University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SHADOW ON THE HOUSE.

The cassique had gone back to the work without. It was with
spasmodic energy that he sought relief in employment. The refuge
of his soul lay only in throwing off all his nervous energies,
by the exercise of all his physical faculties, in the most desultory
occupations. But the mind — how did that employ itself the
while?

It is surely not difficult to conceive his suffering. A proud
man, noble, disinterested, generous, impulsive, has set his heart
upon an object; fancies that he has won it; and, in his moment
of greatest exultation, finds the fancy a delusion!

He has somehow been the victim of a deception. Was it his
own, or whose? Has he deceived himself by his own vanities
and desires, or has he been the subject of management? An Englishman
is very apt to suspect the latter. All the Old-World
convention teaches intrigue and management in the affairs of the
heart.

But whose has been the management? Not the wife's, surely.
Of that he is satisfied. He knows not her secret — is too noble
to pry into it: enough that his wife has a secret, which troubles
her, and which she does not communicate to him. It is enough
for him to know that. He cares to know nothing more. His
knowledge is already most mournfully sufficient.

That proves to him estrangement — want of sympathy. “We
are not one,” he mournfully utters to himself. “But is she guilty?

Has she deliberately lent herself to a fraud upon my affections?
No! It is only to look at her. She, too, has been the victim.
If, in evil hour, she has lied to me, she is paying for it now the
dreadful penalty. The pang has struck home to the heart. There
is no doubt that she is quite as wretched as she has made me.....

“How is it that I saw nothing, suspected nothing?... Now, that
I look back upon our courtship, was there anything to encourage
me? She was ever shy and shrinking; ever denying me opportunity.
And, fool that I was, I construed even her reluctance
into modest favor! Should I not have known better? Was it
favor? Does it now seem like favor? Was it not rather coldness,
indifference, aversion? Oh, how blind I have been in all
this affair!....

“Was she not heart-whole then? Her mother assured me —
never were assurances more solemn. But — she is her mother;
and — I know her now, if I do not yet know Olive!... And she
was reared in that accursed set of the Clives and Saxbys — all
hollow, corrupt, selfish, and artificial; and all poor and pretentious!
Ah, I have been a rash and headlong fool!....

“But did I not, even then, separate Olive from them? Did I
not then see, and assure myself — I thought I did — that she had
suffered no contaminations — had escaped their corruptions? She
was pure, simple, unaffected; had no ambition to shine; preferred
solitude to gay society; went not with the dancing fools and monkeys;
seemed always most frank, most ingenuous, and delicately
honorable.....

“And — I have not been deceived in her. She is such now.
I doubt her in nothing — save that she has a secret, which she
keeps from me — in the core of which lies all her care! Could I
ask — demand — this secret? Ay — she would declare it. I
doubt not but she would declare it, as truly, fully, fairly, devoutly,
as if in the presence of her God! She might dread to do so! —
But I must not seek to know. It were base to seek, despotic to
demand it.

“Nay, dare I seek? How could I bear to learn that secret?
Whither would it lead? There lies the danger! Olive is not
only my wife, but the mother of my child — my son — he who
must bear the name of my fathers!....

“On every side the cloud hangs heavily. I must not seek to

pierce it; but there 's a terrible presentiment that racks my soul.
I shall know the truth ere long; and then — God give me the
needful strength to endure it! God preserve my manhood!”

And, tearing himself away from thought, as from his direst
enemy, he darted with desperate zeal to toil. He himself grasped
axe and hammer; seized upon the implements, in the very hands
of the workmen, and exhibited to their confounded senses the spectacle
of a gentleman who could plan and execute at once — could
exhibit such skill and strength as we are wont to consider unsuitable
and anomalous when united in the same person, and he a
gentleman.

But we must turn from him again to Olive. That day, she
declined appearing at dinner. The cassique took his seat silently,
ate little, listened patiently to the harangues of his mother-in-law,
and, without answering, rose and disappeared. The mother followed
soon from table, but took her way to the daughter's chamber.
Another lecture, the avowed purpose of which was love.

