CHAPTER XXIV

AT BATH

The train I caught did not reach Bath till half-past eight in the evening. It was a tedious, melancholy journey, so sad to me that I never recall it without emotion. The moment I had kissed and said good-bye to Mrs. Lee, and entered the train and started, I felt utterly lonely and miserable, as though, indeed, I were friendless, without memory, childless and widowed, and a blind wanderer. My luggage consisted of a travelling bag. I was dressed in black and wore a thick veil, but even without that veil I should not have feared recognition. I had looked into the glass before I started, and _now_, being able to remember my face as it was when my husband and sister last beheld me at Piertown, I was very sure that both of them might stare me in the eyes for an hour at a time, and find nothing in my white hair and in my changed lineaments, and in the expression which grief and time had stamped upon my countenance, and in my white eyebrows and the appearance of the flesh of my face that wore no longer the bloom of my happy days to give life to any sort of imagination which might visit them from the tone of my voice or from some subtle quality in my looks.

As I have said, I arrived at Bath at half-past eight, wearied to the heart by the long journey, and drove to an old-fashioned hotel not very far from Milsom Street. I was too exhausted to walk, or even at that hour, after I had refreshed myself with a cup of tea, I would have crept forth and traversed the width of the city to view the home in which my little ones were resting. I went to the window and gazed into the street; there were brightly lighted shops opposite; the roadway shone with the light of gas lamps; many people were afoot and private carriages and vehicles of all sorts passed in plenty.

I stood gazing, and my eyes may well have worn the expression of one who dreams. To think that for three years the old familiar city in which I now was, my pretty home past the avenue of chestnuts, the dear ones who dwelt within it, should have been as utterly extinguished from my brain as though I had died! I thought of the day when I had started from Piertown on an excursion, as I had imagined, of an hour or two; I thought of the French vessel, of my awaking in her from a swoon, and finding my face strapped, mutilated, unrecognisable, and I recalled the dumb, importunate cry of my heart, _Who am I?_ I thought of all that had happened afterwards, of the gipsy’s predictions which had been so fearfully verified, that I wondered if her darker predictions were still awaiting realisation; and then I pictured my home: the interior of the house: I beheld my children sleeping in their beds, and my husband and my sister sitting in the parlour, one reading to the other or conversing.... I sighed deeply and turned away from the window.

I was in no hurry to rise next morning. It was the second day of November and a cold morning, though the sun shone bright with a frost-like whiteness in his brilliance, and I knew that my children would not be taken for a walk until the morning had somewhat advanced. I did not suppose that Johnny went to school. I knew that my husband had always been of opinion that no child should be sent to school under the age of ten; Johnny was but five.

I descended to the coffee room, keeping my face carefully covered by a thick black veil: but when I found that I was the only occupant of the room I lifted the veil to the height of my eyes, the better to see through the wire blinds in the windows and to observe the people passing. The waiter who attended at my solitary meal looked very hard at me, but his gaze was one of curiosity merely. Well might it puzzle the man to reconcile my youthful figure and youthful complexion, pale as I was, with my hair and eyebrows, whose snowy whiteness was rendered remarkable by my dark eyes.

I asked him how long he had lived in Bath, and he answered all his life; and that he had never been further than Swindon. I asked him a number of idle questions, and named one or two persons who lived in Bath, and I then spoke of Mr. John Campbell, solicitor, and inquired if he had left the city.

‘No,’ he answered, ‘Mr. Campbell is my governor’s legal adviser. He was here yesterday; very like he’ll be here to-day. The governor’s got a lawsuit on. Are you acquainted with the gentleman, mum?’

I asked him to tell me the time, and then saying it was uncertain at what hour I should return, I dropped my veil and walked into the street.

It was about half-past ten o’clock. By this hour I knew that my husband would have arrived at his office; or, if he was not yet at his office, he would be on his way to business, and by going a little out of my road when I was in New Bond Street I might have passed the windows of his place of business; but I dreaded to see him. Veiled as I was I felt that if we met and his gaze rested upon me, though I should be no more known to him than the veriest stranger then in Bath, yet the mere sight of him would break me down. I should cry out or swoon, suffer from some convulsion of passion and feeling whose violence might result in betraying me by attracting a crowd, by bringing him to my side to inquire, by causing my pocket to be searched for my address; and, therefore, when I passed the street in which his office stood, I shrank within myself, and for ever as I walked I stared through my veil at the passing faces, never knowing but that I might meet my husband, and trembling and shuddering from head to foot at the mere contemplation of the encounter.

