Mary Greenway McClelland - Princess

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After the marriage she continued her intimacy with Mrs. Thorne--and
with Mr. Thorne. When clouds began to gather along the matrimonial
horizon, and "rifts within the lute" to make discord of life's music,
she beheld the one, and hearkened to the other with savage thrills of
satisfaction. She did nothing to widen the breach--Norma was too proud
to be a mischief-maker, but she did nothing to lessen it. She watched
with sullen pleasure the cleft increase to a crack, the crack to a
chasm. When the separation became an accomplished fact, it found
Norma, of course, ranged strongly on the husband's side.

During the year which had elapsed since Thorne's return from abroad,
Norma had contrived to establish considerable influence over her
cousin. She studied him quietly, and adapted herself to his moods,
never boring him with an over-display of interest, never chilling him
with an absence of it. Her plan was to make herself necessary to him,
and in part she succeeded. Thorne, lonely and cut adrift, came more
and more frequently to his aunt's house and exhibited more and more
decidedly his preference for his cousin's society. The thin end of the
wedge was in, and but for the move to Virginia, and its ill-starred
consequences, the inevitable result must have followed.

Would it follow now? A vision of Pocahontas, with her fair face, and
her sweet gray eyes framed in a soft cloud of white, standing on the
lower step of the stairway, with Thorne beside her, his head bent low
over the hand he clasped, rose before Norma's eyes and caused them to
burn with jealous anger. Here was the old thing repeating itself; here
was flirtation again, the exact extent of which she could not
determine. It must be stopped at once, trampled out ere the flame
should do irremediable damage.

But how? With the question came the answer. Norma was sure that, as
yet, no knowledge of Thorne's marriage had ever reached Pocahontas.
She would enlighten her; and in such a way that, if there had been
aught of love-making on the gentleman's part (and Norma, knowing her
cousin, thought it probable there had been), every look and word and
tone should seem a separate insult.

She also decided that it would be better to accept Mrs. Vincent's
invitation, and return to New York for awhile. She knew very well why
the invitation had been given, and saw through the shallow maneuvers to
win her acceptance of it. Hugh Castleton, Mrs. Vincent's favorite
brother, was in New York again, and she had not abandoned her old
scheme of a match between him and her friend. Norma felt quite
competent to foil her friend's plans in the present as she had foiled
them in the past, so had no hesitation, on that score, in accepting the
invitation. It would be better to be in New York--on the spot, while
this matter should be pending. Thorne might need advice, certainly
would need sympathy and petting; he must not learn to do without her.
Even if he had only been amusing himself here, after his reprehensible
wont, her presence in New York could do no harm and might be productive
of good.

CHAPTER XIII.

One afternoon, several days after Thorne's departure, Norma donned her
warmest wraps and set out for a walk over to Lanarth. It was a dull
afternoon following on a morning of uncertain brightness; dark clouds,
heavy with snow, hung sullenly along the horizon; and above, the sky
was of a somber, leaden hue. The air felt chill and clinging, like
that of a vault; and heaven above, and earth beneath betrayed a
severity of mood infinitely depressing. Norma shivered in spite of her
heavy furs, and hurried on, burying her hands in her muff.

Pocahontas, duly notified of Norma's approach by the vigilant Sawney,
met her guest at the door, and drew her in with words of welcome, and
praises of her bravery in venturing abroad in such gloomy weather. The
girls did not kiss each other--as is too much the custom with their
sex. Pocahontas did not like effusive embraces; a kiss with _her_
meant a good deal.

In the sitting-room Mrs. Mason and Berkeley added their welcome, and
established Norma in the coziest corner of the hearth, where the fire
would comfort without scorching her. Pocahontas stooped to remove her
furs and wraps, but Norma staid her hand; it would not be worth while,
she said; she had only come to call.

"Do stay to tea!" entreated Pocahontas. "Berke will take you home
afterward. We haven't looked on a white face except our own for two
whole days. We are pining for change and distraction, and beginning to
hate each other from very _ennui_. Take pity on us and stay."

"Yes, my dear, you must consent," added Mrs. Mason. "You haven't taken
tea with us for a long time. Berkeley, help Norma with her wrappings.
And, Princess, suppose you run and tell Rachel to make waffles for tea.
Norma is so fond of them."

