Chapter XXIII: “the Heart Overtasked.”

Oh, break, break, heart! poor bankrupt, break at once!
To prison, soul! Ne’er hope for liberty!
_—Shakspere._

Oh! do whate’er thou wilt! I will be silent.
_—Joanna Baillie._

Alice heard an advancing step. She looked around. Milly stood at her side.

“Where is your master? Did he enter by the back gate? Is he at the stables?” she inquired.

“Miss Alice, no, ma’am; he didn’t come home at all. He didn’t even meet the carriage. He turned off ’fore he got to the porter’s lodge, and rode hard as he could down the path as leads down the Hollow. I ’spects how he had some ’litical business long o’ Mr. Hard’stle.”

“Oh, thank Heaven!” said Alice, with a long-drawn sigh of relief, and rising, she hurried off to her own chamber. Not to sit down in faithless despair, but to write a letter to General Garnet, softly and meekly breaking to him the news of their daughter’s marriage, so that the first shock of astonishment and rage should be over before he should come home and she should have to meet him. She wrote this letter. It contained all that she had said in her letter to Elsie, and much more; besides, a meek, appealing spirit pervaded it, that few hearts could have resisted. She dispatched it by a servant to General Garnet at Hemlock Hollow. Then she lay down and tried to sleep.

She was disturbed by the entrance of a servant bearing a letter.

She raised up and took it. It was for General Garnet, and bore the post-mark of Huttontown. She regarded it attentively for an instant, for it was written in a coarse, schoolboy-like hand.

Then she placed it on the dressing-table, and, dismissing the servant, lay down and closed her eyes again, with an effort to sleep. She could not do so for a long time. Emotion was busy in her heart, and thought in her brain. One, two, three hours passed; and then she prayed, prayed for the promised rest, and, praying, fell asleep.

She did not know how long she had slept, when, waking, she perceived General Garnet in the room.

He was sitting in the large armchair near the bed, and his attention riveted upon a letter he was reading. Alice glanced at the dressing-table. The letter she had placed there was gone. Yes, it was that letter which he was reading with such fixed interest.

Alice lay quietly, yet anxiously watching him, until he finished reading, folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket. His attitude was one of deep, even intense, thought. In the crimson twilight of that closely curtained chamber she could not see the expression of his face. It was evident, she thought, that he had not seen her in the shadowy recess where her sofa stood.

After thus watching a moment, breathing a prayer for mercy, she slowly arose, crossed the room, and sank upon the cushion near his feet, took his hand, and looked up pleadingly into his face.

Alice was still a very beautiful woman, as I have told you, and never was a more beautiful picture than that kneeling figure, with the bright, flowing hair, flushed cheek, and upturned, pleading gaze with which she sought silently to deprecate the anger of her husband. She sought to read her fate in his countenance; but that high and haughty face was lifted and averted, and its features were stern, and calm, and impassible. Then she found words to speak, and inquired, softly:

“You received my letter, General Garnet?”

“Yes, madam, I received your letter,” he answered, in a hard, cold tone of voice.

“Then you know what else I should tell you here at your feet.”

“I know that my daughter has eloped, and that my wife helped her off,” he replied, in the same dry tone, and with his head still averted.

Alice could not see that his lips were bloodless and compressed, and his eyes burning with a fearful, lurid glare. His very quietude, hard and dry, and constrained as it was, deceived her. She took his hand again and pressed it to her lips, and held it to her bosom, murmuring softly:

“Let us forgive each other! Oh, my husband, let us forgive each other! For many wrongs there is positively no other remedy in the wide universe but simple forgiveness—simple, magnanimous, sublime forgiveness. ‘It is impossible but that offenses will come,’ said the most merciful of all beings. It is impossible, says the experience of life, it is impossible but that disappointments, sorrows, pains, and partings will come. They are the conditions of our existence. We cannot escape them. Let us lessen their bitterness as much as we may. It is impossible but that troubles will come, but the vital question is whether we shall turn them to good or evil account—whether we shall live to any good end or not. Oh, my husband, make friends with me! We have only each other in the wide world upon whom to depend for our life’s comfort and happiness. Make friends with me!”

