the place of all other society. Two years after she came, he seemed to grow tired of her, and they often had furious quarrels; one night, in a difficulty of this sort, forgetting himself, he struck her violently with the butt end of a pistol he held in his hand; she fell upon the floor, and when revived, from that hour was mad. In vain did my unhappy master use every endeavor to restore her: reason had fled—never to return. Since then she has been sometimes wild and gay, sometimes sad—as this evening you saw her. Master, at first, was nearly mad himself with remorse and despair; but, after a while, he recovered from his grief; and, having fixed those rooms up for her, consigned her to my care, and no longer troubled himself about her. From habit I have acquired great influence over her; and even in her wildest moods she will obey me. I think, dear lady, that crime will always meet its just reward, even here on earth; and when I look at master sometimes, I think within myself, ‘the hour of retribution for thy sin will surely come some day.’”
“When he came down to the castle some months ago, and told me to have it cleaned and fitted up for the reception of its future lady, I could scarcely credit my ears; and wondered who would marry, and risk her happiness, with a man like him: and when he brought you here, and I saw how beautiful and innocent you were, I trembled for the future. I never intended to tell you this; and master trusted to my fidelity to him, that you should never discover the secret of the uninhabited wing of the castle. You are not more grieved than I that chance or curiosity should have directed you there; your trust in monsieur I know is broken; but, dear lady, I feel it my duty to tell you, that you lean upon a broken stick if you depend on him for faith.”
“Hush! Pasiphae; oh! be still; don’t say any thing against him: how miserable I feel! I cannot believe that my Rinaldo can be so depraved; that he, whom I trusted to reform, to render a better, wiser man, could act with such brutality towards a woman.”
My soul sickened with horror at such an inhuman action; and I soliloquized, “This was the man whose glowing description of the wrongs and troubles of his childhood had so interested and beguiled me; this was the man who had begged me to exert my influence to reform and purify his heart; who had promised, were I his Mentor, to be as gentle as Telemachus; who had entreated me to be his guardian angel, to warn him from the evils he had committed, yet deprecated: this was the man.”
Truly, reason might have reproached me with over self-confidence, and blind trust in the boy-god Cupid, who had so cheated me. And I had dreamed of future years of tranquil happiness and companionship, after the first flush of love had faded, and that profiting by past errors, virtue hereafter should be his patroness; and this was the man on whom I purposed working these miracles. He, who could wantonly inflict personal violence on a woman, and then keep a senseless idiot housed like a dog in an uninhabited part of the house. The veil which shrouded my eyes, was being lifted off, like the mysterious veils of Isis, which conceal the grotesque absurdity of the image adored.
Perceiving Pasiphae still standing before me, her eyes filled with sympathetic tears, I said, “Pasiphae, my good woman, you can go; I would rather be alone; I feel very sad; you had better return to the room; she may awake and miss you.”
“You look very unhappy, dear lady, had I not better stay a little while with you?”
“No, no, I prefer being alone; go.”
She departed; and then thought usurped her sway; I wished my husband were there then, at that moment, to have told him what I thought of his conduct; but when I reconsidered it, I saw it would do no good; for to reproach a man with his vices, only alienates his affections, and gains his dislike; it does not convince his understanding, for that will not be convinced; nor better his heart, for he always thinks that could not be bettered; and indeed, I think they are quite right, not often being troubled with any. A roar of words is generally the only result, and contempt and hatred the inevitable consequence. I was determined, however, to speak of it to Monsieur de Serval on his return. Then, distressed in mind, caring not if I died that night, I sought my pillow, and wept till lost in the oblivion of slumber.