University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
ESPIONAGE OF THE BROKEN HEART.

The despatch was prepared and sent off for Doctor Lining; and
the brave cassique, suffering but strong, hurried out again to his
workmen — and grasped their tools, and smote, and hewed, and
sawed, and planed, to the surprise of all — and as all, no doubt,
thought, in a fond pursuit of happiness! Ah, that pursuit of happiness!
Certainly, if that had been his object, he has pursued it
with shut eyes. And what sort of happiness, for herself or daughter,
has the Honorable Mrs. Masterton aimed at? And poor
Olive, she had pursued nothing: she had only been pursued, and
surely not by Happiness!

With evening, Doctor Lining came. The cassique's carriage
had met him at the landing, and brought him on, post-haste. He
was an excellent gentleman, knowing his profession thoroughly as
it was at that day known. He was naturally intelligent, and well
read — a fair sample of the average home-education of professional
people. Of his skill, nothing need be said here. Learning is one
thing, skill another; and medicine, like religion, poetry, and most
of the liberal arts and professions, demands a special gift from
Heaven.

Olive had retired when the doctor came. The mother presided
at the supper-table. But nothing was said of Olive's case. The
cassique very prudently resolved that Lining was not to appear as
a physician; only as a friend, about to revisit the mother-country,

and seeking the cassique simply to receive his commissions. Such
was the pious fraud as agreed upon between them.

That night, when the Honorable Mrs. Masterton had retired,
the cassique and the doctor conferred together in the library.
Colonel Berkeley — or, as the courtesy of the country styled him,
because of his cassiqueship, Sir Edward — was one of those downright,
direct, resolute sort of men, who allowed himself no circuitous
processes in his objects. Heedless of the pain, he laid his
own and the case of Olive fully before the physician.

“I do not deceive myself, Doctor Lining, and must not deceive
you, in respect to the condition of my wife. I regard her as in
danger of becoming a lunatic.”

“Good God! I hope not. What are your reasons for this
fear?”

Berkeley made a full report of all the suspicious circumstances.

“She does not nurse her child?”

“No, sir: her health affected her milk; and, by the advice of
Arbuthnot, we employed a healthy wet-nurse, and she has been
relieved of this duty. No evil consequences have happened to the
child.”

“The necessity, however, was an unfortunate one. The maternal
duty might have been a means, and — but go on, sir: I
would first hear your particulars. We can think over them afterward.”

“It is perhaps necessary, doctor, that I should go into details
that do not seem immediately to bear upon the case. But, I am
uneasy in respect to this very point, because doubtful of the cause
of my wife's sufferings; and one way to mislead a physician is to
suppress facts which may be important.”

The doctor nodded affirmatively.

“It becomes necessary, then, that I should reveal a small family
history, beginning with my first acquaintance and marriage with
Miss Masterton.”

“If you think it necessary,” said Lining.

“Surely: on no other account. I saw Miss Masterton, then a
young lady, after my return from the continent. Our families had
been intimate, and I had seen her in childhood, but not to remark
her particularly. When I came back from the continent, she was
a blooming girl of eighteen. I was charmed with her manners,

her person, her intelligence. I sought her, saw her frequently,
and my visits and attentions were encouraged by her mother.
Olive herself was reserved toward me. At first, she received me
with frank and cordial welcome; with pleasure, as I fancied; but,
as my attentions increased, she became shy. I persevered, however;
and, to make a long story as short as possible, my proposals
were made, through her mother, and, after some delay, were accepted.
Some further delays, urged by herself, as I have reason
to believe, prevented our immediate marriage. That finally took
place; and, after the birth of our son, we removed to Carolina.”

“There is nothing in all this, Colonel Berkeley.”

“No, sir: but I soon discovered that my wife, though submissive,
was not genial; though gentle, not fond; not, seemingly, susceptible
of fondness; reluctant in my presence; silent; finally sad;
and, with every day, growing more and more taciturn, more fond
of solitude, more reluctant to respond to me in any way. I was
not harsh, not imperative; never said a hasty word to her; tried
to soothe and conciliate; strove to please. I was always met with
coldness — a measured coldness — which was sadness also — and
which has recently become, as it seems to me, aversion.”

“That is a strong word! May you not deceive yourself?”

