“That is very true, Susie; but we have not yet the conditions for showing our faith. We shall finally, in the general, concerted action of the world toward great ends. Our forces now are ‘like sweet bells jangled.’ Melodies are first created, then harmonies, and lastly, grand symphonies.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE CRISIS.
During all this summer, so fraught with wretchedness for Clara, Susie was working with untiring energy, extending her arrangements for the future. As an experiment, she set out, in an unused part of Mrs. Buzzell’s kitchen-garden, a hundred young shade-trees of new and rare varieties, among them the broad-leaved, rapidly-growing Paulonia imperialis. She wisely foresaw that the taste for ornamental trees would increase with the growth of Oakdale and surrounding towns; and then in her thoughts she often saw Clara, her bright hopes wrecked, and weary of life, returning to be helped and blessed by the very one who owed her so much. Then Susie would lose herself in dreams of a vast, successful business, built up all by their own hands, out of which there would come health, and work, and interest in life, independent of the cheating intoxication of love. It was in the midst of reveries like this, that she received the following letter from Clara, dated at North Conway, New Hampshire:
“My Dear Friend: Do you remember what you once told me about the fable of the lion and the mouse? Oh, child! you are no longer the mouse as compared to me, for you are strong while I am weak. Your wounds are healed, but mine will never heal, for in my madness I am always tearing them open afresh.
“I write you, dear Susie, because there is no one else on earth before whom I can cast off all pride, except my father, and I would spare him a little longer at least, because from my last letters he thinks matters are improving. Judge for yourself. We are still here, though many of the visitors are gone, because Albert and his friend are perfectly happy, and I cannot possibly care whether I go or stay. I keep in my room much of the day, while they ride, or walk, or dance, or play games, all the day and evening, their bliss only marred by the sight of my thin, pale face. Do you know the very hardest thing I have to bear is Albert’s telling me that he has not changed, but loves me just as fondly as ever? There is something like murder in my heart when he does this, essaying by argument to show that it cannot be otherwise. Oh, Susie! how well a woman knows that love needs no logic to prove its existence. Long ago he reproached me for saying ‘where there is doubt of love, there must be cause for doubt.’ When love is perfect, we can no more doubt its existence than we can the presence of the sun at noonday.
“My old friend and teacher, Miss Marston, passed through here with some friends, and stopped several days. I begged Albert to let me play while she was here, the rôle of the happy wife. I think he regrets the change in him, though he cannot resist the power that is leading him from me. He seemed impressed by my stony, tearless face. In answer to Miss Marston’s anxiety about my changed looks, I said I had been quite ill, which, heaven knows, is true enough. I manœuvred in every way to prevent her seeing the state of things. We actually rode and walked several times without Ella. This made her pout and flirt with Colonel Murdock, one of her admirers, which so alarmed Albert that he completely unmasked all my beautiful acting. Miss Marston soon penetrated beneath the surface. ‘Who is this Miss Wills?’ she asked. I told her the ward of Mr. Delano, and an old and dear friend of my husband. ‘Is it possible’ she asked, ‘that you do not see the nature of the attachment between your husband and her?’ Still I played my part. I was the proud, happy wife, confident of my husband’s affection. I know I made a pitiful figure. Miss Marston divined the truth, and I expected every moment she would burst out upon me, as she used to do upon her pupils, when guilty of deceiving—an unpardonable offence in her eyes; but I think something in my face alarmed her, and kept her silent. She was very tender to me, and it was good to have her here. She was struck with the beauty of Albert. He impresses every one the same way. His lithe, fine form, his handsome, regular face, and long, dark moustaches, make him greatly admired by women.”
Under a later date, Clara wrote in the same letter: “This morning Albert received a telegram from Boston, demanding his presence immediately, for his father is again very ill. I wished to go with him. There was not time for Ella to get her half dozen ‘Saratogas’ ready. That was the secret cause of his objection. She would not like him to take his wife and not her! I cannot tell you how keenly I felt his willingness to leave me behind—me, his once adored Clara, whose absence he could not endure.
“Sometimes I think I am selfish, to burden you with my sufferings, but I know you would have me do so, and you are right in saying it lightens them to have them shared by sympathetic hearts. I have so much to bear! Long since I have given up the idea of making Albert understand that my trials are greater than I can bear. I gave it up when he came to me and told me of Ella’s unhappiness because of my coldness to her. Think of it! I, with my breaking heart, must comfort the rosy, happy Ella, when her little finger aches! I must do this or Albert is afflicted. I did not do it. I treat her kindly, but I cannot love her, and never should, under any circumstances. She is little, and soulless, and selfish. How can such a woman touch my heart, when I have seen and appreciated the noble generosity, the soulful delicacy of Susie? Of course Albert thinks I am jealous without knowing it. Can you understand how he wrongs me? I like him to flatter and caress women. It is his nature to be very gallant, only I would know that I hold my old place in his heart, and knowing I have lost it, I would not have him place another before me in the eyes of the world. This he does constantly. For weeks I have suffered a dull pain in the centre of my brain, and at times I fear I shall go mad. I am relieved, actually, by Albert’s absence; for a time, at least, I shall be spared the sight of his blissful expression when Ella comes into his presence. Oh, Susie! grief like mine dries up the fountains of my gladness at the happiness of others, and I long for death as I have sometimes longed for Albert’s loving words and kisses, as I knew them in our happy days. How often I think of poor La Vallière’s words, referring to the king and Montespan—‘When I wish to do penance at the convent of the Carmelites, I will think of what these people have made me suffer.’
“Write me often, dear Susie. Your letters are my one comfort. The thought haunts me that some crisis is approaching. It may be that there is; that I have seen Albert for the last time; but I am so weary, so anxious for rest, that I would pay for it with this or any sacrifice. Do not afflict yourself too much on my account. Remember I still appear regularly at table. I walk every day, and I am young, and can endure to the end. With love to Mrs. B. and kisses to Min,
“Lovingly yours,