Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 15, August, 1851

Astræa went alone, and staid away half the day. She returned to me full of glee. Her friend had listened to her history with the deepest interest, and entirely agreed with her that she could not have acted otherwise, adopting, at the same time, without hesitation, Astræa's opinion of the sanctity of our union. It was not our fault that we had not been married in a church and this generous lady, seeing the embarrassment of our situation, enthusiastically declared that the world might take its own course, but that she, at least, would never abandon a friend under such circumstances. This was very cheering. I must remark, however, that this lady was several years younger than Astræa, under whose protection she had been taken at school, where Astræa had been a resident for convenience, rather than a pupil, when she entered it. In this way their attachment originated. It would have been difficult for any young person to have been placed in such close and endearing intimacy with Astræa, and not to have acquired an enthusiastic regard for her. She always inspired that sort of feeling – a deep and passionate love, great admiration of her intellect, implicit respect for her judgment. In the eyes of her schoolfellow she was the model of all human excellence. As easily would she have believed in an error of the planetary system, as that Astræa could commit an aberration of any kind. Whatever Astræa did, appeared to her unimpeachable. A feeling of veneration like this carried away from school will stand many severe shocks in the mind of a true-hearted girl before it will give way.

This was all very well so far as the lady herself was concerned; but how could we answer for the view her husband might take of the matter? She volunteered in the most courageous way to take all that upon herself. She could answer for her husband. She was very young, and very pretty, and very giddy, and only just married, and her husband never denied her any thing, and she ruled him with as queenly an influence as the heart of the most imperious little beauty could desire. Nor did she reckon without her host, as the event proved. Her husband, in the most good-humored way, fell into her view of the case. He was one of those easy-natured souls who, when they marry school-girls, feel themselves called upon to marry the whole school, and to take its romps, and its vows, and its bridesmaid pledges, to heart and home along with their wives. He had heard her speak of Astræa a thousand times, and professed to be very curious to see her; and so it was arranged that we should all meet, and make the merriest double-bridal party in the universe. The reunion was curious between these open-hearted, innocent young people, with their track of bright flowers before them, and those who sat opposite to them, with a terrible conviction that the path which lay before them was covered with ashes.

Our new friends had a large acquaintance at Brighton, and saw a great deal of company; yet they were always glad to get away when they could, and make a little holyday with us. Her husband entered into our meetings with an ease and friendliness that were quite charming. He was an indolent man, taking no trouble to look after pleasure, but ready to be pleased in a passive way with any thing that other people enjoyed. As for his wife, she was always in the highest spirits with Astræa. The chatter they made together was quite an ecstasy. It seemed as if there was no end to the things they had to talk about. Poor Astræa had been shut up from her own sex so long, that the delight with which the companionship of this young creature inspired her appeared to me extremely pathetic and affecting.

One morning we were walking on the Parade as usual. Among the carriages that were flying about, we recognized the open phaeton of our friends. It passed quite close to us – so close that we could have shaken hands with them as they swept by. We expected that they would have stopped as usual, and we stood and put out our hands – but the carriage went on. There was a hasty bow from the lady, and then her head was quickly turned aside, as if something had suddenly attracted her attention. Astræa looked at me, and asked me what I thought of it? I evaded her question, by saying that they had other friends, and that we must not be too exigeant. Astræa made no remark, but merely shook her head and walked on.

In the afternoon we met them again. There was a gay crowd of people walking, and our friends, in the midst of a group, were coming up toward us. There was no possibility, at either side, of avoiding the meeting, for the place was narrow, and we were compelled to pass each other slowly. I could perceive, from the way in which Astræa's cheeks kindled, that she was resolved to put her schoolfellow's friendship to the proof at once. I anticipated the result, but thought it best not to interfere, lest Astræa might suppose I shrank from the ordeal. We met face to face. The lady grew very white, and then red, and then white again, and caught her husband by the arm, and moved her lips as if she wished to appear to be speaking to him, although she did not utter a word. Astræa looked full into her eyes. Had the young wife seen a spectre from the grave, she could not have been more effectually paralyzed. That look seemed to turn her to stone. Not a single expression of greeting took place between them. Upon the husband's part, the feeling was even less equivocal. There was a dark, scowling frown upon his face as we came up; he looked straight at us – and walked on. These insouciant men, who take the world so indifferently on ordinary occasions, are always the most fierce when roused. They hate the trouble of being obliged to act with decision, and when compelled to do so, they cut it short by an energetic demonstration, that they may fall back the sooner upon their habitual lassitude.

