Chapter XVIII: Two Villas at Jamaica Plain

As William Dow had informed Mr. Kelly, it was really in Boston that James Gobson had located himself, after leaving New York, to avoid the rude and annoying curiosity of the latter city. But the rumor of the legal error of which he had nearly been the victim, had so quickly preceded him to the capital of Massachusetts, that a week after his arrival, when he married Miss Ada Ricard, his divorced wife, the Democrats offered him a banquet and received him with applause at Barker’s, the fashionable club rendezvous.

Imitating the custom of retired and wealthy merchants, Gobson did not reside in the city proper, but lived about five miles out, at Jamaica Plain, in a pretty villa, which was converted into a sumptuous dwelling by Miss Ada’s taste.

The re-married couple lived in comfort under the same roof, but almost apart, which would have greatly calmed the jealousy of the unhappy Saunders if he had known of it.

The young woman occupied a charming apartment on the first floor, composed of a large parlor, a boudoir, sleeping-room, and dressing-room. The door of the latter room was at the head of the bed, hidden by a blue silk portiere. The room was entirely hung with the same material. James Gobson never set foot in this part of the house, for once installed and received among the high-livers of Boston, he resumed his former life and vices. Forgetting what his habits of drinking, play, and his brutal ways had cost him, from his divorce to the suspicions which had led him to the foot of the gallows, he had fallen into the same excesses. He passed his days at the races, and his evenings at Barker’s, and nine times out of ten he was intoxicated when he went home in the middle of the night. Mrs. Gobson then had everything to fear from her husband’s anger, and her fear must have been extreme, for she never dared answer when he swore at her, nor refuse him the money squandered.

If Saunders could have witnessed one of these scenes, he certainly would not have recognized the beautiful, capricious woman, so whimsical and self-willed, who formerly ruled him. This life was doubly hard for the former Miss Ada, for she no longer had Mary with her, for Gobson, after generously rewarding the girl, had dismissed her, and then replaced her by a servant in whom he inspired as much fear as in his wife.

The other servants in this gloomy household were a cook and a gardener, who were not interested in the conjugal quarrels of the couple, and who besides rarely witnessed them, since they took place very late, when, their work being over, they had retired to their own quarters.

Mrs. Gobson then lived in absolute solitude with the exception of her seamstress, her dress-maker, and a few tradespeople she was acquainted with, and received no one, and that this isolation was mournful to her was plainly shown in her face.

She was still beautiful, but her complexion had grown pale and her eyes hollow. Her whole countenance expressed sorrow, lassitude and discouragement.

Sometimes, however, when her husband went in town after committing some rude or violent act, her eyes would flash lightning and her lips contract in a menacing smile. In such moments a leaven of rebellion and vengeance seemed to rise within her. But it lasted only an instant; some secret and terrible thought passed through her mind, and with a shudder she burst into sobs. What still further increased the martyrdom of the pretty, forsaken woman, and what rendered her life more horrible and her isolation more cruel, was the sight that met her eyes when, concealed behind the curtains of her sleeping-room, she looked into the park of the next house.

There all was calm, happy, and pure. This house was inhabited by a distinguished-looking man about forty years old, of a particularly intelligent face, and by a young girl nearly sixteen, of a bewitching, gentle beauty, who had a middle-aged governess or teacher with her. The forsaken Mrs. Gobson supposed it was the home of a couple in their honeymoon, and her heart, she could not tell why, was saddened; but, on inquiring, she learned that her neighbor was named Charles Murray, and that the young person called Jane was his daughter or ward, and she felt an unhoped-for relief. From that moment she continued her curious watching without the unconscious jealousy she at first had felt, and she soon learned by the despotism with which her thoughts reverted to Charles Murray, that she loved the stranger whom chance had brought so near her.

She soon made her neighbor aware of the attention of which he was the object, and he was evidently as much flattered as touched, for in less than a fortnight after the first looks exchanged, Mrs. Gobson read with deep emotion these two lines which she found in a bunch of roses, thrown to her over the garden-wall:

“You are adorably beautiful, and I love you. How can I speak with you?”

Her husband had just left for his club, where he was going to dine, and, according to his custom, pass the evening and a part of the night. Mrs. Gobson went up to her room, where from her window she saw her neighbor, who, pretending to be absorbed in reading a newspaper, was watching her.