Norma yielded to their persuasions, feeling a little curiously, but
hardening her heart. What she had come to say, she intended to say;
but it would be best to wait an opportunity. She let Berkeley take her
wraps, and established herself comfortably, bent on making the time
pass pleasantly, and herself thoroughly agreeable.

The meal was a merry one, for Norma exerted herself unusually, and was
ably seconded by Pocahontas, who, for some reason, appeared in
brilliant spirits. After tea they discovered that it was snowing
heavily. The threatened storm had come--evenly, slowly, in a thick,
impenetrable cloud, the white flakes fell, without haste, excitement or
the flurry of wind. Already the ground was covered and the trees were
bending with the weight of the white garment the sky was throwing over
them. It was unfit weather for a lady to encounter, or indeed for
anything feminine to be abroad in, save a witch on a broomstick. Norma
was fain to accept Mrs. Mason's invitation and remain for the night at
Lanarth.

When the two girls, in dressing gowns and slippers, sat over the fire
in Pocahontas's room, brushing out their long hair, Norma found the
opportunity for which she had lain in wait the entire evening. It was
the hour for confidences, the house was quiet, the inmates all
dispersed to their several couches. Norma, brush in hand and hair
flowing in a heavy, black veil around her, had quitted her own room
across the passage, and established herself in a low rocking-chair
beside Pocahontas's bright fire. She was far too clever a diplomatist
to introduce her subject hastily; she approached it gradually from long
range--stalked it delicately with skillful avoidance of surprise or
bungling. The game must be brought down; on that she was determined;
but there should be no bludgeon blows, no awkward carnage. The
death-stab should be given clean, with scientific skill and swiftness,
and the blow once given, she would retire to her own room and let her
victim find what solace she could in solitude. Norma was not wantonly
cruel; she could impale a foe, but she had no desire to witness his
contortions. After a death-scene she shrank from the grewsomeness of
burial; she preferred a decent drop-curtain and the grateful darkness.

After some idle conversation, she deftly turned the talk upon New York,
and the life there, and rallied all her powers to be picturesque and
entertaining. She held her listener entranced with rapid, clever
sketches of society and the men and women who composed it, drawing
vivid pictures of its usages, beliefs, and modes of thought and
expression. Gradually she glided into personalities, giving some of
her individual experiences, and sketching in an acquaintance or two,
with brilliant, caustic touches. Soon Thorne's name appeared, and she
noticed that the listener's interest deepened. She spoke of him in
warm terms of admiration--dwelt on his intellect, his talents and the
bright promise of his manhood; and then, observing that the brush had
ceased its regular passes over the bright brown hair, and that the gray
eyes were on the fire, without pause or warning she spoke of his
hurried courtship and sudden marriage. She winced involuntarily as she
saw the cold, gray pallor creep slowly over the girl's face, and noted
the sudden tremor that passed through her limbs; but she steeled
herself against compassion, and proceeded with her brushing and her
narrative like one devoid of sight and understanding.

"I can not expect you, who know Nesbit so slightly, to be much
interested in all this," she said, watching Pocahontas through her
lashes; "I fear I only bore you with my story, but my mind has been so
exercised over the poor fellow's troubles again lately, that I must
unburden it to some one. You have no personal interest in the matter,
therefore you will forgive my trespassing on your courtesy--especially
when I tell you that I've no one at home to talk to. Nesbit wishes
particularly that his story shouldn't get abroad here, and if I should
revive it in Blanche's mind, she might mention it to others. Mamma
would not; but unfortunately mamma and I rarely look at a thing from
the same standpoint. It's been a relief to speak to you--far greater
than speaking to Blanche. Blanche is so excitable."

Yes; Blanche was excitable, Pocahontas assented absently; she was
bracing her will, and steeling her nerves to endure without flinching.
Not for worlds would she--even by the quivering of an eyelash--let
Norma see the torture she was inflicting. She felt that Norma had an
object in this disclosure, and was dimly sure that the object was
hostile. She would think it all out later; at present Norma must not
see her anguish. A woman would sooner go to the stake and burn slowly,
than allow another woman, who is trying to hurt her, to know that she
suffers.

