A Life Unveiled, by a Child of the Drumlins

by Anonymous

There the great black creature lay, his face sullenly turned to the wall. What should I do? My instinct told me what. And here I recall the complexity of feelings I experienced: the shrinking from him at the recollection of his brutal rage; the thought that I had calmed that rage somewhat, and could still more if I could conquer my repugnance. Then came the recognition that I could only do it by exerting my power as a woman over him—the discovery of a power that shortly before had made me sick with remorse. Then came another thought: If, though unwittingly, I have acquired this power over him, and have suffered it to develop to the point it has with no object in view, why not now, with this worthy object, take advantage of the influence, and compel him to do my bidding? It was similar reasoning to what I had used the night before, if my rapid thoughts and impulsive acts could be said to be the result of reasoning. This morning’s course was more deliberate, though hardly as much so as this statement of it would seem to imply.

Stepping to the bed I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to have him look round. He snarled savagely, turning farther away. I remember keeping my hand on his shoulder and trying to get him to turn over and talk to me. I sat on the bed and pleaded with him. After he did turn, he looked at me searchingly for a while, and, when he spoke, expressed surprise that I would ever speak to him again. I don’t recall what I said, but suddenly he looked at me sharply and said: “See here! I have a great big thought—is it true?—tell me! Do you care for me more than you have let me know, but have fought it because it was right to—— Is it so? Is it?”

And I, seeing him melting under my influence, and knowing that I had set to work deliberately to bring this melting about, anxious to gain my ends, conscious of what a fiend he was when thwarted—I did not have the courage to contradict him outright; and, if I did make some half dissent, was at least keeping my hold on him, literally, by the touch of my hand, while wondering how far it would do to let him think he was right—enough at least to gain this point about the boys, so he would take back his threats and let go the punishment. I was conscious of making some compromise with my conscience on the ground of the exigencies of the case; conscious that the look in his eyes, before we were done talking, was that of a tamed, or, rather, subdued, animal, instead of an angry, morose one; yet I really did nothing except just to be my undisguised self—soft and pitying and tender to this man whose evil temper I now understood. I let him see that I did not despise him, even for this revelation; but that I wanted to help him and them; still I did not entirely dispel that thought which had come to him, and think I hoped he would continue to think that perhaps it was true—for a time, at least.

Downstairs we all talked it over together, and he gave me his word before them all that that should end it. And it did.

My intimacy with the family increased. I felt their dependence upon me, and was easier now that he frankly showed his interest in me before his wife; it seemed to take the sting from the recollection of that tragic night in the office.

One evening, weeks later, at their home, they began jesting about my marrying, speculating as to the kind of man I would be likely to love. I did not like such talk. (Once, earlier, when he had been trying to make light of what had happened, to reassure me and dispel my remorse he had said, “You will marry some good man one of these days, and forget all about this.” Aside from other considerations, entirely apart from this, I had previously declared that I should never marry; but now in my hypersensitiveness over it all, I actually thought I had lost the right to marry—I knew I could not marry without confessing that a married man had made love to me, and that I had listened to him, and I fully believed that any honourable man would despise me for this. I was in dead earnest. In vain he had tried to point out how little I had to be remorseful about; deaf to his arguments, I thought them put forth only because of his own callous depravity.) And so I was angry at him now for bringing up this question in his home; but continuing, he said:

“Jane, the Doctor says she will never marry—do you know why?”

I was afraid he was coming out with the whole story. He turned on the boys, who were showing an eager interest in the talk, saying, “Boys, go in the other room”; then, turning to me, said, “You say you will never marry; you think you are strong enough to stick to that; you pride yourself on being independent, but—if I were free, I’d make you marry me, and I’d make you love me! You couldn’t help yourself. Oh, you needn’t mind Jane—she doesn’t mind—do you, Jane? She knows me, and knows I love you—I’d show you what your resolutions would amount to—if I were free!”

This, accompanied with poorly veiled excitement and a daredevil look, and said to me before her, in their own home, made me speechless. For her sake I had done my best to appear ignorant of his special interest in me; but here he was boldly confessing it, and, in a way, challenging me again to withstand him. It roused my scorn and contempt, and I fear I showed it that night.

So, little by little, the disguises dropped away all around, though our friendship continued. As I became busier in my work I went less frequently to their house. Subsequently he confessed to me an intrigue he had had some years before. This shocked me, and lowered him further (as well as myself) in my esteem, for, in trying to win me he had claimed that I was the one woman to him; and, while having admitted that it was wrong to confess his love, he had declared that something in me made it impossible to help it, and so on; and, in my ignorance and vanity, I had believed him; had doubtless condoned his wrong for this very reason. This later confession of a previous infatuation—even a guilty one—made all this in which I had had a share seem not only more wrong, but more sordid; and, too, it gave a deep wound to my self-love. I was getting my eyes opened to life and human nature at a rapid rate. Other revelations of his temper and character, as time passed, made me sick at heart, but gradually out-growing the acuteness of my remorse, I learned in time rather to exult in the fact that I had not been more deeply compromised.