Speaker 1: My Wife's Tempter by Fitz James o'bryen one a predestined marriage,
Elsie and I were to be married in less than
a week. It was rather a strange match, and I
knew that some of our neighbors shook their heads over
it and said that no good would come. The way
it came to pass was thus. I loved Elsie Burns
for two years, during which time she refused me three times.
I could no more help asking her to have me
when the chance offered than I could help breathing or living.
To love her seemed natural to me as existence. I
felt no shame, only sorrow when she rejected me. I
felt no shame either when I renewed my suit. The
neighbors called me mean spirited to take up with any
girl that had refused me as often as Elsie Burns
had done. But what cared I about the neighbors. If
it is black weather and the sun is under a
cloud every day for a month, is that any reason
why the poor farmer should not hope for the blue
sky and the plentiful burst of warm light when the
dark month is over. I never entirely lost heart, do not, however,
mistake me. I did not mope and moan and grow
pale after the manner of poetical lovers. No such thing.
I went bravely about my business, ate and drank as usual,
laughed when the laugh went round, and slept soundly and
woke refreshed. Yet all this time I loved, desperately loved
Elsie Burns. I went wherever I hoped to meet her,
but did not haunt her with my attentions. I behaved
to her as any friendly young man would have behaved.
I met her and parted from her cheerfully. She was
a good girl too, and behaved well. She had me
in power. How a woman in Elsie's situation could have
mortified a man in mine. But she never took the
slightest advantage of it. She danced with me when I
asked her, and had no foolish fears of allowing me
to see her home of Knights after a ball was over,
or of wandering with me through the pleasant New England
fields when the wild flowers made the paths like roads
in fairyland. On several disastrous occasions. When I presented my suit,
I did it simply and manfully, telling her that I
loved her very much, and would do everything to make
her happy if she would be my wife. I made
no fulsome protestations, and did not once allude to suicide. She,
on the other hand, calmly and gravely thanked me for
my good opinion, but with the same calm gravity rejected me.
I used to tell her that I was grieved that
I would not press her, that I would wait and
hope for some change in her feelings. She had an
esteem for me, she would say, but could not marry me.
I never asked her for any reasons. I hold it
to be an insult to a woman of sense to
demand her reasons on such an occasion. Enough for me
that she did not then wish to be my wife,
so that the old intercourse went on. She cordial and
polite as ever. I never for one moment doubting that
the day would come when my roof tree would shelter
her and we should smile together over our fireside at
my long and indefatigable wooing. I will confess that at
times I felt a little jealous, jealous of a man
named Hammond Brake who lived in our village. He was
a weird Saturnine fellow who made no friends among the
young men of the neighborhood, but who loved to go
alone with his books and his own thoughts for company.
He was a studious and I believe, a learned young man,
and there was no avoiding the fact that he possessed
considerable influence over Elsie. She liked to talk with him
in corners or in secluded nooks of the forest when
we all went out BlackBerry gathering or picnicking. She read
books that he gave her, And whenever a discussion arose
relative to any topic higher than those ordinary ones we
usually canvassed, Elsie appealed to break for his opinion as
a disciple consulting a beloved master. I confess that for
a time I feared this man as a rival. A
little closer observation, however, convinced me that my suspicions were unfounded.
The relation between Elsie and Hammond Brake were purely intellectual.
She reverenced his talents and acquirements, but she did not
love him. His influence over her, nevertheless, was none the
less decided in time, as I thought all along, Elsie
yielded I was what was considered a most eligible match
being tolerably rich, and Elsie's parents were most anxious to
have me for a son in law. I was good
looking and well educated enough, and the old people, I
believe pertinaciously dinned all my advantages into my little girl's ears.
She battled against the marriage for a long time, with
a strange persistence, all the more strange because she never
alleged the slightest personal dislike to me. But after a
vigorous candidating from her own garrison, in which I am
proud to say I did not in any way join,
she hoisted the white flag and surrendered. I was very happy.
I had no fear about being able to gain Elsie's heart.
I think, indeed, I know that she liked me all along,
and that her refusal were dictated by other feelings than
those of a personal nature. I only guessed as much. Then.