But though I had had many acquaintances in Bath, I met no one that I knew; no, not a single familiar face did I see. As I walked I could not realise that three years had passed since I was last in these streets. The extinction of my memory had fallen upon me as a deep sleep might fall upon a person on a sudden, arresting her in her discourse or in whatever she might be doing, and the sleep might last for many hours; though when she awakens she proceeds in her speech or resumes what she was about with no idea of having been interrupted beyond a minute or two. Thus it was with me. I walked through the streets of Bath and I could not persuade myself that I had not trodden the same pavements yesterday. I passed down that wide, cold, windy thoroughfare called Pulteney Street and reached Sydney Place, where I came to a pause with my heart in my throat; for here are situated the public grounds called Sydney Gardens, where many a time had I walked with my children and the nurse, and as I looked at the trees, which were brown and burning with their late autumn tints and fast growing leafless, and thought of how I had romped with my little Johnny in the shade of them on summer days, and how I had sat with my baby in my arms upon the cool seats along the shadowed walks, and how happy I then was, I wept.

The house which I intended to watch until I saw my children stood not far from the part at which I had arrived, and after I had walked a few hundred yards I came to a bend of the road which brought me to the foot of the hill. And now I walked very slowly, gazing in advance of me with impassioned eagerness, and with so great a craziness for clear vision that I could have torn the veil from my face. Very few people were about, and they took no notice of me. At times a cart from some neighbouring farm came spinning down the hill. It was a fine bright morning, no longer cold, as it had been, now that the sun was asserting his power, and I was sure that my children would be sent by Mary for a walk with the nurse. I entered the avenue of chestnuts and crept along up the hill very slowly until I had sight of the house, and then I stopped with a dreadful aching under my left breast as though my heart had broken.

I stood partly sheltered by the trees, staring at the house. It was situated on the left-hand side of the road, and as I stood gazing on this same side I thought to myself, supposing my husband having been detained at home should _now_ come out. The thought affrighted me, and I hastily crossed the road and in a manner hid myself among the trees on that side. A gentleman and two ladies came from the direction of Bathampton; they stared very hard and turned their heads to view me after they had passed; their scrutiny vexed and agitated me, and stepping out I walked up the hill, passing my home.

I dared not look too hard lest I should attract attention. The bedroom windows were open, but I could not see anybody stirring within. I looked at the window of the room that had been the day-nursery and that, very well knowing the accommodation the house offered, I might suppose was still occupied by my children by day; and whilst I instinctively paused in my walk to gaze at that window the hall-door was opened, and the nurse, the person I had taken to Piertown with me, she who had been in my service for a short while when I was lost to my husband and children--this nurse, I say, whose name was Eliza Barclay, came out and advanced as far as the gate and looked up and down the road as though waiting for somebody.

I walked on with my eyes straight in front, but my heart beat so violently that I felt myself sway from side to side, and coming to a bench that was at the top of the hill and at some distance from the house, I sank upon it, breathing with great distress.

Here on this eminence I commanded a view of our garden and of the river flowing through the valley, of the hills opposite with their clustered houses and spaces of garden-land and groups of trees, whose summits in parts feathered a line of roofs. Dogs were barking down by the river side; notes of life came floating from the fair city of Bath upon the November wind; the violet shadows of clouds sailed stately over the green slopes. I went to the hedge that divided the adjoining meadows from the side path and looked over, thinking I might catch a sight of my children in the garden. A man was at work there. I raised my veil to observe if he was the gardener whom we had employed when I was at home, but I could not distinguish his features, and if I approached the house the angle of the building must shut him out.

The time passed. Twelve o’clock was struck by the clock of a church down in the valley, then one, and then two. Some tradesmen’s assistants had called at the house during this time, and a housemaid had come to the side-gate and stared with a servant’s idle curiosity up and down the road. Nothing more had happened. But I must see my children if I lingered all day; I must see my children, though to obtain but one glimpse of them I should be obliged to remain in Bath a month. Do you wonder if I wished to see my husband and my sister? Oh, do not ask me! If ever I thought of them the desire to behold them rapidly merged into a passionate yearning to see my children, and I could think of nothing else but my two little ones.

The time passed. And now the next hour the Batheaston clock struck would be half-past three. All this while I had been wandering furtively about the chestnut avenue, and up and down the hill, never losing sight of the house, but taking care after the first hour of this grievous day of sad expectant watching to remain unseen by anyone who might come to its gate or look from its windows. There were times when I would walk on as far as Bathwick Street and there loiter, for if my children came down the hill I might be sure they would pass by the end of that street and I should see them.

