Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (37 page)

 
          
Apparently
unconscious of my presence, Mathilde sat with such mute anguish and despair in
every line of her drooping figure that a keen sense of coming evil held me
silent at her feet, waiting some look or word from her.

 
          
A
sharp struggle must have passed within her, for when she lifted up her face,
all light and color had died out, and the whole countenance was full of some
stern
resolve, that
seemed to have chilled its beauty
into stone. Silently she motioned me to rise, and with a statelier mien than I
had ever seen her wear, she passed down the long room to where the ominous steel
bracelet glittered in the light. Silently she raised it, reclasped it on her
arm, then with rapid motion rent away the tiny key and flung it into the red
embers glowing on the hearth.

 
          
A
long, shuddering sigh heaved her bosom as it vanished, a sound more eloquent of
patient despair than the bitterest tears that ever fell. Coming to my side, she
looked into my eyes with such love and pity shining through the pale
determination of'her face that I would have folded her to my breast, but with a
swift gesture of that fettered arm she restrained me, saying slowly as if each
word wrung her heart:

 
          
“God
forgive me that I could forget the solemn duty this frail chain binds me to.
Gustave, I never meant to wrong you thus, and will atone for it by giving you
the confidence never bestowed on any human being. Come and see the secret
anguish of my life, the haunting specter of my home, the stern fate which makes
all love a bitter mockery, and leaves me desolate.”

 
          
Like
a shadow she flitted from me, beckoning me to follow. The storm still raged
without, but all was bright and still within as we passed through gallery and
hall into that distant wing of the chateau. The radiance of shaded lamps fell
on the marble floors—graceful statues gleamed among the flowers, and the air
was full of perfume, but I saw no beauty anywhere, for between me and the woman
whom I loved an unknown phantom seemed to stand, and its black shadow darkened
all the world to me.

 
          
Mathilde
paused in a silent corridor at length, and looking back at me, whispered
imploringly, “Gustave, do not judge me till I have told you all.” Then before I
could reply, she passed before me into a dimly lighted room, still beckoning me
to follow.

 
          
Bernhardt,
an old servant whom I had seldom seen, rose as she entered, and at a motion
from Mathilde bade me be seated. Mechanically I obeyed, for all strength seemed
to desert me as I looked upon the scene before me.

 
          
On
the floor, clothed in the dress I well remembered, sat a man playing with the
childish toys that lay around him. The face would have been a young and comely
one, were it not for the awful blight which had fallen on it; the vacant gaze
of his hollow eyes, the aimless movements of his feeble hands, and the
unmeaning words he muttered to himself, all told the fearful loss of that
divine gift—reason.

 
          
Mathilde
pointed to the mournful wreck, saying, with a look of desolation which few
human faces wear, “Gustave, am I not a widow?”

 
          
Then
I knew that I saw the husband of my
Mathilde—and he
an
idiot!

 
          
A
brief sensation of mingled disgust, despair, and rage possessed me, for I knew
how powerless I was to free the heart I coveted from this long slavery; one
thought of Mathilde recalled me, one glance into those eyes so full of pain and
passion banished every feeling but a tender pity for her cruel lot, and a
redoubled love and admiration for the patient strength which had borne this
heavy weight of care all those years. I could not
speak,
I only took that fettered hand and kissed it reverently.

 
          
The
imbecile (I cannot say husband) rose, when he saw Mathilde, and creeping to her
side filled her hands with toys, still smiling that vacant smile, so pitiful to
see in eyes that have shone unclouded upon such a wife, still muttering those
senseless words so dreadful to hear, from lips that should have spoken with a
man’s wisdom and a husbands tenderness to her.

 
          
My
heart ached, as I saw that young, fair woman sit near that wreck of manhood,
soothing his restless spirit with the music of her voice, while his wandering hands
played with the one ornament she wore, that bracelet whose slight links were so
strong a chain to bind her to a bitter duty, so sorrowful a badge of slavery to
a proud soul like hers. '

 
          
Sleep
fell suddenly on that poor, wandering mind, and with a few words to old
Bernhardt, Mathilde led me back into the quiet room we left.

 
          
I
sank into a chair, and dropping my head upon my folded arms, sat silent,
knowing now what lay before us.

 
          
The
storm rolled and crashed above our heads, but in the silence of the room, the
voice I loved so well spoke softly at my side, as Mathilde told the story of
her life.

 
          
“Gustave,
I was an orphan, and my stern guardian found his ward an irksome charge. He
looked about him for some means of relief, and but two appeared, marriage or a
convent. I was but sixteen then, blithe of heart, and full of happy dreams; the
convent seemed a tomb to me, and any fate a blessed one that saved me from it.
I had a friend—heaven forgive her the wrong she did me!—and this friend
influenced my guardian’s choice, and won for me the husband you have seen. She
knew the fearful malady that cursed him even then, but bade him conceal it from
my guardian and me. He loved me, and obeyed her, and thus she led me into that
dark web of woe where I have struggled all these years.

 
          
“I
had innocently won a heart that she coveted, and though I did not listen to
that lover’s suit, he was lost to her, and for that she hated me. I knew
nothing of her passion then, and trusted her implicitly. We were in
Germany
, and I, a stranger in a strange land,
followed where she pointed, and so walked smilingly to my doom. Reinhold
Arnheim was a gentle but weakhearted man, guided by his cousin Gertrude, my
false friend. He loved me with all the ardor of his feeble nature, and I,
seeing a free future before me, thought I gave him my heart, when it was but a
girlish affection for the man who saved me from the fate I dreaded.

