PART I
"We ought never to do wrong when
people are looking."
I
The first scene is in the
country, in Virginia; the time, 1880. There has been a wedding,
between a handsome young man of slender means and a rich young
girl—a case of love at first sight and a precipitate marriage; a
marriage bitterly opposed by the girl's widowed father.
Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is
twenty-six years old, is of an old but unconsidered family which
had by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and for King James's
purse's profit, so everybody said—some maliciously the rest merely
because they believed it. The bride is nineteen and beautiful. She
is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably proud of her
Cavalier blood, and passionate in her love for her young husband.
For its sake she braved her father's displeasure, endured his
reproaches, listened with loyalty unshaken to his warning
predictions, and went from his house without his blessing, proud
and happy in the proofs she was thus giving of the quality of the
affection which had made its home in her heart.
The morning after the marriage
there was a sad surprise for her. Her husband put aside her
proffered caresses, and said:
"Sit down. I have something to
say to you. I loved you. That was before I asked your father to
give you to me. His refusal is not my grievance—I could have
endured that. But the things he said of me to you—that is a
different matter. There—you needn't speak; I know quite well what
they were; I got them from authentic sources. Among other things he
said that my character was written in my face; that I was
treacherous, a dissembler, a coward, and a brute without sense of
pity or compassion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it—and
'white-sleeve badge.' Any other man in my place would have gone to
his house and shot him down like a dog. I wanted to do it, and was
minded to do it, but a better thought came to me: to put him to
shame; to break his heart; to kill him by inches. How to do it?
Through my treatment of you, his idol! I would marry you; and
then—Have patience. You will see."
From that moment onward, for
three months, the young wife suffered all the humiliations, all the
insults, all the miseries that the diligent and inventive mind of
the husband could contrive, save physical injuries only. Her strong
pride stood by her, and she kept the secret of her troubles. Now
and then the husband said, "Why don't you go to your father and
tell him?" Then he invented new tortures, applied them, and asked
again. She always answered, "He shall never know by my mouth," and
taunted him with his origin; said she was the lawful slave of a
scion of slaves, and must obey, and would—up to that point, but no
further; he could kill her if he liked, but he could not break her;
it was not in the Sedgemoor breed to do it. At the end of the three
months he said, with a dark significance in his manner, "I have
tried all things but one"—and waited for her reply. "Try that," she
said, and curled her lip in mockery.
That night he rose at midnight
and put on his clothes, then said to her, "Get up and dress!"
She obeyed—as always, without a
word. He led her half a mile from the house, and proceeded to lash
her to a tree by the side of the public road; and succeeded, she
screaming and struggling. He gagged her then, struck her across the
face with his cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on her. They tore
the clothes off her, and she was naked. He called the dogs off, and
said:
"You will be found—by the passing
public. They will be dropping along about three hours from now, and
will spread the news—do you hear? Good-by. You have seen the last
of me."
He went away then. She moaned to
herself:
"I shall bear a child—to him! God
grant it may be a boy!"
The farmers released her
by-and-by—and spread the news, which was natural. They raised the
country with lynching intentions, but the bird had flown. The young
wife shut herself up in her father's house; he shut himself up with
her,
and thenceforth would see no one.
His pride was broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by day,
and even his daughter rejoiced when death relieved him.
Then she sold the estate and
disappeared.
II
In 1886 a young woman was living
in a modest house near a secluded New England village, with no
company but a little boy about five years old. She did her own
work, she discouraged acquaintanceships, and had none. The butcher,
the baker, and the others that served her could tell the villagers
nothing about her further than that her name was Stillman, and that
she called the child Archy. Whence she came they had not been able
to find out, but they said she talked like a Southerner. The child
had no playmates and no comrade, and no teacher but the mother. She
taught him diligently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the
results—even a little proud of them. One day Archy said,
"Mamma, am I different from other
children?" "Well, I suppose not. Why?"
"There was a child going along
out there and asked me if the postman had been by and I said yes,
and she said how long since I saw him and I said I hadn't seen him
at all, and she said how did I know he'd been by, then, and I said
because I smelt his track on the sidewalk, and she said I was a dum
fool and made a mouth at me. What did she do that for?"