She paused, covering his hand with fond caresses, pressing it to her lips, laying it against her cheek, holding it to her throbbing heart. He drew his hand from her gentle clasp, and folded his arms.

Alice sank back, sobbing—sobbing, as though her heart would burst—then suddenly she clasped his knees, exclaiming wildly: “Can we hate each other—you and I who have lived so many years together? Can we hate each other—you and I, who love our only child, our dear Elsie, so much? Make friends with me! Let us understand each other! Let us be candid with each other! Let us forbear each other! I know that you deeply regret the failure of your favorite plan to unite these estates. I know it; I am sorry for it; sorry that I have been constrained to have a hand in it. But, oh, General Garnet, I, too, you know, was once—long years ago—bitterly disappointed—terribly disappointed! But it is all over now; it has all been over many years ago! And that is what I have often wanted to tell you, when I saw by the cold, dark shadow on your brow that you thought yourself unloved. But I never could approach you near enough to tell you—to tell you that if you would look into my heart you would see it filled with the love of God, of my husband, and my child. Oh, Aaron! let us forget all that estranged us in the dreary past, and see if we cannot live a better and happier life in the future! At least we can be kind, candid, forbearing with each other. Think how long we may have to travel the rough road of mortal life side by side! We are not old—you and I, Aaron! You are not forty-five, and I am much younger. People healthful as we are usually live to the age of eighty and beyond it. Think how many years we may have to live together! Shall we, through all these years, be unloving, cold, estranged, suspicious, uncharitable each to the other? Think how many years of our life we have already wasted in coolness, strangeness, misunderstandings! Think how many yet remain! Shall we not live the rest in mutual forbearance, candor, benevolence? Make friends with me. Let us comprehend each other. Dear Aaron, I have opened my heart to you; give me your confidence!” She ceased, half turned to gaze up in his face; his head was quite averted—had he relented? She thought so. She suddenly, impulsively arose, threw her arms around his neck, and bent her lips to kiss him, repeating softly: “Dearest Aaron, make friends with me. Give me your confidence.”

He sprang up, and with one dash of his strong arm threw her from him, exclaiming:

“Off, traitress! Off, serpent! Viper!”

She tottered and fell back among the silken cushions of an old-fashioned low lounge, exhausted, pale, and shuddering.

He gazed at her with flashing eyes and darkening brow, and white and writhen lips, and the long restrained passion broke out in a torrent of invective. Shaking his clenched fist at her, he exclaimed:

“How dare you talk to me of confidence, traitress that you are? How durst you even approach me, serpent! viper! after your black treachery? What do you mean by braving me? Are you enamored of a broken head? Or do you think your own too hard to be broken? At what do you value your life, pray? What hinders me now from strangling you? Why didn’t you fly with your hopeful daughter? Don’t you expect me to hurl you out of doors after her? How durst you cross my path after your treachery? Viper, answer me, I say!” he vociferated, striding toward the lounge, grasping her shoulder, and jerking her to her feet before him. “Answer! How dared you face me after your black treachery?”

“It was no treachery,” answered Alice, pale and trembling, yet with a certain gentle dignity in her words and tone; “it was no treachery; I broke no promise; I betrayed no trust; I am incapable of doing either.”

“Silence, traitress!” he thundered, shaking her furiously; “I do not ask you for any impudent falsehood; I will not, by Heaven, permit you to tell me one! I ask you how you dared to meet me here?”

“Oh-h-h!” sighed Alice, suddenly sinking at his feet. “It was to return to my allegiance; at whatever personal risk, to yield myself to you; to abide henceforth by my duties. And oh, General Garnet, do not misunderstand me! If I have humbled myself before you—vainly, perhaps, it is not from so base a motive as fear! Oh, I have outlived and outsuffered the fear of pain—the fear of death—the fear of anything that might befall me! I am at your feet. If I have placed myself unconditionally in your hands, it is for the sake of the holiest principles, the most sacred duties. General Garnet, you believe me—I see that you do! General Garnet, listen to me farther; this is positively the first time in our married life of seventeen years that I ever opposed you.”