 
          
“My
guardian’s last illness coming suddenly upon him, he desired to see me safe in
a husband’s home, before he left me forever. I was married, and he died,
believing me a happy wife—I, a child, betrothed one little month.

 
          
“Nine
years ago, that marriage mockery took place, but to me it seems a lifetime full
of pain. Ah! I should have been a happier woman in a nun’s narrow cell than a
wife worse than widowed, with a secret grief like this!” Mathilde paused, and
for a moment nothing broke the silence but the wind, as it swept moaning away
across the lake.

 
          
“Let
me pass lightly over the two years that followed that unhappy bridal,” she
continued hurriedly. “I was frantic with indignation and dismay when I learned
the secret Gertrude’s wickedness and Reinhold’s weakness had withheld from me.
I had no friends to flee to, no home but my husband’s, and too proud to
proclaim the wrongs for which I knew no redress, I struggled to conceal my
anguish, and accept my fate.

 
          
“My
husband pleaded with me to spare him, the victim of a hereditary curse. I knew
he loved me, and pity for his misfortune kept me silent. For years, no one knew
the secret of his malady but Gertrude, his physician, Bernhardt, and
myself
.

 
          
“We
seemed a happy pair, for Reinhold was truly kind, and I played my part well,
proud to show my false friend that her cruel blow had failed to crush me.

 
          
“Gustave,
tongue can never tell how I suffered—how I prayed for strength and patience;
love would have made it easier to bear, but when those years of trial made a
woman of the careless girl, and looking into my heart for some affection to
sustain me, I found only pity and aversion, then I saw the error I had
committed in my ignorance—I never loved him, and this long suffering has been
my punishment for that great sin. Heaven grant it may atone!

 
          
“Gustave,
I tried to be a patient wife—I tried to be a cheerful companion to poor
Reinhold in his daily life, a brave comforter in those paroxysms of sharp agony
which tortured him in secret—but all in vain. I could not love him, and I came
at length to see my future as it stretched before me black and barren.

 
          
“Tied
for life, to a man whose feeble mind left no hope of comforting companionship
in our long pilgrimage, and with whom duty, unsweetened by affection, grew to a
loathsome slavery—what wonder that I longed to break away and flee from my
prison by the only outlet left to my despair?

 
          
“I
wavered long, but resolved at length to end the life now grown too burdensome
to bear. I wrote a letter to my husband, asking forgiveness for the grief I
caused him, and freely pardoning the great wrong he had done me. No reproaches
embittered my last words, but tenderly and truthfully I showed him all my
heart, and said farewell forever.

 
          
“But
before I could consummate my sinful purpose, I was seized with what I fondly
hoped would prove a mortal illness, and while lying unconscious of all grief
and care, Reinhold found and read that letter. He never told me the discovery
he had made, but hid the wound and loved me still—never kinder than when he
watched beside me with a woman’s patient tenderness, as I slowly and
reluctantly came back to life and health again.

 
          
“Then
when he deemed me strong enough to bear the shock, he kissed me fondly one sad
day, and going out with dogs and gun, as if to his favorite sport, at nightfall
was brought home a ghastly spectacle.

 
          
“To
all but his old servant it seemed a most unhappy accident, but in the silence
of the night, as we watched beside what we believed to be his dying bed, old
Bernhardt told me, that from broken words and preparations made in secret, he
felt sure his master had gone out that day intending never to return
alive—choosing to conceal his real design under the appearance of a sad
mischance, that no remorse might poison my returning peace.

 
          
“With
tears the old man told his fears, and when I learned that Reinhold had read
that fatal letter, I could no longer doubt. It was a sad and solemn sight to
me—for sitting in the shadow of death, I looked back upon my life, and seeing
clearly where I had failed in wifely duty and in Christian patience, I
prayerfully devoted my whole future to the atonement of the wrong I had
committed against God, my husband, and myself.

 
          
“Reinhold
lived, but never knew me again, never heard my entreaties for pardon, or my
tender assurances of pity and affection—all I could truly offer even then. The
grief my desperate resolve had caused him and the shock of that rash act were
too much for his weak body and weak brain, and he rose up from that bed of
suffering the mournful wreck you see him now.

 
          
“Gustave,
I have kept my vow, and for seven long years have watched and guarded him most
faithfully. I could not bear the pity of those German friends, and after
wandering far and wide in search of health for my unhappy husband, I came
hither unknown and friendless, bringing my poor husband to a quiet home, where
no rude sound could disturb, no strange face make afraid. I was a widow in the
saddest sense of that sad word, and as such I resolved henceforward to be
known.

 
          
“The
few who knew of the existence of the shadow you have seen believe him to be my
brother, and I have held my peace, making a secret sorrow of my past, rather
than confess the weakness and wickedness of those most near to me; I may have
erred in this, but wronging no one, I hoped to win a little brightness to my
life, to find a brief oblivion of my grief.

 
          
“I
fled from the world; seeking to satisfy the hunger of my heart with friendship,
and believing myself strong to resist temptation, I welcomed you and tasted
happiness again, unconscious of loves subtle power, till it was too late to
recall the heart you made your own. Gustave, I shunned you, I seemed cold and
calm, when longing to reply to the unspoken passion shining in your glance; I
felt my unseen fetters growing too heavy to be borne, and my life of seeming
peace a mockery whose gloom appalled and tortured me.