“No, sir! I have weighed all the facts with the utmost caution
and deliberation. That she is wretched, I see; that she
makes me wretched, I know! That she grows more wretched,
more estranged daily, more insensible to my cares, more listless,
heedless, indifferent in everything, is apparent to every eye.
When I first knew her, she was plump and round; she is now
reduced to a skeleton. She was young, bright, blooming, when I
first came from the continent; she has lost bloom, and flesh, and
brightness, almost from the moment of our marriage. Once she
was cheerful; now she wears the look of one to whom life can
offer nothing; who has no hope. Appetite, spirits, animation, all
are gone. Latterly, from being utterly passive — sad, to such indifference,
that I verily believe had I smitten her, she would
never have lifted hand to protect her face — nay, would have
smiled gently at the infliction — now, she has become restless,
wandering, capricious; easily startled, nervous; with a restless
light in her eyes, which is painful to behold — to me the most
startling of the signs that trouble me.”

And so he proceeded, till he had concluded the details which
he conceived important; not omitting that statement — in which
he differed with Mrs. Masterton — that Olive appeared entirely
regardless of her child, and gave it no proofs of her affection.

“That, certainly, is a most singular circumstance. But I
will not say anything of the case, colonel, till I have seen the patient.
It is understood that I am not to be known as her physician.
She must simply be watched and studied. I will devote
myself to that to-morrow.”

“It may require several days, doctor.”

“Fortunately, the town is just now so healthy, that I can spare
the necessary time.

The conversation flagged, even over a bottle of Madeira, and
the parties then retired for the night.

With morning, began the watch and study. Olive little knew
the surveillance to which she was to be subjected. She had arisen
as usual. Her face, air, manner, tones, all exhibited the aspects
which we have already reported as characteristic of the three preceding
days. There was the same flushed impulse, the same restlessness,
caprice, incertitude; the same wild, spiritual brightness
of eye; and certainly a great increase of general excitement. But
the physician, introduced as Mr. Lining, a friend of her husband,
about to revisit Europe, did not occasion any emotion after the
first introduction. She scarcely seemed to heed him. And this
afforded the doctor a good opportunity for studying her. He did
so with a silent inquisitiveness which she had no reason to suspect.
The cassique contrived frequent occasions for him.

You must see our boy, Lining! My Lord John will expect
you to make a full report. Bring in `Young Harry.'”

At the words, the wife started, and looked about her wildly.

“Young Harry, with his cuisses on!” continued the cassique, in
the proud tones of the father. “He is a brave-looking fellow, is
he not? See what a brow he has! From the first, he looked
like a dear brother whom I lost — a wild, manly, noble fellow —
and he bears his name; and every day seems to strengthen the
likeness. I shall be satisfied if he grow like Harry Berkeley.”

A deep sigh closed the speech, but it issued from the lips of
Olive Berkeley. Every eye was turned toward her. She lay
back in her chair. Her own eyes were shut. She had fainted.

The cassique darted to her, and raised her in his arms tenderly.
The mother was officious, till pushed away by the doctor. He
sprinkled some water upon the face of the unconscious woman —
called for hartshorn, which was luckily at hand, and soon witnessed
her revival.

“Take her now to her chamber.”

When mother and daughter were withdrawn, and the cassique
and physician remained alone, the latter said musingly —

“Of what were we speaking, colonel?”

“I know not! I have forgotten everything. Her suffering,
doctor, her most inscrutable suffering, takes from me all power of
thought and observation.”

“Nay, not so bad as that. This fainting-fit is probably not a
bad symptom. It would be terrible were she without emotion;
and that was what I feared from your statement. But what were
we talking about?”

The cassique did not answer. Lining resumed:—

“The child — ah! yes; and the name. You have a brother
named Harry, Sir Edward?”

“Had, doctor.”

“Ah!”

“A noble fellow — bold, brave, daring, full of soul and spirit;
but the waves are over him.”

“Ah! he was lost! How long, may I ask, since the event?”

“We know not. He was nearly three years gone from England
when I was on the continent. He had a passion for the sea;
became captain of a West Indiaman; afterward took out a private
commission against the French and Spaniards, and made so many
captures, that he came to own a privateer. She was lost, somewhere
along the Spanish main. This must have been about the
time of my return from the continent. We received advices, soon
after the event, which left no doubt of his fate.”

The doctor mused, but made no further inquiries on this head.
Scarcely had the dialogue ceased between them, when, to the surprise
of all, Olive reappeared, followed closely by her mother.”

“She would come, sir.”

Olive interrupted the mother with a smile, and with such seeming
composure and strength as to increase the general surprise.

“I felt so much ashamed of my temporary weakness, and so
much better, that I resolved not to play the invalid.”

The husband smiled; the doctor mused. The latter saw, what
the former did not — so much was he pleased with the unwonted
event, a smile from Olive — that her presence, smile, and speech,
were due to an extreme effort — a will rising into utmost earnestness,
in obedience to some exigent motive.