She immediately wrote a few words, slipped them in an envelope, in which she placed a dollar to give it the necessary weight, and tossed it so skilfully that the loving projectile fell at Charles Murray’s feet.

He picked it up, and read:

“At eight o’clock this evening, at the end of the avenue.”

He gave her a look of thanks which made her blush with happiness, and returned home.

Charles Murray had given Miss Jane the first floor of his villa, but he had reserved for himself two rooms on the ground-floor which had a private entrance. The first of these rooms was a sleeping-room, the second a study, the door of which was always carefully locked, and no one, not even the servants, ever entered it.

Murray, who was interested in science, had, they said, dangerous materials and fragile apparatuses which he wished to protect from curious eyes or from being handled. When he established himself at Jamaica Plain, he alone received and opened the boxes which contained them. His orders were strictly obeyed. When her friend or guardian was at home and she wished to see him, Miss Jane herself did not cross the threshold of this mysterious apartment--she called to him from outside.

It was to this study that Murray proceeded when he left Mrs. Gobson, and if the latter had followed him she would have been strangely surprised; for, instead of covering her note with loving kisses, as she perhaps fancied, her neighbor, when once at home, took a voluminous package of papers from his desk, drew out one crumpled letter, and, comparing it with that from Mr. Gobson’s wife, said:

“It is, indeed, the same handwriting.”

During this time Ada was plunged in her dreams of love. When dinner was ready she seated herself at table, but ate hardly anything. At eight o’clock, taking the chance while her servants were busy in the kitchen, she stole out of the house.

It was beginning to grow dark, and the air was warm and fragrant. She drew her mantle around her and quickened her steps, and soon discovered, under one of the tall trees in the avenue, the man she was coming to meet.

Murray, who had recognized her, quickly advanced to meet her, and said in a low voice, full of feeling:

“Madam, forgive me for having dared to break in upon your solitude.”

“I forgive you, sir,” she answered, “by coming here.”

“Thank you--thank you with all my heart.”

He offered her his arm, and she took it, saying:

“You wrote me that you loved me, did you know who I am?”

“I might answer you no, but that would be unworthy of you and me. Yes, I know who you are. The name of your husband told me that you were the heroine of that event which all New York was talking about for two months.”

“And was this why you have made me a declaration of love?”

She said this in a tone of pique, and withdrew her arm from that of her escort.

Understanding what was passing in her mind, Charles Murray hastened to answer, gently replacing her arm within his.

“Oh! you do not believe it, madam; I love you because you are lovely, and I judged you were unhappy because you are beautiful, and my heart, void of affection, went out to you.”

“Is all this really the truth?”

Ada, wishing to be convinced, smiled.

“Really the truth,” repeated Murray, tenderly pressing the little hand she had let him take.

“But the foolishness of this love; I am married.”

“Why did you marry a second time a man of whom you had so much to complain?”

“Ah, I don’t know. The peculiar situation in which the law placed us. Weakness.”

“Get a divorce a second time.”

“Impossible.”

“Impossible, why?”

“Because, on the mere suspicion of such an intention on my part, my husband would kill me. You see, I came to meet you to warn you of the danger to which you expose me. I have been able to escape to-day; but to come out again in this way would seem strange to my servants, for we receive no one, and Mr. Gobson is not acquainted with you.”

“I can become acquainted with him.”

“I think not; and I hope not, for your sake.”

“But if it is the only way to see you, and talk with you.”

“Yes, it is the only way. You love me, then?”

“I have never met a more charming woman than you. Give me a little hope and I will become your husband’s friend in less than a week.”

“Do so, and we will see. Meanwhile let me go; my absence may be remarked.”

They retraced their steps, then separated a hundred yards from their villas, not without pressing hands and giving many promises.

When Mrs. Gobson reached the house, she went at once to her room, where her first look was at her mirror which gave her back a smile. The few moments which she had just passed in a loving tete-a-tete had restored all her beauty.

Murray, after noiselessly closing the garden gate, which he had left open when he went out, entered his study. Absorbed in his thoughts, he had not seen, two steps from the fence, hidden behind a cluster of trees, a young girl watching him, no doubt, for the emotion which overcame her at sight of him was so great that she had to cover her face to stifle a sob. It was this lovely child whose chaste beauty awakening Mrs. Gobson’s jealousy, had, perhaps, more than any other sentiment, awakened in her heart the imperious desire to be loved.