Norma continued, speaking gently, without haste or emotion, telling of
the feverish brightness of those early days of marriage, and of the
clouds that soon obscured the sunshine--telling of the _ennui_ and
unhappiness, gradually sprouting and ripening in the ill-assorted
union--shielding the man, as women will, and casting the blame on the
woman. Finally she told of the separation, lasting now two years, and
of the letter from his wife which had caused Thorne's precipitate
departure the day after the Shirley ball.

But of the divorce now pending she said never a word.

"Have they any children?" questioned Pocahontas steadily.

And was told that there was one--a little son, to whom the father was
attached, and the mother indifferent. It was a strange case.

Again Pocahontas assented. Her voice was cold and even; its tones low
and slightly wearied. To herself it appeared as though she spoke from
a great distance, and was compelled to use exertion to make herself
heard. She was conscious of two distinct personalities--one prostrate
in the dust, humiliated, rent and bleeding, and another which held a
screen pitifully before the broken thing, and shielded it from
observation. When Norma bid her good-night she responded quietly, and
rising accompanied her guest to her room to see that every arrangement
was perfect for her comfort.

Far into the night she sat beside her dying fire trying to collect her
faculties, and realize the extent of the calamity which had befallen
her. The first, and, for the time, dominant emotion was a stinging
sense of shame, an agony of rage and humiliation which tingled hotly
through her, and caused her cheek to flame, and her body to writhe as
from the lash of a whip. She had been degraded; an insult had been put
upon her. Her eyes blazed, and her hands clinched. Oh, for strength
to hurl the insult back--for a man's arm and a man's power to avenge
the foul affront! He--a married man--to come, concealing his bonds,
and playing the part of a lover free to woo--free to approach a woman
and to win her heart! The proud head bent to meet the hands upraised
to cover the pale, drawn face. She loved him and he was unworthy. He
had deceived and lied to her, if not in words, then in actions; knowing
himself bound to another woman, he had deliberately sought her out and
made her love him. It was cruel, cruel! All along she had played
virgin gold against base metal, and now she was bankrupt.

When the burning, maddening sense of outrage had passed, and pride
stood with lowered crest and listless hands, love lifted its head and
tried to speak. He was not without excuse, love pleaded; his life had
been miserable; his lot hard and unendurable; he had been given a stone
for bread, and for wine, the waters of Marah. Until the night of the
ball he had retained mastery over himself--had held his love in check.
Then memory roused herself and entered testimony--words, looks, tender,
graceful attentions thronged back upon her, and pride caught love by
the throat and cried out that there was no excuse.

Perhaps, she pondered heavily, he, too, writhed beneath this avalanche
of pain; perhaps remorse and the consciousness of the anguish he had
entailed upon them both tore and lacerated him. He had gone away at
last, out of her life, back to the home and the ties that were hateful
to him. He had gone away to take up his share of their joint burden,
and he would be merciful, and never cross her path again.

But would he? The girl quivered, her hand sought the pocket of her
dress, and her eyes glanced forlornly around the room like the eyes of
a hunted creature. She recalled something that the morning's post had
brought her--something that had seemed sweet and fair, something that
had caused her pulses to thrill, all day, with exultant happiness.

Only a New Year card; a graceful white-fringed thing, showing a handful
of blue forget-me-nots, thrown carelessly beside an old anchor on a bit
of golden sand. Pocahontas laid it on her lap and gazed at it with
strained, tearless eyes, and read anew its sweet message of remembrance
and hope. She had been startled by Thorne's sudden departure, but had
quietly accepted the message of explanation and farewell sent her by
Blanche; she trusted him too implicitly to doubt that what he did was
best and wisest, and was happy in the knowledge that he would return.

How long ago it appeared to her already, since this pretty card had
come; she looked at it strangely, with eyes in which there was longing,
renunciation, and a wild hopelessness of love. She must not keep it;
it was not hers; it belonged of right to that other--the woman who was
his wife. No, she must not keep it--the beautiful, tender thing. With
steady hand, but blanched, quivering lips, she reached over and made a
little grave among the dying embers, in which a sullen spark glowed
like baleful eye. Quietly, with the feeling that she was burying all
of youth and hope and joy her life would ever know, she kissed the card
with dumb, clinging, passionate kisses, and then with a low, dry sob,
covered it from sight.

