Chapter XII: Self-Sacrifice

And I must go! I cannot choose
But love thee and thy love refuse!
And if my brow grows lined while young
And youth fly cheated from my cheek,
’Tis that there lies below my tongue
A word I will not speak!
For I would rather die than deem
Thou’rt not the glory then didn’t seem.—_Philip-Bailey._

With no more pallor, or other sign of disturbance, than might rationably be accounted for by a nervous headache, Lady Adelaide entered the supper-room and glided to her place at the tea-table.

Lady Elizabeth was already seated, and Orville, who had been standing at the back of his chair waiting for the appearance of Adelaide, now took his place.

“Orville tells me that you were indisposed this afternoon, my dear. I hope you feel better,” said the elder lady.

“My head does not ache much now,” replied Adelaide, without raising her eyes, and proceeding to pour out the tea.

Orville smiled as in gratification, and placed on her plate the rarest delicacies of the table.

The subject of the projected journey was resumed and discussed through the whole of tea-time.

Adelaide never spoke unless she was directly appealed to, and then her answers, though gentle, were brief and vague.

At last, Lady Elizabeth, looking wistfully at her, said—

“Adelaide, love, you really look quite unwell. Does your head still ache?”

“Not much; but I believe I must beg you will allow me to retire early.”

“Certainly, my dear! sleep is really the only remedy for a nervous headache. Go at once, my child. Orville, take the light and attend your wife to her chamber-door, my son,” said Lady Elizabeth, putting one of the wax-candles in Mr. Deville’s hands.

He arose with a look of concern; but Adelaide, with a smile, took the candle from his hand, rejected his attendance, and left the room.

But as the door closed behind her, the smile died from her face, upon which a look of despair settled. She paused for a moment her bosom heaved convulsively.

“And is this the last, last time I shall ever see him? Have I taken my last look at his face, heard the last sound of his voice? And shall I never, never meet him more? Never more! Never more! Oh, words of woe insufferable! But what am I saying? Oh, heart, be silent! it is a crime to love him, to grieve for him, even to think of him _now_! he is the husband of another! and my stern duty is to _go_! Yes! all that I have to do lies in that little, hard word—GO.”

So saying, she walked on through the lower hall; but instead of going up the stairs, she went into the library and hunted until she found the Statute Laws of Maryland. She took the volumes to her chamber, locked her door, laid them upon the table, drew a chair, sat down and opened them.

She referred first to the laws on marriage; and she found, as she had expected, that the ceremony read over herself and Orville in their childhood, by the authority of their parents, constituted a legal marriage, indissoluble except by death or divorce.

Next she examined the laws of divorce, and found that such an act as Orville had committed, desertion, wanton abuse, etc., were all set down as just pleas for the legal breaking of a marriage-bond. She found also, oh horror! that a second marriage during the life of the first marriage-partner was a felony, punishable with imprisonment and disgrace!

She closed the volumes and fell into deep and painful thought.

Four courses were open to her.

First, to remain passively where she was, and let events take their natural direction, whatever that might turn out to be.

Secondly, to sue for divorce: that she could surely get.

Thirdly, to prosecute Orville for the bigamy, of which he would undoubtedly be convicted.

And fourthly, to sacrifice herself, by simply going away and leaving it to him to divorce _her_, upon the ground of wanton desertion.

These four paths lay open before her reason. But one only was possible for her _heart_. She did not hesitate one moment. And if for a few moments she remained in painful thought, it was to find excuses for him and just cause for her own self-immolation.

“He has been unfortunate rather than guilty—” so ran her reverie. “No one had a right to force me, a child, upon him as his wife in his non-age! Such an arbitrary act could not morally bind him, and that it did not is proved by the fact that I was never any more to him than a little sister, while he formed a tie elsewhere.

“But unfortunately this bond, which is not a moral one, is, notwithstanding, a legal chain, not to be broken except by death or legislative action!

“If it were not a sin I would willingly die to release him! As I cannot die before my time comes, nothing remains but divorce, to free him from this unjust and hateful bond!

“If _I_ divorce him for his unfortunate second marriage, it will cover him with unmerited dishonor and break his mother’s heart.

“Therefore, there remains but one way in which I can serve him! I can only _save him by loosing_ myself! I will do it! I will go away and leave him to divorce me for my desertion of him!

“That will not dishonor _him_, and if it debase _me_ in the eyes of the world, what odds? There is no one to be dragged down by my fall, for I am alone. Soon death will come of his own accord, and I shall rest and be forgotten—of all save God, who knows the truth!”

And thus concluding her reverie, Adelaide drew writing materials towards her, and commenced a letter of explanation and farewell to Orville.

The writing of that letter gave her more trouble than any task she had ever undertaken.

It was blotted with frequent erasures and blistered with many tears. It was written and re-written; so anxious was she that while fully releasing him—so far as she had power to do so—she should let slip no word of reproach or grief that should give him pain, or mar the completeness of her own perfect self-sacrifice.

It was finished!

Then still pale, and weak from the passage of that moral storm, she sat with her elbow resting on the table and her head bowed down upon her hand—thinking of the marvellous change that a few hours had wrought in her destiny—looking back upon what she had _done_, and looking forward to what she must _suffer_.

She waited for all to become quiet.

First she heard Lady Elizabeth come up-stairs, attended by her maid, and enter her ladyship’s chamber on the other side of the hall.

An hour later, she heard Orville Deville softly ascend the stairs and enter his bedroom, dismissing his servant at the door, and moving cautiously, as in the fear of waking her.

Finally she heard Keziah come out of Lady Elizabeth’s chamber, pause and listen at her young lady’s door, and mutter—

“She is asleep; I will not go in to disturb her,” and then slip away softly down the stairs.

Now all was quiet. Yet still, for security, Adelaide waited another hour. Then she arose, put on a common cloth cloak and hood, such as she usually wore about the plantation, and taking “neither scrip nor staff,” quietly left her chamber, glided down-stairs, and through the hall to the front door.

In that well-kept house no lock grated and no hinge creaked. At her touch, silently the key turned, the door opened and Adelaide stood upon the threshold of the once happy home she was now about to leave at night, alone, unfriended and forever!

As thus for one moment she stood, she looked forth, as into the world she was about to dare!

It was a dark and starless night. So dark that it was only by feeling the coldness and dampness of the air, and extending her hand outwards, that she discovered it was snowing very fast. The wind arose with a low wail, wafting the snow into her face and bosom, as if to meet her on the threshold of her wanderings. Cold, cold greeting!

The old-fashioned clock in the corner of the hall began, with its usual croaking prelude, to strike the hour. It struck eleven.

Adelaide instinctively started! Never in her life had she been out at such an hour, or in such inclement weather! What a night and what an hour for that delicate creature to cast herself forth alone to wander until she should perish!

But a moment’s bitter reflection caused her to ask, What did it matter? The hope of youth and the sweetness of life were lost forever! as well, therefore, to perish in the cold snow-storm, as to waste slowly with the fever of a breaking heart!

She paused no longer, but closing the door softly behind her, went forth into the night and storm.

There are great crises in life, when the soul is called upon to act, suddenly, forcibly, fatally, and in so swift a flight of time, that when the action is past, and life is thereby forever changed, the same soul seems instantly to have passed, as by death, from one state of existence to another.

Thus it was with Adelaide as she passed the threshold of that door, closing it behind her, and left a home of love, light and safety, and went forth alone into darkness, storm aid peril to meet—WHAT?