We returned to our lodging with a clear sense of our position. Galled as I was on my own account, I felt it a hundred times more acutely on account of Astræa. Here was her young friend and enthusiastic disciple, who had always looked up to her with confidence and admiration, who had heard her story, and clung all the more lovingly and protectingly to her in pity for the unhappy circumstances in which she was placed, and this friend had now abandoned and disowned her! – a blow under which some women would have sunk at once, and which would have made others reckless and desperate. Upon Astræa it acted slowly and painfully. Externally it did not seem to affect her much; but I could perceive from that time a tendency to lapse into fits of silence, and a desire to be alone, which I had not noticed before. Whenever she alluded to her friend, she spoke of her as a weak person, who had never been remarkable for much character, with a kind heart and no understanding, and always carried away by the last speaker. Ascribing her inconsistency on this occasion to the influence of her husband, we agreed to dismiss the subject – not from our thoughts, that was impossible – but from our conversation. Astræa was bruised and hurt; and through all her efforts to conceal it, I saw that she suffered severely. It was the first touch she had directly experienced of the ice of the world's contumely, and it had struck in upon her heart.

A few days passed away, and we were reconciling ourselves by daily practice to the personal humiliation of passing and being passed in the streets by the friends with whom we had been recently on terms of absolutely hilarious alliance; when, on one occasion, on returning to our solitary lodging, we were received at the door by our obliging landlady in a manner which plainly showed that her opinion of us had undergone a most singular change during our absence. Her quiet, sleepy eyes scintillated with anger; her face was hot with excitement, and instead of the civility she had hitherto invariably shown us, she all at once broke out into a tirade which I will spare the reader the unpleasantness of hearing: there can be no difficulty in guessing what it was all about. This worthy woman had heard our history – falsified in detail, and blackened by the most venomous exaggeration; and being a very pure lodging-house keeper, standing upon the whiteness of her morals and her caps, and trusting much to the patronage of the rector, who allowed her to refer to him for the proprieties and respectabilities of her establishment, she thought that the best way to vindicate her own reputation was to assail ours in the most open and public manner. Accordingly, she took care that every word she said should be overheard by every body within reach, so that the whole neighborhood should know of her indignation, and report it to her friend the rector. There never was such a change in a woman; it was a saint turned into a demon. I demanded her authority for the injurious aspersions she cast upon us, and threatened her with a variety of tremendous, though exceedingly vague, legal consequences – but to no effect. She desired us to leave the house, and take our remedy; she would give us no satisfaction; she had good grounds for what she said; that was enough for her; she knew what "kind" we were; and a great deal more to the same purpose.

We were deeply aggrieved at discovering that our private affairs were talked of in this scandalous way. As to the vulgar violence of this woman, we thought no more of it after the immediate irritation of her assault on us was over. It was one of those coarse incidents, which, like striking against an awkward person in the streets, happen to us all in life, and are forgotten with the momentary annoyance. But these reports of our situation being afloat, rendered it impossible to remain in Brighton; so that very night we moved down the coast to Worthing. In this dull little watering-place, where the people always seem bent on avoiding each other, we thought we should be secure from evil tongues.

It was late when we arrived, and we put up at the hotel, which, like every thing else in Worthing, has an air of languor and idleness about it. We liked the tone of the house. An eternal twilight brooded over the rooms and passages. Every chamber was occupied, yet the place was as still as a church. If you heard a footstep, it went stealthily as if it were muffled, or "shod with felt;" and the only signs of life you caught from the adjoining apartments, were when some noiseless lady in a morning dress glided into the balcony, and after a side-long look at the sea, glided back again. Out of doors, the order of the day was vigorous promenading, but even this was conducted almost speechlessly, except when a friendly group happened to collect and stop short, and then you could hear an occasional joke and burst of laughter. The promenade was the grand thing. It was not sauntering for relaxation, but brisk exercise, that threw the blood into activity and exhilarated the spirits. In the course of a week, we came to know every face in Worthing by the introduction which this lusty amusement afforded us, and every body in Worthing knew our faces. We were all out at a given hour, tramping up and down at a swinging pace, and passing and repassing each other so often, that we were as familiar with the whole guest population of the place, and the whole guest population with us, as if we had known each other all our lives. Every body had acquaintances there except ourselves. We could see them making up little parties for excursions, soirées, and other amusements; trifles that amused us as lookers-on, but, nevertheless, made us feel our loneliness. We were in the crowd, but not of it. Yet it was better to be in the open air among strangers than to dwell in the desert.