It was some time before I knew all. As the
day approached for our wedding, Elsie did not appear at
all stricken with woe. The village gossips had not the
smallest opportunity for establishing a romance with a compulsory bride
for the heroine. Yet to me, it seemed as if
there was something strange about her. A vague terror appeared
to beset her. Even in her most loving moments. When
resting in my arms, she would shrink away from me
and shudder, as if some cold wind had suddenly struck
upon her. That it was caused by no aversion to
me was evident, for she would, the moment after, as
if to make amends, give me one of those voluntary
kisses that are sweeter than all others. I reflected over
this gravely, as was my custom, but could come to
no conclusion. I dismissed it as one of those mysteries
of maidenhood, which it is not given to man to fathom.
The day came at length on which we were to
be married, a glorious autumnal day, on which the sweet
season of fruits and flowers seemed to have copied the
kings of old and robed itself in its brightest purple
and golds, in order to die with becoming splendor. The
little village church was nearly filled with a bridal party
and the curious crowd who came to see the persevering lover.
When his bride, Elsie, was calm and grave and beautiful,
the sober beauty of the autumn itself seemed to tinge
her face. Only once did she show any emotion, when
the solemn question was put to her, the answer to
which was to decide her destiny. I felt her hands,
which was in mine tremble, as she gasped out a
convulsive yes. She gave one brief, imploring glance at the
gallery on the right. I placed the ring upon her
finger and looked in the direction in which she gazed.
Hammond Brake's dark countenance was visible looking over the railings,
and his eyes were bent sternly on Elsie. I turned
quickly to my bride, but her brief emotion of whatever
nature had vanished. She was looking at me anxiously and
smiling somewhat sadly through her maiden's tears. I kissed her
and whispered a loving word or two in her ear,
at which she brightened. And her grave, decorous old father
and quaint, tender hearted mother kissed her, and we rode
all alone through glories of the autumn woods to our home.
Two the Strange Book. The months went by quickly, and
we were very happy. I learned that Elsie really loved me,
and of my love for her. She had proof long ago.
I will not say that there was no clout upon
our little horizon. There was one, but it was so
small and appeared so seldom that I scarcely feared it.
The old vague terror seemed still to attack my wife.
If I did not know her to be pure as
heaven snow, I would have said it was a remorse.
At times she scarcely appeared to hear what I said,
so deep would be her reverie. Nor did those moods
seem pleasant ones. When wrapped in such her sweet features
would contract, as if in a hopeless effort to solve
some mysterious problem, A sad pain, as it were, quivered
in her white, drooped eyelids. One thing I particularly remarked,
she spent hours at a time gazing at the west.
There was a small room in our house whose windows
every evening flamed with the red light of the setting sun.
Here Elsie would sit and gaze westward, so motionless and
entranced that it seemed as if her soul was going
down with the day. Her conduct to me was curiously varied.
She apparently loved me very much, yet there were times
when she absolutely avoided me, I have seen her strolling
through the fields and left the house with the intention
of joining her. But the moment she caught sight of
me approaching, she has fled into the neighboring copse, with
so evident a wish to avoid me that it would
have been absolutely cruel to follow. Once or twice, the
old jealousy of him and Brake crossed my mind, but
I was obliged to dismiss it as a frivolous suspicion.
Nothing in my wife's conduct justified any such theory. Brake
visited us once or twice a week. In fact, when
I returned from my business in the village, I used
to find him seated in the parlor with Elsie, reading
some favorite author, or conversing on some novel literary topic.
But there was no disposition to avoid my scrutiny. Brake
seemed to come as a matter of right, and the
perfect unconsciousness of furnishing any grounds for suspicion with which
he acted was a sufficient answer to my mind for
any wild doubts that my heart may have suggested. Still,
I could not but remark that Brake's visits were in
some manner connected with Elsie's melancholy. On the days when
he had appeared and departed, the gloom seemed to hang
more thickly than ever over her head. She, on such
occasions all the evening at the western window, silently gazing
at the cleft in the hills through which the sun
passed to his repose. At last I made up my
mind to speak to her. It seemed to me to
be my duty if she had a sorrow to partake
of it. I approached her on the matter with the
most perfect confidence that I had nothing to learn beyond
the existence of some girlish grief, which a confession and
a few loving kisses would exercise forever. Elsie, I said
to her one night, as she sat, according to her custom,
gazing westward, like those maidens of the old ballads of chivalry,
watching for the nights that never came. Elsie, what is
the matter with you, darling. I have noticed a strange
melancholy in you for some time past. Tell me all
about it. She turned quickly and gazed at me with
eyes wide open and face filled with a sudden fear.