The road in which the chestnut avenue stood is but little frequented. Carts and private carriages drive along it, but few people use it merely for walking. It is traversed by those who live at Batheaston and Bathford and beyond, and such persons when they pass, whether coming into or going from Bath, are long in returning. There are also very few houses; the few there are for the most part stand back. All these points I had reckoned upon, knowing the neighbourhood thoroughly; and I state them that you may understand how it was that so conspicuous a figure as I made in my black dress and thick black veil should have haunted that road of the chestnut avenue for nearly a whole day without apparently receiving any further attention than now and again a stare from a passer-by.

I had eaten nothing since my breakfast, and that meal had been slender enough; but I felt no hunger; though I had sat but little I was not conscious of any feeling of exhaustion. The craving for a sight of my children dominated all physical sensations.

It was drawing on to the hour of four; I was slowly making my way up the hill in the direction of my house, and I was within a hundred yards of it when a little boy ran through the gateway on to the path, and was immediately followed by a lady.

The little boy was my child. I should instantly have known him had I beheld him amongst a thousand children. His face was the same sweet face that I had left behind me three long years before; grown, indeed, but the eyes, the expression, were the same, the beautiful golden hair but a little darker in hue. He was tall for his years, and looked a noble, manly little fellow. He was dressed in the costume of a sailor, and when he ran from out the gateway he sprang with graceful agility across the side-walk into the road, pointing to a hedge that was opposite, and looking back as he cried: ‘Mother, mother, I saw a wabbit jump out of that ditch.’

The lady was my sister. She was dressed in black, but was without a veil; her hat of black velvet with a black feather suited her beauty. She looked younger, sweeter than I remembered her; her complexion was of an exquisite delicacy faintly touched with bloom, and her golden-brown hair sparkled in the sunlight under the black velvet of her hat.

My boy came running towards me, leaving my sister at some distance; then when he was close he stopped, child-like, to stare up at the strange veiled figure. I looked down into his upward-gazing face: I could have cried aloud out of the passion of the impulse that possessed me to lift him, to clasp him to my heart, to devour him with kisses. Then, all on a sudden, his own little figure, and the figure of my sister who was now nearing us, swept round, and I fell, with a roaring in my ears that was followed by blackness and insensibility.

* * * * *

I opened my eyes and slowly turned them about. It was strange that the first idea which came to my awakening senses was that I was on board the French vessel, that in a few moments Alphonse would appear, that he would hold a mirror to me into which I would look and behold a face which I had never before seen. I closed my eyes and heard myself sighing deeply; then opening my eyes again I slightly raised my head and surveyed the place in which I was lying.

It was a room, and as my eyes roamed over the various objects which formed the furniture of that room, I found everything I beheld familiar to my recollection, and still I could not tell myself where I was. I rested upon a sofa; there was a lamp with a deep green shade upon it in the centre of the dining-table: a small fire was burning in the grate, and I perceived the figure of a woman seated in an arm-chair beside the fire. She turned her head and directed her eyes at me; then, observing that I had returned to consciousness, she arose and came across to the sofa.

When she was close to me I saw that she was the nurse whom we had taken with us to Piertown, and by this time having my senses fully, and every sense being rendered keen by dread of detection, I raised my hand to my head, meaning to pull down my veil, but found that my hat and veil, as well as my jacket, had been removed. The nurse’s name, as I have said, was Barclay; she looked at me earnestly, but without the least expression of recognition in her face, and said:

‘I am glad you have got your senses, ma’am. You have been a long time in a faint. I will go and tell Mrs. Campbell you are awake: she is sitting with the doctor in the dining-room. The doctor asked me to let him know when you came to.’ She was about to leave me.

‘I do not wish to see the doctor,’ I exclaimed feebly. ‘Where am I?’

‘You are in Mr. John Campbell’s house, ma’am.’

‘Why am I in his house?’

‘You fainted away just outside his door and was carried in by me and the gardener.’

‘I do not wish to see the doctor,’ said I. ‘Where is my hat and veil?’ and I endeavoured to sit up, but fell back again, feeling as weak as though I had been confined to my bed for a month by a severe illness.

At this moment I heard footsteps, and my sister entered the room, followed by a gentleman who instantly stepped to my side. He asked me how I felt, but I made no answer, and on his taking my wrist to feel my pulse I drew my hand away. I knew him very well; he was Doctor B----, he had attended me with each of my children; but now he looked at me with a subdued air of astonishment at my appearance--with nothing but _that_ expression in his face; he recognised me no more than my nurse did.