“The first time that you ever successfully opposed me, madam; and, by Heaven, you have made a signal beginning!” commented General Garnet, no longer speaking in a furious voice, but in the dry, hard, stern tone, and fixed, inflexible brow with which he had in the beginning of their interview heard and replied to her gentle words. The burst of violent passion had passed away and left him—the hard, scornful, sarcastic, yet cool, calculating, dissembling, most dangerous man that he was before.

Alice gazed up at his face, seeking to read the changed expression there; but it passed her skill, and she murmured slowly:

“Perhaps I was wrong; I know that under other circumstances it would have been very wrong; yet I dare not say that I regret what I did, for under the same circumstances I should do it again. Not to obtain your forgiveness would I deceive you, though to obtain it would make me comparatively happy; but I deeply regret that anything I had a hand in should give you pain. And I say, do as you please, I shall not complain, I cannot. From the one revolt of my whole life I return to a full and unconditional allegiance; there is nothing farther to disturb it, nothing to draw me aside. My love for my child only did it; that cannot move me again.”

“Ha! can it not?” he asked scornfully.

“No, no, indeed it cannot!”

“Never!”

“Never! How can my love for Elsie ever again draw me aside from you? Elsie is married and gone; now I have only you; my duty is undivided—and, oh, if you would let me, I would try to make you so happy!”

“Would you?” he asked, doubtfully, scornfully.

“Yes, I would,” she said, suddenly rising, leaning her hand upon his arm, and her head upon his shoulder, with the confidence of perfect love and faith. “Oh, Aaron, you have not been yourself for a few days past. Yet I do not love you the less on that account; indeed, I do not. Oh, Aaron, I can excuse your violence more than you can excuse yourself, I know, for I have been used to it in others. My father was violent sometimes. And I know that anger is a brief intoxication—’a short madness’—in which people do and say what they never intended. Come, you are not angry now; you are smiling; and I—I can only repeat what I said in the beginning, ‘Let us forgive each other, and live better and happier all our future lives.’ That is right—put your arm around me, dear Aaron, for I am very weak.”

It was scarcely in human nature, or in devil nature, to resist the charm of her winning beauty, gentleness, and meekness. General Garnet pressed a passionate kiss upon her lips, and clasped her to his heart. It was the first kiss of many, many years; and Alice, trembling, happy, with her blushing face hidden on his bosom, saw not the “laughing devil in his eye.”

“Oh, Aaron, this is generous—this is magnanimous. Oh, Aaron, if you knew how the simple act of forgiveness has power to bind the human heart! I know it by the way it draws my heart to yours,” said Alice, with enthusiasm.

But another and a more passionate kiss sealed her lips for a time.

At last she said:

“My friend, how has it been with you this long, long time? I mean how has it been with your heart and soul, your inner life? Have you been happy—have you had any great life purpose? Oh, Aaron, often when I have watched you in your daily life, as you walked, or rode, or drove; as you sat at table, or at your writing-desk, or settled business with your overseer or agents; or jested or told anecdotes among your friends; when you have seemed to live lightly on the outside of things, I have longed to ask you, ‘How is with you—is this reality, and is this all of your life, and are you contented with it—are you happy?’ And when I have seen you sit, or stand, or walk apart, silent, moody, abstracted, retired into yourself, I have longed to knock at your heart’s door, to be let in, too—to be let into your confidence, and to give you my sympathy, but I dared never to do so. It has taken the grief and passion of this hour to enable me to do so now. But this shall never be so again, shall it? We shall never be such strangers to each other again? Come, tell me now—how it is with you. Are you happy?”

“Quite happy, just at this hour, Alice.”

“And do you truly love me—a little? Oh, love me—only love me!”

“Love you! That is not so difficult, Alice. You are still a very lovely woman.”

“Will you let me deliver Elsie’s last message to you?”

He quickly averted his face to hide the dark cloud that overswept it, while he answered:

“I will hear it.”

“Elsie’s parting words to me were, ‘Oh, mother, you love my father very dearly, do you not?’ I answered, ‘Yes.’ She replied, ‘Oh, if you love him, mother, win my pardon from him!’ Aaron, look on me. Father, forgive your child for loving her husband as much as her mother loves thee.”