Why do you ask me that, Mark, she answered, I
have nothing to tell from this strange startled manner in
which this reply was given. I felt convinced that she
had something to tell, and instantly formed a determination to
discover what it was. A pang shot through my heart
as I thought that the woman whom I held dearer
than anything on earth hesitated to trust me with a
petty secret. Elsie, I said, don't treat me as if
I were a grand inquisitor with rags and thumb screws
and readiness for you. If you prove contumacious, you need
not look at me in that frightened way. I'm not
an ogre child. I don't breakfast on nice, cozy little women.
Five months married. Supposing you do owe a bild to
the milliner in Boston, what does it matter? I'm tolerably rich.
How much is it? I knew perfectly well that she
did not owe any such bill, but it was a
mode of testing her. A look of relief passed over
her features as I spoke mark, she said, stroking my
hair with her little hand and smiling faintly. You're a goose.
I don't owe any bill to the milliner in Boston,
and I have no secret worth knowing. I know I'm
a little melancholy. At times, I feel weary, but that
is not unnatural. You know just now, Mark dear kissing
me on the lips. You must bear with my moods
for a little while, until there are three of us,
and then I'll be bitter company. I knew what she
alluded to, but God helped me. I felt sad enough
at the moment, though I kissed her back and ceased
to question her. I felt sad because my instinct told
me that she deceived me, and it is very hard
to be deceived, even in trifles, by those we love.
I left her sitting at her favorite window and walked
out into the fields I wanted to think. I remained
out until I saw lights in the parlor shining through
the dusky evening. Then I returned slowly. As I passed
the windows, which were near the ground, our house being
cottage built. I looked in hem and Brake was sitting
with my wife. She was sitting in a rocking chair
opposite to him, holding a small volume open on her lap.
Brake was talking to her very earnestly, and she was
listening to him with an expression I had never before
seen on her countenance, all fear and admiration were all
blunt together. In those dilating eyes. She seemed absorbed body
and soul in what this man said. I shuddered at
the sight. A vague terror seized upon me. I hastened
into the house. As I entered the room, rather suddenly,
my wife started and hastily concealed a little volume that
lay on her lap in one of her white pockets.
As she did so, a loose leaf escaped from the
volume and slowly fluttered to the floor, unobserved by either
her or her companion. But I had my eye upon it.
I felt that it was a clue. What new novel
or philosophical wonder have you both been pouring over? I asked,
quite gaily, stealthily watching at the same time the tell
tale embarrassment under which Elsie was laboring. Brake, who was
not in the least is composed, replied that said he
is a secret which must be kept from you. It
is an advance copy. It is not to be shown
to any one except your wife. Hah, cried I I
know what it is. It is your volume of poems
that Ticknor is publishing. Well, I can wait until it
is regularly for sale. I knew that Brake had a
volume in the hands of the publishing house. I mentioned,
with a vague promise of publication some time in the
present century. Hammond smiled significantly, but did not reply. He
evidently wished to cultivate this supposed impression of mine. Elsie
looked relieved and heaved a deep sigh. I felt, more
than ever convinced that a secret was beneath all this.
So I drew my chair over the fallen leaf that
lay unnoticed on the carpet, and talked and laughed with
Hammond Brake gayly, as if nothing was on my mind,
while all the time a great load of suspicion lay
heavily at my heart. At length, ham and Brake rose
to go. I wished him good night, but did not
offer to accompany him to the door. My wife supplied
this omitted courtesy, as I had expected. The moment I
was alone, I picked up the bookleaf from the floor.
It was not the leaf of a volume of poems.
Beyond that, however, I learned nothing. It contained a string
of paragraphs printed in the biblical fashion, and the language
was biblical in style. It seemed to be a portion
of some religious book. Was it possible that my wife
was being converted to the Romish faith? Yes, that was it.
Brake was a Jesuit in disguise. I had heard of
such things, and had stolen into the bosom of my
family to planned there his destructive errors. There could be
no longer any doubt of it. This was some portion
of a Romish book, some infamous Popish publication. Fool that
I was not to see it all before. But there
was yet time I would forbid him the house. I
had just formed this resolution when my wife entered. I
put the strange leaf in my pocket and took my hat.