“You must take exercise, Olive. You must go out and walk
with nurse and baby. Come, get ready. I will go along with
you.”

Olive thanked her, but declined.

“Olive, my child, you are killing yourself.”

To this the daughter made no answer, save with a smile — a
smile of such a sort as seemed to say, clearer than any words —

“And that were scarce a sorrow, mother!”

It was the luckless nature of this woman, which never suffered
her to rest herself, or permit rest to her victim. Under the pretext
of soothing, she pursued the daughter. Soothing, indeed!
When did a cold heart cheer a sorrowing one? She only worried
her; and when the grieving woman pressed her temples with
her hands, with a sudden expression of physical pain, then the
good mother knew that there was headache to soothe, and other
vexing ministries to be performed, when all that the sufferer prayed
for was to be at peace — to be let alone. It was a positive gain
to the excellent mother, when, at supper-table, she could report
to the cassique that his wife's sufferings were now certainly
physical.

The husband rose immediately, went to the chamber, looked in
only, and said, in the gentlest and most solicitous accents:—

“You are unwell, Olive — can I do anything for you?”

“No, thank you. I simply need repose.”

“You shall have it, Olive.”

He returned to the table, and said quietly: “Olive would
sleep. You will oblige me not to seek her again to-night.”

And this was all. If the mother made any answer, the cassique
did not hear it. In a few minutes after, he retired to the library,
where he sat reading half the night — reading, or lost in those
meditations which left Thought stranded on a desert shore!

The next morning there was a change in Olive, but hardly for
the better. There was an increase of nervous energy, but it
seemed to lack direction. The mind, though elevated a little,
seemed to wander in object. The eyes were bright, but it was
with a flickering sort of light, that seemed to argue confused and
excited fancies. She was restless throughout the day, and this
restlessness was construed by the mother into improvement. The
judgment of the cassique was more true. He regarded her with
an increased earnestness, but said little, and not a syllable on the
subject which distressed him. In the afternoon, Olive walked
out with nurse and baby. The mother and younger sister followed
in search of them. They were found in a great live-oak wood,
which stretched away more than a mile and a half in the direction
of the river. It was a noble grove, shady, cathedral-like, the ancestral
trees of which might have been growing five hundred years
— a glorious avenue for contemplation.

Olive wandered in this wood with vacant look and manner.
She simply answered when addressed; then fitfully, and with the
air of one whom her own voice startled. Even the mother began
to think there was something wrong; and this made her somewhat
more cautious than usual in her communications.

The next morning the same symptoms, with decided increase.
There was as much wildness of air and manner, with more of a
spasmodic energy. Olive was still singularly restless — passing
from chamber to chamber — engaging momently in some new occupation,
and abandoning each in turn almost as soon as taken
up. It was noted by the cassique that there was at times a feverish
quiver of her lips; a sudden start, upon occasions; an anxious
looking round her, as if in obedience to some call, or in expectation
of some approach. But, when spoken to, her replies were

simple, artless, unaffected, to the point, and, if possible, still more
subdued in tone than usual. The mother observed that she not
unfrequently essayed to speak with her when they were alone
together; would begin a sentence abruptly, as if under some ungovernable
impulse, yet as suddenly arrest herself in the utterance;
her eyes cast down, on the instant, with a sort of dogged
resolution, upon the work in her hands. Several attempts which
the cassique made to speak with her — always in the gentlest
tones — were met by an absolute recoil of manner, amounting to
repulsion, on the part of the sufferer. She seemed especially to
shrink from his approach. He consulted with the mother.

“She is either about to be very ill, or she has some oppressive
weight upon her mind.”

“Oh! there can be no weight upon her mind; and I hardly
think that she is ill, Sir Edward. In fact, for the last two days,
I think she has been gaining in life and strength.”

“Losing in both, I think, and during this very space.”

“Oh, no, sir! She has twice the energy and animation now
that she had three days ago.”