But it was not to be. Our story followed us. We began to perceive, after a little time, that we were observed and noticed, and that people used to turn and look after us. This was the first hint we received of what was now becoming rather an alarming fact to us – that we were known. To be known with us, was to be shunned, or impertinently gazed at, as if we were either great criminals, or notorieties of no very respectable order. At last, it became difficult for us to walk about, from the universality of the notice we attracted; and at the hotel there was no possibility of mistaking the nature of the curiosity, not of the most respectful kind, which tracked us up the stairs and down the stairs, and penetrated even to our rooms, in the person of a sinister-looking waiter, who had the oddest conceivable way of looking at us out of the corner of one eye, which he pursed up and concentrated into a focus expressly for the purpose. This sort of persecution was wearing us out. It was like water dropped, drop by drop, upon a stone. The whisper of shame came after us wherever we went. There was no escaping it; and I began to suspect that there must be some mark upon us by which we were known and detected. I believe there is more truth in this than most people imagine. The habit of evasion and reserve, the apprehension of being watched, and the secret consciousness of having something to conceal, doubtless give an expression to one's entire action and physiognomy which is likely to suggest unfavorable speculations. The world is apt to think ill of the man who does not look it straight in the face; and, upon the whole, perhaps the world is right.

This doom pursued us wherever we went. We tried two or three other places on the coast with the same result. Within a week we were sure to be found out, and avoided or gazed at. The sight of human beings enjoying themselves, and the right of looking on at them, were dearly purchased at such a price as this. Our spirits were beginning to give way under it; our nerves were so affected by the minute persecution which we daily endured, that when we got into strange quarters, where we were as yet unknown, we fancied that all eyes were upon us. A little more of this sort of racking suspicion, mixed with fear and rage, and I think I should have gone mad.

Astræa bore it more heroically. She was tolerably calm, and used to smile while I was glowing over with anger. I frequently felt inclined to rush upon some of the people who stared at us, and demand of them what they meant; but Astræa always checked me, and reminded me, that in these small watering-places scandal was the entire occupation – that the visitors had, in fact, nothing else to do all day long; and that if every person who was tormented by their vicious curiosity were to indulge in resentment, three-fourths of the time of the community would be wasted in endeavoring to patch up the reputations that had been torn to bits in the remaining fourth.

Notwithstanding the courage with which she set herself against the waters that were visibly closing round us on all sides, and the light, yet earnest and fearful way she talked about it, her health was rapidly declining. Her color was gone. She was growing thin; there was a slight cough hovering upon her nerves; and she had become so fanciful, that she could not bear to go out in the dusk of the evenings, although that was the only time when we could walk out at our ease.

These changes brought others. Her temper was altered; she tried to subjugate herself, but could not; a notion seemed to have taken possession of her that she was a weight upon me, and that the necessity of sharing disgrace and exclusion with her was preying upon my mind. In the first few months she was jealous of every hour I was absent from her, and used to consider it a slight, and a proof that I was becoming weary of her. Then all was new, and the gloss of novelty and enthusiasm was yet upon her feelings. Now it was totally different; she had no longer any care about herself; it was all for me. The dream of love had been dreamed out, and she had ceased to regard herself as the object of a devotion which was ready to incur shame and suffering for her sake. She had seen that delusion to an end; and, having a real fear that, being pent up continually with her, contracting the man's activity within the sphere of the woman's limited range, would make our way of life hateful to me at last, she now used to urge me to go out for long walks in the country, or to visit the reading-rooms, and keep myself au courant with the events of the day. Exercise, mental and physical, was healthful for me, and she would not have me moped to death in the house. For her own part, she would say to me, she rather liked having a little time to herself; a woman has always something to do, and is never at a loss for occupation; and while I was out, she hardly missed me till I came back – she was so busy! These professions and entreaties were kindly and judiciously meant, but the difficulty was to act upon them. She could not endure solitude. She always dreaded to be left alone, and, only that it was a greater dread to her to make a prisoner of me at the risk of rendering my existence wretched, nothing could have induced her to go through the hours of misery she suffered in my absence. This conflict made her temper unequal and sometimes unreasonable; but in such a situation, what else could be expected? We were haunted by shadows that were forever falling about our path; move where we would, these dark phantoms pursued us.

Our lives were not like the lives of other people: we had no kindred, no associations, no stir in the sad stagnation of day and night. Time seemed to be mantling over us, and the breath of heaven to be becoming less and less perceptible in our dreariness. Astræa was like a person who was dying from the heart; and with all the fortitude I could bring to my help, I felt it no easy task to lift myself out of the dismal depression which occasionally seized upon me. At last we agreed that our scheme of traveling about had disappointed our expectations, and that, after all, London was the best of all places for people who sought either of the extremes of society or seclusion. And so to London we forthwith repaired.

VII

The heart of the town, or the suburbs? The question was speedily decided in favor of a small detached house, not very far from the Regent's Park. We had the whole park for a pleasure-ground, a little scrap of verdure of our own, and an open space and airy situation to regale our lungs in. We entered upon our new locality with sensations of security we had felt nowhere else. We seemed to have left behind us the gloom and terror that had been so long dogging our footsteps. Even Astræa brightened, and grew better; her fretfulness was disappearing, and a tone of contentment and cheerfulness supervening upon it. We were each of us more free in our movements, and the dread of observation which had so long kept us in a state of perpetual alarm, was gradually passing away.