‘I have asked for my hat and veil,’ said I, ‘I wish to return to the hotel at which I am stopping. I am quite well now,’ and again I essayed to rise, and again fell back.

‘She appears to have overtaxed herself,’ said the doctor, speaking to my sister as though I were not present. ‘One would suppose she had walked from London and eaten nothing the whole way.’

I drew my handkerchief from my pocket and held it to my mouth to hide my face as much as possible, and I also turned my head away from the light, which, indeed, was sufficiently subdued owing to the green shade that covered the lamp, and to the smallness of the fire.

‘Do you live in Bath?’ said the doctor.

‘No,’ I answered.

‘Where are you stopping?’

I named the hotel and said, ‘I wish to return to it.’

‘My carriage is at the door,’ said he, ‘I shall be happy to drive you to your hotel.’

My sister, who had been standing at a little distance with the shadow of the shaded lamp upon her face, said: ‘I cannot suffer the lady to leave until she is stronger and better.’

‘Are you alone at the hotel?’ said the doctor.

‘Yes,’ said I, answering him in a weak voice; ‘but that does not matter. I will thankfully accept your offer to drive me to my hotel,’ and again I tried to sit up, but my having been on my feet from ten o’clock in the morning to four o’clock that afternoon, my having taken nothing to eat or drink--no, not so much as a glass of water--and, above all, the terrible agitation, the dreadful continuous expectancy, and the hundred feelings which had burnt like fires in my breast as I passed my home again and again, all this had done its work; a few hours’ rest might help to restore me, but as I now was I was incapable of any exertion.

The doctor saw how it was. He drew my sister to the other side of the room and conversed with her. I tried to hear what was said, but caught only a few sentences. He seemed to advise her to keep me for an hour or two, then send me in a cab to the hotel. I heard him whisper: ‘A perfect stranger, you see, Mrs. Campbell’--‘a genuine case I don’t doubt’--‘I would not, if I were you, keep her through the whole night’--these, and one or two more sentences of counsel, were all I heard. He then bade my sister good-night; meanwhile I kept my face from the light and my handkerchief to my mouth.

‘You will sleep here to-night,’ said the sweet voice of my sister, and looking up I perceived her bending over me. Her face was tranquil, her gaze perfectly calm with an expression of gentle sadness that had been there ever since I could remember. Pity was the only look in her face that was in any way marked. She glanced at my white hair, and her eyes rested for a little while upon my face, but her regard was without recognition. Her presence was a torture to me. My old love for her was strong and deep. There she stood, my sweet, my gentle, my beloved sister, and I dared not own myself--I dared scarcely look at her; for her occupation of my place was based on deep conviction of my death. I would have killed myself sooner than by confession of my existence have forced her from the position she had purely entered upon with a spirit which she would take to her grave clothed in mourning for the sister whom she believed dead.

But her presence was an agony. I felt that it would be impossible to support even for a short time the ordeal of her ministrations; to listen to her low, sweet voice; to meet her clear, sad gaze; to suffer in silence the intolerable sense of loneliness born of her presence, of my being homeless in my own home, of the thought of my little ones, in a room above, taught to pray for a mother they could not remember and to give that holy name to another, even though she were my own sister.

‘You will sleep here to-night,’ said my sister, bending over me.

‘What is the time?’ I inquired, resolved to speak as little as possible.

‘It is nearly eight o’clock. You have been a long time unconscious. Barclay, cut a few light sandwiches and bring some port wine. Be quick. I am sure this poor lady wants nourishment first of all. Tell Sarah to light a fire in the spare room and prepare the bed.’

My sister then brought a chair to the table and seated herself.

‘This light, I fear, taxes your eyes,’ said she, and stretching forth her hand she dimmed the lamp.

Then followed a long silence; my sister did not appear to regard me. Her eyes seemed to steal to my face rather than look at it; but for the most part she kept her gaze bent downwards. Her behaviour suggested that she was struck, as all others whom I had met had been struck, with the contrast between my snow-white hair and white eyebrows and my youthful figure. Only at long intervals did I dare glance at her. I held my face averted and my handkerchief to my mouth, and twice I endeavoured to rise, fully meaning to leave the house if I found that I had strength to walk; but I was without strength as yet even to sit up.

The housemaid brought in some port wine and sandwiches, and I drank the wine which my sister put to my lips. I then ate the sandwiches merely with the hope that they would diminish the feeling of faintness and give me strength enough to leave the house.