“Twice the restlessness, madam. There is a strange, hurried
wildness in her eyes, which alarms me; and, if you perceive, she
shrinks from me with something very like aversion.”

“Dear me, Sir Edward, this is a most absurd notion! — pardon
me for saying so. Olive is a creature of great sensibility — too
much sensibility — and she 's liable to sudden changes of mood.”

“I have frequently heard you say, madam, that she was always
very equable, cheerful, animated, full of natural gayety—”

“And so she always was—”

“Till I married her, madam!”

“Oh! your marriage, I 'm sure, had nothing to do with any
change, Sir Edward.”

“Yet it seems strange that it should take place at that very
time.”

“No, indeed, Sir Edward, you are quite mistaken there. It
was a full six or eight months before that, when she began to be
less cheerful, and to look saddish and melancholy.”

“Yet you say there 's nothing on her mind?”

“I 'm sure I know of nothing! I do n't see what there should
be. Olive has always been tenderly nurtured, and the good fortune

which has attended her, Sir Edward — the fact that she is
the honored wife of a person of your wealth and nobleness—”

“Enough, madam, on that score. The only question now is,
as to her ailment. What is her cause of suffering? Is it of the
mind or body? Not that I care to know, Mrs. Masterton, except
with the single desire to help and cure. I have listened to you
with deference, but I can not resist the belief which assures me
that she labors under some painful burden of the mind or heart—”

“The heart, indeed! No, no! all 's right in that quarter. Olive
is a loving, true, devoted wife.”

“I confess, madam, I have not found her a loving one. I have
no reason to doubt that she is a true one. But I am forced painfully
to feel that I have never had from her any such proofs of
sympathy as could persuade me of her love; and latterly, the
pain of this conviction has been greatly increased by what seem
to me evident signs of aversion.”

“What an idea!”

“It is one, madam, which forces itself upon me, at all hours,
and with no encouragement from me. I do not welcome it,
madam!”

This was bitterly spoken.

“Oh! dismiss it, sir; it does Olive great injustice. She loves
you, sir; yes—”

“I wish I could believe it; but do you know, madam, that I
can not help the further thought that she exhibits a similar aversion
to our child — her child and mine; that the little innocent
wins nothing of a mother's love; that she puts him from her, if
not with aversion, at least with indifference; never dandles him
in her arms, never sings the mother's lullaby in his ears, never
puts his little mouth to hers with a mother's heartfelt fondness.”

“Lord bless me, Sir Edward, how blind you seem to have been!
Why, I have seen her do it a thousand times — kiss him, and hug
him, and dandle him, and sing to him, by the hour.”

“You have been more fortunate than myself, madam. She has
never done these things in my presence; and I fancy you must
deceive yourself, at all events, in the frequency of these endearments.
Seeing as I have done, madam — and I have been a keen
because a grieving watcher — I infer the worst from this unnatural
condition of mind and heart. I confess to you it moves me

sometimes to the terrible thought that it is because Olive Berkeley
loathes the father, she denies her love to the child — she
loathes him as loathing me; or, if not this—”

“Oh, Sir Edward, I am astonished at you! It is really too
monstrous! How can you, sir—”

“Hear me, madam. There is but one other alternative; and
that is—”

“What, sir, what?” finding that he hesitated.

“Another suspicion, scarcely less terrible” — and here his voice
sank into a whisper — “that my wife is on the verge of insanity!”

The mother began to cry aloud, when he seized her wrist with
an iron gripe:—

“Not a word, madam, for your life! Not a whisper of this to
mortal! It is in your ears only that I breathe it. To suffer her
to hear either of these terrible conjectures of mine, would be fatal
— would be her death, madam — her death!”

“O my God! Oh, Sir Edward, these are most horrible suspicions!”

“Horrible, madam! Ay, hell is at the core of either — hell!
hell! Enough, madam: be silent! No officiousness now. I command
that you forbear my wife. I shall send to town for a physician.
Doctor Lining is said to be a man of skill, though God
knows I look for little succor at any hands!”