But what had become all this time of the vengeance of the dwarf? Had he abandoned his great plan of revenge? Had he thought better of it, and, finding that Astræa was immovable, addressed himself to some more sensible pursuit than that of plaguing us? I sometimes touched upon the subject to Astræa, but could not extract from her what her suspicions were. She did not like to talk about him. She seemed to be ruled by a superstitious fear of reviving the topic. It was like the old wives' adage, "Talk of the devil, and he'll appear!"

I can not exactly remember how long this lasted, or when it was that I first detected in Astræa the return of the nervousness which had in some degree abated upon our arrival in town. It could not, however, have been more than two or three months after we had taken this house, that I observed a striking change in her. Haggard lines seemed all of a sudden to have been plowed round her eyes and cheeks, and her look had become wild and unsettled. I never saw any body so completely shattered in so short a time, and the transition from comparative tranquillity to a state of excessive nervous excitement was so alarming, that I thought there must have been some cause for it beyond that of mere physical illness. I questioned her upon it, but always got the same unsatisfactory answers, ending by entreating of me not to notice her, but to let her go on in her own way. I can not recall what there was about her manner – some strangeness in the way she looked at me or spoke to me – that aroused the most painful suspicions. I confess I did not know what to suspect; but there was a mental reservation of some kind, and I was resolved to ascertain what it was. I had the utmost confidence in Astræa; love with her was the most sacred of all obligations; and she loved me sincerely – at least, she had loved me enthusiastically in the beginning. What revolutions had since taken place in her heart, I could not answer for. She had passed through a chaos in the interval that might have destroyed the capacity of loving. That there was something more in her thoughts than she had revealed, I felt sure; and the first shape my suspicions took – natural enough in our circumstances, although not the more just on that account – was a shape of jealousy. My alarm immediately flew to the defense of my pride, or, as Forrester in his cauterizing way would have called it, my selfishness; I resolved to observe her closely, and I did so some time without being able to glean any thing further.

At last the secret of her wasting frame and pallid face was suddenly divulged.

One evening, toward the close of the summer, she remained out longer and later than usual. Her walk, sometimes alone and sometimes with me, was through the more secluded parts of the park. On this occasion, the twilight was setting in, and she had not returned. With a dark and sulky apprehension brooding in my mind, I resolved to go out in search of her. We had not been confidential with each other of late; the old dreariness had come back upon us, embittered with a captiousness and acerbity which extracted all the sweets from our intercourse. A new element had found its way between us: we had thoughts which we concealed from each other: my distrust – her secret, whatever it was. This was a great evil; it filled every hour of the day with lurking jealousies on both sides, which one word would have dispelled forever.

I seized my hat, and was about to leave the house, when I heard a sudden noise at the street-door, and a flurry of agitated steps up the stairs. Immediately afterward, the door of the room was thrown violently open, and Astræa rushed in, pale and disheveled. She was evidently in a state of great alarm and consternation, and turning wildly round, beckoned me to see that the door was made fast. She could not speak, drawing her breath hysterically, like a person laboring under the effects of a serious fright.

"Tranquilize yourself, Astræa," I cried; "there is nothing to fear here. What is it? What has alarmed you?"

"It is he," she replied, fixing her eyes wildly upon me – "he is coming."

"Who?"

"He who has been upon our track ever and ever – who has never quitted us – who never will leave us till we are dead."

I did not dare to ask in words, but I asked with my eyes if it was the dwarf she meant.

"Ay, it is he. Be calm. It is your turn now to show your strength of mind – to show whether you value the life I have devoted to you. I hoped to have concealed this from you. We have suffered enough, and I hoped to have hidden from you what I have suffered. But it is too late now. Hush! O God! – that was his voice. You do not hear it – I do! It rings through and through my brain. He is here – he has followed me. If you ever loved me – and I know you did once! – prove it to me now. Go into the next room, and promise me to stay there whatever happens. Listen; but speak not – stir not. He is on the stairs! – will you not give me your promise? Trust all to me – rely on me – be sure of me. Let go the door – he is here!"

I made no answer, but conveying to Astræa by a searching look that it was my purpose to watch the issue, I withdrew by one door, while the dwarf entered by the other. His voice, as he approached her, sounded in my ears like the hiss of a serpent.

"I have found you, then, at last – and alone, Astræa!"

"Why do you follow me thus?" exclaimed Astræa, who stood motionless in the centre of the room, making a great effort to appear bold and calm, but shuddering in every fibre beneath.

"Why do I follow you? What should I do else?"

"Live like other men. Seek occupation – any thing, rather than plunge your own life and mine into this eternal horror."

"Have I not occupation? Am I not attending you every where? Have I not enough to do in waiting upon you from place to place?"

"Abandon that fiendish mockery, and speak like a human being. What is it you want?"