And what was that motive? “Quien sabe?” says the Spaniard.
What the cassique said need not be repeated; the doctor
said nothing, but meditated much.

And throughout the day, Olive continued to sustain herself, in
a somewhat more cheerful strain than usual, but by what the doctor
rightly conceived to be an extraordinary effort of will. There
was excitement as before; great unrest; frequent uneasiness; a
nervous sensibility to sounds, especially of the human voice; and
an anxiety that prompted a frequent looking around her, as if for
some expected approach. And there was now to be seen occasionally
a sudden crimson flush over the marble whiteness of the
cheeks, which passed away, as with a flicker, almost the moment
it appeared. And there was still a glazed fixedness of the eye,
which was intensely and spiritually bright.

Lining noted all these symptoms. He had every opportunity.
The cassique devised as many methods ss possible for leaving her
in his presence. He showed him over the whole house, not excepting
the chambers, and required her to assist.

“My uncle will inquire about everything, and you must be
able to answer. I hope, when it is shown how easily I can
transfer the comforts of an English to a Carolina home, to beguile
him out here also, where he can properly fill the dignity of the
palatinate. He will be our lord-palatine, if he will come out. —
By-the-way, Olive, do let Lining see your collection of Indian
curiosities.”

They were shown.

“And now, Olive, can 't you give Lining some music? Nay, for
that matter, give me some. I have had none for a long season.
The fact is, Lining, we have had such an infernal clangor of hammer
and saw, that music would have been only so many `sweet
bells, jangled, harsh, and out of tune,' enveloped in the perpetual
din! But now — what say you, Olive, my dear?”

And she rose passively, without a word, and went to the harpsichord,
of which she had once been the mistress.

“Will you sing, Lady Berkeley?” asked Lining.

“Excuse me, sir; but I can not trust my voice to-day — scarcely
my fingers.”

The chords were struck: the hands swept the keys — slowly at
first, then with rapidly-increasing fervor as the symphonies rose,
following out the caprices and gradual swelling of the human passion
which made the burden of the piece. It might have been a
battle-piece, though it expressed only the conflicts of one poor,
suffering human heart.

Did she play from memory, or was it a fantasia of her own?
None of the hearers knew; and, playing on, she said nothing;
while the instrument, from a sad complaining — a merely plaintive
sighing forth of a secret sorrow — rose to a wail, a wild burst and
outbreak of a mortal agony, which at length set its prison restraints
all at defiance.

And they could see the breast of the player heave in concert
with the strain, while her head gradually uplifted, and her dilating
eye seemed to rest upon a far corner of the ceiling — rapt, as it
were, with some unexpected vision. She no longer watched the
keys of the instrument. She no longer seemed conscious of the
persons present. But, suddenly, the music changed; the notes
fell; the high, passionate tones gave way to vague, faint, faltering
pulsations, rather than beats, varied with occasional capriccios,
in which a mocking spirit seemed to be at conflict with a broken
one: and so the strain fell — no longer gush, and burst, and wild
flight of music, but its tear, its sigh, its broken, faltering accent,
in which you read the history of defeated love, departed hope,
the wreck of a beautiful dream of stars and flowers, and the thick
night closing over all! Then suddenly it stopped, and nothing
was heard but a low, ringing echo through the apartment, as if
the escaped soul only lingered, moaning ere it went, from the
once-beloved abode!

And there was a strange thrill that passed over the frames of
the two strong men. They felt the unnatural power of the strain.
Was it simply art? Was it not rather the inspiration of a passionate
wo, which gladly seizes upon the stricken one, as the only
mode of expression and relief?

And Olive — her brow is still uplifted. Her eye rests still
upon the remote ceiling. Her fingers fall suddenly with weight

upon the keys, and the crash which follows startles her out of her
fancies. Her eyes sink down. She sees the cassique and the
doctor gazing wistfully upon her; and, with a slight flush upon
her cheek, she rises, bows, and leaves the room.

“It is a curious case, colonel, and not to be judged rashly. We
must see all that we can, yet our watch must be unsuspected.
You must warn her mother on this point.”

Of course, the scrutiny was difficult, but it was pursued with industry,
and was sufficiently cautious. Olive did not seem suspicious,
but she was shy; and, though her general deportment continued
pretty much the same throughout the day, as we have already
described it, she seemed to be somewhat more than usually inclined
to obey her mother's injunction “to make an effort.”
Whether it was because of the presence of a visiter, it was evident
that she was disposed “to try,” and behave with a closer regard
to conventional requisitions. There was nothing remarkable in
her conduct; only in her appearance, the tones of her voice, expression
of her eye, and the frequent wanderings of her thought,
as exhibited in her general manner.