Why you are not going out, surely, cried Elsie, Surprised
I have a headache, I answered, I will take a
short walk. Elsie looked at me with a peculiar air
of distrust. Her woman's instinct told her that there was
something wrong. Before she could question me, however, I had
left the room and was walking rapidly on him and
Brake's track. He heard the footsteps, and I saw his
figure black against the sky. Stopp up and peer back
through the dusk to see who was following him. It
is I, Brake, I called out, stop. I wish to
speak with you. He stopped, and in a minute or
so we were walking side by side along the road.
My fingers itched at that moment to be on his throat.
I commenced the conversation break, I said, I'm a very
plain sort of man, and I never say anything without
good reason. What I came after you to tell you
is that I don't wish you to come to my
house any more, or to speak with Elsie any farther
than the ordinary salutations go. It's no joke. I'm quite
in earnest, Brake started and stopping short faced me suddenly
in the road. What have I done? He asked? You
surely are too sensible a man to be jealous, dayton, Oh,
I answered scornfully, not jealous in the ordinary sense of
the word a bit. But I don't think your company
good company for my wife, Brake, if you will have
it out of me, I suspect you of being a
Roman Catholic and of trying to convert my wife. A
smile shot across his face, and I saw his sharp
white teeth gleam for an instant in the dusk. Well,
what if I am a papist? He said, with a
strange tone of triumph in his voice. The faith is
not criminal. Besides, what proof have you that I was
attempting to proslate your wife? This said I, pulling the
leaf from my pocket, This leaf from one of those
devilish papist books you and she were reading this evening.
I picked it up from the floor. Proof enough, I think.
In an instant, Brake had snatched the leaf from my
hand and torn it into atoms. You shall be obeyed,
he said, I will not speak with Elsie as long
as she is your wife. Good Night. You think I'm
a papist, then Dayton, you're a clever fellow. And with
a rather sneering chuckle, he marched on along the road
and vanished into the darkness. Three the secret discovered, Brake
came no more. I said nothing to Elsie about his prohibition,
and his name was never mentioned. It seemed strange to
me that she should not speak of his absence, and
I was very much puzzled by her silence. Her moodiness
seemed to have increased, and what was most remarkable in proportion,
as she grew more and more reserved the intenser, were
the bursts of affection which she exhibited for me. She
would strain me to her bosom and kiss me as
if she and I were about to be parted forever.
Then for hours she would remain sitting at her window,
silently gazing with that terrible, wistful gaze of hers at
the west. I will confess to having watched my wife
at this time. I could not help it that some
mystery hung about her. I felt convinced I must fathom
it or die her honor. I never for a moment doubted,
yet there seemed to weigh continually upon me the prophecy
of some awful domestic calamity. This time the prophecy was
not in vain. About three weeks after I had forbidden
break my house, I was strolling over my farm in
the evening, apparently inspecting my agriculture, but in reality speculating
on that topic which latterally was ever present to me.
There was a little knoll covered with evergreen oaks at
the end of the lawn. It was a picturesque spot,
for on one side the bank went off into a
sheer precipice of about eighty feet in depth, at the
bottom of which a pretty pool lay that, in the
summer time was fringed with white water lilies. I had
thought of building a summer house in this spot, and
now my steps mechanically directed themselves toward the place. As
I approached, I heard voices. I stopped and listened eagerly.
A few seconds enabled me to ascertain that Hammond Brake
and my wife were in the copse talking together. She
still followed him. Then, and he, scoundrel that he was,
had broken his promise. A fury seemed to fill my
veins as I made this discovery, I felt the impulse
strong upon me to run USh into the grove and
then and there strangle the villain. He was poisoning my peace.
But with a powerful effort I restrained myself. It was
necessary that I should overhear what was said. I threw
myself flat on the grass and so glided silently into
the copse until I was completely within ear shot. This
was what I heard. My wife was sobbing, So soon,
so soon, I Hammond, give me a little time. I cannot, Elsie.
My chief orders me to join him. You must prepare
to accompany me. No, no, murmured Elsie. He loves me
so and I love him our child too. How can
I rob him of our unborn babe, another sheep for
our flock, answered Brake solemnly, Elsie, do you forget your oath?