As she raised herself up, her eyes fell on the little box lying on her
desk in which she had placed the fragments of the cup they had broken
between them--the cup that her old play-fellow had used on that last
evening. With the impulse of habit and association, her mind turned
wearily to Jim. He was so true; he had never failed her. Had _he_
suffered as she was suffering? Poor Jim! Was this ceaseless, gnawing
agony that had usurped _her_ life no stranger to _his_? If so--God
pity him!--and her!

CHAPTER XIV.

On the way up from Virginia, Nesbit Thorne ran over in his mind the
possibilities opened by this new move of his wife's, and, on the whole,
he was satisfied. The divorce had become as much an object with him as
with her, and if she had remained quiescent in the matter, he must have
moved. He was glad to have been spared this--very glad that the
initial steps had been of her taking. It put him in a good position
with himself. The _manes_ of his mother's scruples would be satisfied,
and would never cause him discomfort since the fault did not rest with
him. And then the boy--never could his son cast word or thought of
blame to the father who had behaved so well; who had given every
chance, foregone every advantage; acted not only the part of a
gentleman, but of a generous, long-suffering man. Thorne felt a glow
of satisfaction in the knowledge that in years to come his son would
think well of him.

But this supposition of Norma's in regard to a second marriage put the
whole matter in a new light in regard to the child. If such a change
should be in contemplation, other arrangements must be made about the
boy; he could no longer remain in the custody of his mother. _His_ son
could not remain under the roof of his wife's second husband during his
own lifetime. The line must be drawn somewhere. It did not occur to
Thorne that his wife, with equal justice, might raise similar
objections.

He determined to see Ethel at once and discover whether or not there
was truth in the reports that had reached him anent Cecil Cumberland.
If there should be, he would bring such pressure as lay in his power to
bear on her, in order to obtain immediate possession of the boy. The
child was still so young that the law gave the mother rights which
could only be set aside at the expense of a disagreeable suit; but
Thorne thought he could manage Ethel in such a way as to make her
voluntarily surrender her rights. He knew that her affection for the
child was neither deep nor strong.

He ascended the steps of his own house and rang the bell sharply. It
was answered by a strange servant who regarded him with interest;
evidently a gentleman caller at that hour of the morning was unusual.
Was Mrs. Thorne at home? The man would inquire. Would the gentleman
walk in. What name should he say? Mr. Thorne--and his business was
pressing; he must see her at once.

The man opened the door of the back parlor and stood aside to let Mr.
Thorne pass; then he closed it noiselessly and proceeded up-stairs to
inform his mistress.

Thorne glanced around the room curiously; it was two years since he had
seen it. On the marble hearth burned a bright wood-fire, and the
dancing flames reflected themselves in the burnished brasses. The
tiles around the fireplace were souvenirs of his wedding, hand-painted
by the bevy of bridesmaids to please a fancy of Ethel's. Norma's was
in the center--the place of honor. It was a strange thing that Norma
had selected to paint; heavy sprays of mingled nightshade and monkshood
on a ground the color of a fading leaf; but, strange as it was, it was
the most beautiful of them all. There were flowers in the room and the
perfume of heliotrope and roses filled the air. The piano was open and
on it one of the popular songs of the day; a loud, garish thing. Ethel
liked what she called "bright music;" on the keys lay a tumbled lace
handkerchief, and on the floor, close to the pedal of the instrument,
was a man's driving glove.

Over the piano hung the portrait of a lady with soft, gray hair, and
the expression of purity and love which medieval painters gave to their
saints. It was a picture of Thorne's mother and it hurt him to see it
there. He determined to have it removed as soon as possible.

The door opened and Mrs. Thorne entered, feeling herself terribly
ill-used and persecuted, in that her husband had elected to come to her
in person, instead of availing himself of the simpler and more
agreeable mode of communication through their lawyers. It was quite
possible that he would make himself disagreeable. Mrs. Thorne shrank
from any thing disagreeable, and had no tolerance for sarcasms
addressed to herself. She would have refused the interview had she
dared, but in her heart she was dimly afraid of her husband.

Thorne bowed coldly, and then placed a chair for her on the hearth-rug.
"Sit down," he said, "I want to talk to you," and then he seated
himself opposite her.