So dinner passed.

In the afternoon, Olive had disappeared. The nurse had taken
out the child, “Young Harry,” into the great avenue of oaks of
which we have already spoken; and, whether she knew the fact
or not, thither Olive had also gone. Her movements were conducted
slyly. She had left the gentlemen, as she thought, too
deeply engaged in the library to be conscious of her absence. So,
too, she believed her mother to be in her chamber, when, slipping
out of the back door, she stole off to the thicket.

But they were all on the alert.

It was in the deepest and shadiest part of the grove, that, watching
from a thick covert, the Honorable Mrs. Masterton beheld the
young mother busied with the child. She had taken him from
the nurse, who had wandered a few hundred yards farther on.
Olive tossed the child in her arms, sat with him upon the ground,
kissed him repeatedly, and hung over his shiny round face with
the deepest interest, perusing every line and feature. And between
the kisses and this study, big tears fell from her eyes upon
the blooming, red cheeks of the infant, while broken murmurs —
“My Harry! my Harry!” escaped her unconscious lips.

Mrs. Masterton, as she saw this, could not help saying, very
audibly —

“How I wish Sir Edward could only see this!”

A low voice behind her said:—

“Hush, madam! — not a word! He does see! Now, madam,
steal away, as I shall do, and do not, for the world, suffer yourself
to be seen.”

The cassique, accompanied by the physician, stole back to the
house, with a heart even lighter than his steps. He was disabused
at least of one of his most cruel apprehensions. The doctor
encouraged him.

“She weeps; she loves the child; has emotions; is not indifferent.
But it is evident that these joys of the mother are sought
only in secrecy. There is some secret anxiety — there is some
suspicion; and this argues—”

“A want of sympathy with those about her!” answered the cassique,
and in rather gloomy tones, completing the sentence which
Lining seemed reluctant to finish.

“Precisely so!”

“But, whether the discovery of the cause of this will enable us
to do anything by which to relieve her mind from this tension?—”

“If she could be disabused of the cause of suspicion—”

“Yes, and that depends upon a knowledge of the suspicion
itself.”

“You must beware how you question her, Colonel Berkeley.”

“Yes! — you are right. That should never be done by me.
It would be something worse than bad policy. It would be an
abuse of the relationship between us. The confidence of man and
wife must be involuntary. To attempt to force it, on his part,
would be a base and unmanly despotism. That it is not given
here, Doctor Lining, is the most humiliating annoyance which I
have been called on to bear. I must endure it as I may!”

“Time, my dear colonel, is the best medicine. Give her that,
and she will do you justice. What sort of woman is her mother,
and how can she aid you?”

The cassique answered with a gravity and sternness that looked
a little like ferocity. Laying his hand on the wrist of Lining, he
said:—

“She is a fool, sir, with an empty head and a cold, selfish heart!

She is, I fancy, at the bottom of all this mischief; but in what way
I can not conceive. I have had to check her in a frequent attempt
to exercise an authority in my house, and in regard to my
wife, which is at variance with mine. I have had also to warn
her in regard to a system of annoyance, practised on Olive, since
she has been in this condition; the silly mother having no real
conception of the daughter's danger, and perhaps contributing to
it all the while by the perpetual prying, and questioning, and
counselling, of a very restless and ridiculous tongue. She is one
of those fools of society with whom hearts are nothing; who would
sacrifice all the best sympathies — ay, virtues — to the empty
pomps and miserable exhibitions of social vanity, and what is called
`high life'! You know the animal as it exists in English society:
she is one of its most absurd specimens.”

When the unconscious Olive came in from her ramble, her
mother was safely in her chamber, and the gentlemen still conversing
in the library. She met them at supper, where nothing
remarkable occurred; Lining still keeping a vigilant watch, while
Berkeley was at pains to maintain the deception which proclaimed
the former to be a simple guest, on his return to Europe.

The next day the doctor took his departure. He encouraged
the cassique to hope everything from time. He could do no
more. He could only counsel equal forbearance and solicitude.
The symptoms of Olive, that day, were the same. They seemed
to increase after the doctor left, but not in any degree to produce
apprehension. It was a sufficient source of anxiety to the cassique
that they continued. At all events, something had been
gained. He had seen her caressing “Young Harry” as only a
loving mother could caress; and he was so far satisfied.