Chapter XI: The Wife Awaiting Her Husband

While the wretched girl wandered distractedly on her way, goaded by the pangs of shame and remorse, the still more wretched Cecil, calm in his concentrated despair, was walking along the river side, pursued by the Eumenides, eager to reach a quiet spot where he might end his blighted existence.

The snow fell in large flakes that cold January night; and as each flake sank gently on the quiet bosom of the river, and silently disappeared in it, leaving no other trace than the smallest possible circle, it seemed to him an image of his own disappearance from this stormy, sunless world. In the deep, quiet bosom of Eternity was he about to vanish: from this scene of turmoil and disgrace, he was to drop into the swiftly flowing river of Eternity, in it to be absorbed like to those flakes of snow. There was comfort in that thought.

He walked on, thinking of what his wife and child would do when left by him. He thought sadly of Blanche's misery; for he knew the depth of her affection for him--for him who had so ill repaid it, who had brought such shame and sorrow on her head; but he endeavoured to console himself with the reflection that her father would take care of her, and that, perhaps, the best thing that could occur to her was to become a widow.

In those lucid moments which precede the last solemn act, he reviewed his conduct with melancholy clearness; and, undimmed by sophisms, his conduct appeared to him in its true light.

He grew calmer as he walked. He thought of his child with something like satisfaction, when he reflected that she was too young to know anything of her father's disgrace; and that, before she grew old enough even to prattle about him, all would be forgotten.

Then he thought of Hester, in her miserable finery, and followed her in imagination through the rapid stages of her inevitable career.

And he thought of Frank, then so prosperous, but soon, as he foresaw, to be dragged down from his prosperity to the destitution which must quickly follow; and he saw him dying in an hospital.

And the thought of death was sweeter to him, as he walked musingly on.

A light was dimly shining in Blanche's bedroom, and she was seated by the window looking out into the night, awaiting the return of him who was to return no more. Her child was sleeping calmly; no hint of the anguish which ploughed the hearts of its parents troubled its quiet breathing.

The clock struck twelve.

A heavy sigh issued from the watcher as the strokes fell upon her ear, and she rose to snuff the enormous wick of the neglected candle. She then resumed her seat at the window.

"When will he come?" she asked herself, sadly.

She feared to meet him--feared to look upon his face, after what had passed; feared lest he, upon whose brow she had been wont to see the imperial stamp of genius--in whose eye the lustre of a glorious mind, on whose lips the smile of unutterable tenderness,--there should now be legible the stamp of infamy, the dull look of shame, the cynical sneer of recklessness.

She feared to meet him, yet she could not repress her impatience to see him: a vague dread that he might not return, shifted to and fro before her mind, and kept her anxiously watching.

The clock struck one.

Her candle was guttering in the socket, and she lighted another. She bent over the cradle of her sleeping infant with a searching look of love; and seeing that it slept peacefully, she again resumed her seat at the window.

The snow had ceased to fall. The bright stars were lustrous in the deep, dark, moonless heavens, in which they seemed suspended. The ground was white with the untrodden snow, as also were the tops of the houses, and the branches of the trees. Not a breath of wind stirred. All was silent without, hushed in the repose of night. Not a footstep was heard; not even the distant barking of some watchful dog.

Cold, cheerless, desolate as a leafless tree, was the night out into which the watcher looked, awaiting her husband's return; but he came not, would not come!

The clock struck two.

The watcher stirred the fire, and drew the shawl closer around her. She was cold; but it was not the cold of that winter night which numbed her limbs, it was the cold icy fear which momently assumed a more definite and consistent shape.

She no longer asked: "when will he come?"

Her teeth chattered as the thought that he would never come, grew more and more like a certainty.

There was a shroud upon the earth: a pure, white, stainless shroud, prepared for one who was yet young, but who had lived too long.

To her widowed eyes this garment of snow, which nature wore, became a terrible symbol, and the stars seemed to look down upon her in infinite compassion.

He came not; could not come. The silent river had opened to receive him, and was now flowing swiftly and silently over his lifeless corpse.

The clock struck three.

A cry of agony broke from the watcher as those three small strokes with horrible distinctness fell upon her ear and seemed to utter,--

"He is dead!"

But she remained at her window looking; out into the night. For two hours longer did she sit there, and then dropped into a feverish sleep, visited by happy, though broken, dreams.

She dreamed that she had dreamed her husband had committed a forgery, and that she awoke to find it but a dream: how great her joy, as she clasped him by the hand and told him all! and how his tender eyes bent down upon her as he said,--

"What! think that of _me_!"

And she awoke--awoke to find herself seated at the window--the dull winter morning struggling into obscure day--the snow heaped up on the window ledge, and covering everything without--and the crushing reality was once more threatening her!