I had eaten as much as my constricted throat would enable me to swallow, when suddenly I heard the noise of a key turned in a lock, then the hall door was shut and my sister went out. I caught the sound of my husband’s voice; but I should have known him by his tread alone as he stepped across the square hall, and thankful, indeed, was I that Mary had gone out to speak to him and detain him whilst she prepared him for seeing me--that is to say, for seeing a strange lady who had dropped in a fit near the house and been brought in; I was truly thankful, I say, for this delay, since it gave me time to fortify my mind for beholding my husband and being looked at by him, and perhaps spoken to by him; for had he come in upon me on a sudden, my white hair and changed face would have availed nothing: I must have betrayed myself, he would have detected me by signs I should have been unable to conceal.

He and Mary conversed for some time in the hall. The door was ajar and I heard their voices, but not what they said. He ejaculated, as though expressing surprise and sometimes remonstrance; her sweet, low voice had a pleading note. Presently the door was pushed open and the two of them entered.

I held my handkerchief to my mouth, but forced my eyes to look in the direction of my husband, never doubting that any emotion that my face might express would be attributed by him to my illness and condition. There was no more alteration in him than in Mary. He wore a little more whisker than formerly, and his hair was cut short in the military style, otherwise there was no change. He was dressed in dark grey clothes and, instead of a gold watch-chain, wore one of jet, to which was attached a locket which had formerly held, as it might still hold, a likeness of me and a piece of my hair.

He slightly bowed as to a perfect stranger, and leaned upon the table to look across at me. I closed my eyes and averted my face; I could not bear the dreadful trial of looking at him and of seeing him look at me. Oh, he was my husband--he was the father of my children--he had been my first and only love--but though he was my husband still, my love for my sister stood between him and me in as iron-like a barrier as ever the divorce law of the land could erect between two hearts.

Mary had gone to the end of the table where it faced the windows which overlooked the grounds; she stood with one hand upon it and the other resting upon her hip. When I opened my eyes she seemed to be gazing at me steadily, but the light was dim and I could not see her clearly.

‘I am sorry to hear of your illness,’ exclaimed my husband, addressing me across the table, ‘I trust you are feeling better?’

‘I believe I am well enough to return to my hotel,’ I answered in a tremulous voice, ‘will you kindly send for a cab?’

‘No,’ said my sister, ‘you must sleep here to-night. You are alone in Bath. Should you return to the hotel and feel ill in the night you will not be able to obtain the attention you might require.’

‘By what name shall I address you?’ said my husband.

‘Do not trouble her with questions, dear,’ said Mary. ‘She is very poorly.’

I had made up my mind to give the name of my old friend at Jesmond should it ever come to my having to give a name at all. This I had settled with myself before I left Newcastle. When Mary ceased I answered, ‘My name is Miss Lee.’

‘Have you no friend in Bath?’ said my husband.

‘None. I am returning to-morrow to the north.’

‘My wife is anxious that you should stay the night,’ said my husband; ‘you will be very welcome; but if it would make you more comfortable to return to your hotel, I will call a cab and personally attend you there; provide--for I am very well acquainted with the landlord of the house--that you be carefully looked after; and, if you should desire to communicate with your friends in the North by telegraph or by letter, I shall be very pleased to do your bidding.’

‘Yes, I shall feel easier--my strength is returning,’ I exclaimed, and I forced myself to sit upright.

‘John,’ said my sister, ‘it is settled that Miss Lee sleeps in this house to-night. It is not as though she had friends to go to. She is ill,’ she added, and for a moment her voice trembled. ‘The spare room is ready. I can take no denial.’

She crossed the room and rang the bell.

‘Be it as you wish, my dear,’ said my husband, and casting another look upon me of curiosity he left the room.

The housemaid answered the bell; my sister told her to send the nurse, then poured out another glass of port and begged me to drink it. I drank it, for I needed strength. Already had I settled what to do, but I required more strength than I now possessed to carry out my resolution. The nurse arrived and my sister requested her help to convey me upstairs. I said not a word. I kept my eyes fastened upon the floor. I feared that I should betray myself by speech, by look, by tears, or by some subtle sign that would be interpretable by the penetrating, wonderful sympathy that exists between twins--the sympathy that had certainly existed between my sister and me. So far I had victoriously passed through one of the most terrible ordeals that a woman could be confronted with, and the sight and presence of my sister, her sweet voice, her sweet face, the memories which arose in me as I looked at her and listened to her, had still further heightened and hardened what I might have already deemed my unconquerable determination to remain dead to her and her husband that her happiness should not be disturbed, leaving it, as I have already said, to my Heavenly Father to bring my children to me in any way that should not bruise my sister’s heart, or cloud the clear serenity of her life as a wife.