Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/509

498 might seem, his strongest feeling appeared to be love of his wife, which took the line of rendering him jealous of her to a degree often painful to herself, and equally unwarranted by her conduct and his own. Her life was one of ceaseless anxiety, like that of a person walking on the brink of a volcano, which may at any moment burst forth and overwhelm him.

As time wore on, Rachel observed that a change had come over her husband. She had been used to see him gay and thoughtless, but now he seemed restless and anxious, — his gaiety forced and overstrained. Whatever might be the cause it was carefully concealed, and his wife’s inquiries were eluded by some jesting reply that failed to allay her anxiety. It grew with the deepening gloom she saw gathering over Herbert. At length he could no longer jest with her, or, when he attempted it, his hollow laughter was more painful than sighs. Then even this ceased, and his very looks told a tale of despair. His wife plied him with direct questions, and he in return commanded silence, but she would not yield her point; she implored him to confide in her affection, — to let her share his sorrow, be the cause of it what it might. He resisted still, but less sternly, — finally he bade her follow him to his study, and locked the door.

Wild, haggard desperation was written on his countenance, as vehemently pacing the room he began to speak rapidly. He told her that he was a ruined and dishonoured man; no ordinary bankrupt, but one who dared not to look his fellow- men in the face; that his name was become a by -word and a reproach, and that this misery — with the addition of seeing his beautiful young wife involved in it — was more than he could bear.

She would have asked him what he had done; but he forbade all questioning: “he was not sunk so low that he could bear to be disgraced in the eyes of his own wife.” He added with increasing vehemence that if he were alone, he could soon end this suffering, and escape from the shame that weighed him to the earth.

This did not surprise Rachel, who having often already, and especially of late, heard him allude to the idea of emigration, now interpreted his words as referring to it.

“But,” continued he, “one fear withholds me. I cannot face the thought that were I no longer here, you, Rachel, might perhaps forget me.”

“Herbert! Surely, surely you would take me with you!“

He looked at her strangely, fixedly. “No, that I could not do; and when I was gone my memory would fade from your mind, and you might learn to love some other man. —“

“Oh! Herbert, how can you speak so cruelly?“

“Ah!“ said he with almost a groan, “but for that fear I should soon cast this misery behind me.”

“Then, Herbert,” she replied; “go where you will, so you be but happy. Do not let me be the obstacle in your way. Surely you know — you feel, that, absent or present, I can love none but you. Surely you can trust me to keep you alone, unrivalled, in my heart until we meet again.”

“Oh! that I could believe you! For I could not rest, even in the grave, if I thought that you could bestow that which once was mine upon another. Will you dare to give me your promise, Rachel?“

“Assuredly I will.”

“But first consider,” he resumed more eagerly. “You must hide yourself from the world, renounce my name, efface every trace of your ill-fated, disgraceful marriage. Can you do this, and never inquire the cause?“

“I can — I will.”

“Then promise me.”

He stood before her and took both her hands, while she said. “I give you my solemn promise that none other shall occupy your place in my heart until we meet again.“

“And mark,” cried he, almost fiercely griping her hands between his own; “mark, that from the very ends of the universe I should come back to you to enforce that promise, were you ever tempted to break it.”

“I never can be.”

“Then you have set me free.” He loosed her hands, and before she had time to comprehend his purpose, he had caught up a pistol from the table, and pointed it at his own forehead. There was a sharp report and he fell at her feet, the blood spirting up upon her clothes, and even to her hands and face. With a piercing shriek she rushed to the door, which she struggled wildly to open, but in vain. She had but one desperate thought, the impossibility of obtaining help, and then she remembered nothing more.

Her cry had been heard, and assistance came, but too late for Herbert; his suicidal weapon had done its work. For two days Rachel lay in a species of death-trance, from which she awoke to rave in the delirium of brain fever. She was nursed through it by her servants. With her relations all intercourse had so completely ceased that they knew not whom to send for, and the newspaper intelligence of the sad event did not induce them to come forward. At length Rachel’s naturally strong constitution gained the upper hand, and she recovered her reason; and, by very slow degrees, her strength. The clergyman of her parish having learnt the sad particulars of the case, had obtained access to her in virtue of his profession, but she positively refused to see any one except himself. She seemed absolutely prostrated both in mind and body, and for some time appeared incapable of the slightest exertion. When at length her powers were in some degree restored, her first wish was to obey the injunctions of her husband, which accorded well with her own feelings, and to seek concealment and entire seclusion. With equally implicit obedience to his commands, she made no inquiries concerning the past. Her own small fortune had been settled upon herself at her marriage, and all else was abandoned to her husband’s creditors. She resumed her maiden name of Morland, wore her wedding-ring fastened to a chain round her neck; and having, thanks to the inquiries of the clergy-