For awhile he did not speak; somehow the words he had come to say stuck
in his throat; it was so cold-blooded for them, husband and wife, to
sit there beside their own hearth and discuss their final separation.
A log, which had burned in half, fell and rolled forward on the marble
hearth, sending little puffs of gray smoke into the room. He reached
past her for the tongs and laid the log back in its place, and the
little action seemed to seal his lips more closely. The tiny clock on
the carved oak mantle chimed the hour in soft, low tones; he counted
the strokes as they fell, one, two, and so on up to twelve. The winter
sunshine streamed in between the parting of the curtains and made a
glory of his wife's golden hair.

Ethel was the first to speak. "You got my letter?" she questioned,
keeping her eyes fixed on the fire.

"Yes; that is the reason I'm here."

The broken log was blazing again quite merrily, the two ends far apart.

"Why not have written instead of coming?" she demanded, as one who
protested against some grievous injury; "it would have been far
pleasanter for both. There's no sense in our harassing ourselves with
personal interviews."

"I preferred a personal interview."

Ethel lapsed into silence; the man was a hopeless brute, and it was
useless to expect courtesy from him. She tapped her foot against the
fender, and a look of obstinacy and temper disfigured the soft outlines
of her face. The silence might remain unbroken until the crack of doom
for any further effort she would make.

Thorne broke it himself. He was determined to carry his point, and in
order to do so strove to establish ascendency over his wife from the
start.

"What's the meaning of this new move, Ethel?" he demanded,
authoritatively. "I want to understand the matter thoroughly. Why do
you want a divorce?"

Mrs. Thorne turned her face toward him defiantly.

"Because I'm tired of my present life, and I want to change it. I'm
sick of being pointed at, and whispered about, as a deserted wife--a
woman whose husband never comes near her."

"Whose fault is that?" he retorted sharply; "this separation is none of
my doing, and you know it. Bad as things had become, I was willing to
worry along for the sake of respectability and the child; but you
wouldn't have it so. You insisted on my leaving you--said the very
sight of me made your chains more intolerable. Had I been a viper, you
could scarcely have signified your desire for my absence in more
unmeasured terms."

"I know I desired the separation," Mrs. Thorne replied calmly, "I
desire it still. My life with you was miserable, and my wish to live
apart has only increased in intensity. You never understood me."

Thorne might have retorted that the misunderstanding had been mutual,
and also that _all_ the wretchedness had not fallen to her share; but
he would not stoop to reproaches and vituperation. It was a natural
peculiarity of her shallow nature to demand exhaustive comprehension
for quite commonplace emotions.

"It's useless debating the past, Ethel. We've both been too much to
blame to afford the luxury of stone-throwing. What we must consider
now is the future. Is your mind quite made up? Are you determined on
the divorce?"

"Quite determined. I've given the matter careful consideration, and am
convinced that entire separation, legal as well as nominal, is
absolutely necessary to my happiness."

"And your reasons?"

"Haven't I told you, Nesbit?" using his name, for the first time, in
her anger. "Why do you insist on my repeating the same thing over and
over, eternally? I'm sick of my life, and want to change it."

"But how?" he persisted. "Your life will be the same as now, and your
position not so assured. The alimony allowed by law won't any thing
like cover your present expenditures, and you can hardly expect me to
be more generous than the law compels. The divorce can make little
difference, save to diminish your income and deprive you of the
protection of my name. You will not care to marry again, and the
divorce will be a restricted one." Thorne was forcing his adversary's
hand.

"Why will it be restricted?" she demanded, her color and her temper
rising. "It shall _not_ be restricted, or hampered in any way, I tell
you, Nesbit Thorne! Am I to be fettered, and bound, and trammeled by
you forever? I will _not_ be. The divorce shall give me unlimited
power to do what I please with my life. It shall make me as free as
air--as free as I was before I married you."

"You would not wish to marry again?" he repeated.

"Why not?" rising to her feet and confronting him in angry excitement.

"Because, in that case, you would lose your child. I neither could nor
would permit my son to be brought up in the house of a man who stood to
him in the relationship you propose."

"You cannot take him from me," Mrs. Thorne retorted in defiant
contradiction; her ideas of the power of men and lawyers hopelessly
vague and bewildered. "No court on earth would take so small a child
from his mother."

"Ah! you propose having the case come into court then? I misunderstood
you. I thought you wished the affair managed quietly, to avoid
publicity and comment. Of course, if the case comes into court, I
shall contest it, and try to obtain possession of the boy, even for the
time the law allows the mother, on the ground of being better able to
support and educate him."

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