“Alice,” he said, drawing her again to his bosom and kissing her, “this seals your full pardon; be content; for the rest, give me time.”

“Oh, if I could persuade you to forgive poor Elsie—who only needs her father’s pardon and blessing to be perfectly happy in her humble state.”

“Alice, if Elsie were before me, as you are, in all your beauty, perhaps I could not choose but be reconciled with her as with you, my lovely Alice.”

Alice was so unused to praise from him that these words and caresses were beginning to embarrass her. Blushing like a very girl, she withdrew herself from his arms, and sat down. Then, as fearing to have offended, she said:

“Do not think me ungrateful. Test my sincerity in any way you please.”

“In any way, Alice?” he asked significantly.

“Yes. Try me—test me.”

“Pause—think—in any way?”

“In anything and everything will I obey you, that does not transgress the laws of God, I mean, of course.”

“Ah, that to begin with, is one very broad and comprehensive exception—especially if you design to give it a very liberal and latitudinarian interpretation. And it implies, besides, a suspicion and a guard against my giving you any command which, to obey, would be to transgress the laws of God. Do you really suppose that I am capable of doing such a thing, Alice?”

“No—oh, no. Only you pressed me for an exception, you know, and I gave you the only one I thought of.”

“I am satisfied with your exception, Alice. But is that really the only exception to your vow of compliance?”

“Yes, indeed, the only one.”

“Reflect—you may find another.”

“No; indeed, no.”

“No? What is the dearest wish of your heart, now, Alice?”

“For peace—for perfect family peace and perfect Christian love.”

“Thanks, Alice. ‘Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.’ But is there no secret, darling thought that hovers around Magnus and Elsie?”

Alice suddenly turned very pale. Her hands flew up pleadingly, and involuntarily she cried, in a voice of anguish:

“Oh, for the loving Saviour’s sake, do not require me to renounce Elsie!”

“If I did, would you do so, Alice?”

She was silent, with her head bowed upon her clasped hands.

He looked at her and smiled sardonically, saying:

“I knew it—another exception! How many would follow this, I wonder? But be easy, Alice. I do not require you to renounce your daughter. Far be that from me. Hold her as closely to your heart as you wish. Nothing but nervousness could have put that thought into your head. Have I not said that even I might be brought to forgive Elsie? Pshaw, dear Alice, I only wished to prove to you how really vain were all your promises.”

“No, they are not!” exclaimed Alice earnestly, energetically. “You have reconciled yourself to me when I least hoped and expected it, and I will do anything to prove how glad I am—anything except renounce Elsie or fail in my higher duty to Heaven. Oh, do not close your half-opened heart to me again! Try me!”

“Good! I will put your sincerity to one more test. And woe to both if that third test should prove you faithless.”

“It shall not—it shall not!” said Alice solemnly. “All our future confidence and peace depends on it, and it shall not fail, so help me Heaven. What is it?”

“You shall soon see, Alice,” replied General Garnet, rising and preparing to leave the room. “Where are they now?—I mean Dr. Hardcastle and his wife.”

“I believe they are at the hotel at Huttontown, where they expect to remain for a few days—if you do not bring them back here. Oh, General Garnet, if you would pardon them—if you would bring them back here to live with us—how happy we should all be—oh, how happy we should all be the long future years! No more partings—no more tears. Our children and grandchildren would be with us all through life. Magnus could practice his profession, and be of such inestimable value besides, in your political plans, and such company for you at home. And Elsie would be such a comfort to me. We should all be so happy! Come, bring them back with you. Ah! do. Let us have them with us, all reconciled, around the table to-night—and it will be the happiest family gathering that ever was held. Oh, I see you smile, and I know you will bring them back—will you not?” said Alice, suddenly seizing his hand, and gazing eloquently, beseechingly into his face.

“We shall see, Alice—I will tell you more about that when I return,” he said, with one of his charming smiles, and shaking her hand cheerfully, opened the door and went out.

“Oh, yes—I do believe he will bring them back with him. Ah, no father can harden his heart against his child. Yes, yes, I am sure he will bring them back!” she repeated, seeking to still the anxiety that was tormenting her breast.