Are you one of us? Or are you a common
hypocrite who will be of us until the hour of
self sacrifice and then fly like a coward? Elsie, you
must leave to night. Ah my husband, my husband, sobbed
the unhappy woman. You have no husband, woman, cried Brake harshly.
I promised Brake not to speak to you as long
as you were his wife, but the vow was annulled
before it was made. Your husband in God yet awaits you.
You will be blessed with a true spouse. I feel
as if I were going to die, cried Elsie. How
can I ever forsake him, he who was so good
to me? Nonsense, no weakness. He is not worthy of you.
Go home and prepare for your journey. You know where
to meet me. I will have everything ready, and by
daybreak there shall be no trace of us left. Beware
of permitting your husband to suspect anything. He is not
very shrewd at such things. He thought I was a
jesuit in disguise. But we had better be careful. Now go,
you have been too long here already bless you, sister.
A few faint sobs, a rustling of leaves, and I
knew that Brake was alone. I rose and stepped silently
into the open space in which he stood. His back
was toward me, His arms were lifted high over his
head with an exultant gesture, and I could see his
profile as it slightly turned toward me, illuminated with a
smile of scornful triumph. I put my hand suddenly on
his throat from behind, and flung him on the ground
before he could utter a cry, not a word, I said,
clasping a short bladed knife, which I carried answer my questions,
or by Heaven, I will cut your throat from ear
to ear. He looked up into my face with an
unflinching eye, and set his lips as if resolved to
suffer all. What are you? Who are you? What object
have you in the seduction of my wife? He smiled,
but was silent. Ah, you won't answer, We'll see. I
pressed the knife slowly against his throat. His face contracted spasmodically,
but although a thin red thread of blood sprang out
along the edge of the blade, Brake remained mute. An
idea suddenly seized me. This sort of death had no
terrors for him. I would try another. There was the precipice.
I was twite as powerful as he was, so I
seized him in my arms, and in a moment trans
afforded him to the margin of the steep, smooth cliff,
the edge of which was garnished with the tough stems
of the wild vine. He seemed to feel it was
useless to struggle with me, so allowed me passively to
roll him over the edge. When he was suspended in
the air, I gave him a vine stem to cling
to and let him go. He swung at a height
of eighty feet, with face upturned and pale, he dared
not look down. I seated myself on the edge of
the cliff, and with my knife began to cut into
the thick vine a foot or two above the place
of his grasp. I was correct in my calculation. This
terror was too much for him. As he saw the
notch in the vine getting deeper and deeper, his determination
gave way. I'll answer you, he gasped out, gazing at
me with starting eyeballs. But do you ask what are you?
Was my question as I ceased cutting at the stem.
A Mormon was the answer, uttered with a quick groan.
Take me up. My hands are slipping quick, and you
wanted my wife to follow you to that infernal Salt
Lake city. I suppose, for God's sake, release me. I'll
quit the place, never to come back. Do help me up, Dayton,
I'm falling. I felt mightily inclined to let the villain drop,
but it did not suit my purpose to be hung
for murderer. So I swung him back again over the sward,
where he fell panting and exhausted. Will you quit the
place to night? I said, you'd better by heaven. If
you don't, I'll tell all the men in the village
and we'll lynch you as sure as your name is Brake.
I'll go, I'll go, he groaned. I swear never to
trouble you again. You ought to be hanged, you villain.
Be off. He slunk away through the trees like a
beaten dog, and I went home in a state bordering
on despair. I found Elsie crying. She was sitting by
the window as of old. I knew now why she
gazed so constantly at the west. It was her Mecca.
Something in my face, I suppose told her that I
was laboring under great excitement. She rose startled. As soon
as I entered the room, Elsie said, I I am
come to take you home home. Why I am at home?
Am I not? What do you mean? No, this is
no longer your home. You have deceived me. You are
a Mormon. I know all. You have become a convert
to that apostle of Hell Brigham Young, and you cannot
live with me. I love you still, Elsie, dearly, but
you must go and live with your father. She saw
there was no appeal from my word, and with a
face hopeless with despair, she arranged her dress and passively
went with me. I live in the same village with
my wife, and yet am not a widower. She is
very penitent, they say, Yet I cannot bring myself to
believe that one who has allowed the Mormon poison to
enter her veins can ever be cured. People say that
we shall come together again, But I know better. Mine
is not the first hearth that Mormonism has rendered desolate.
H