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Title: My Wife's Tempter
Author: Fitz-James O'Brien
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Language: English
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Date first posted: July 2006
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Title: My Wife's Tempter
Author: Fitz-James O'Brien



I. 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 her 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 nights, 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 the 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 Brake 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 relations
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 cannonading
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 had liked me all along, and
that her refusals 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.

Once only 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
hand--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 round 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.

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 cloud 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's 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
rapt 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 Hammond 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 sat, 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 exorcise 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 knights 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 round 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 the 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.

I believed I understood. I was tolerably rich. I knew it could not be
any secret over milliners' bills or women's usual money troubles. God
help 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.
Hammond 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. Awe, fear,
and admiration were all blent 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 the little volume that lay on her lap in one of her wide
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 clew.

"What new novel or philosophical wonder have you both been poring
over?" I asked quite gayly, stealthily watching at the same time the
telltale embarrassment under which Elsie was laboring.

Brake, who was not in the least discomposed, replied. "That," said he,
"is a secret which must be kept from you. It is an advance copy, and
is not to be shown to anyone except your wife."

"Ha!" 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 Hammond 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
book leaf 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 plant 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
Hammond Brake's track.

He heard the footsteps, and I saw his figure, black against the sky,
stop 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.

"Brake," 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 proselyte 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 rather a sneering chuckle he marched on along the road and
vanished into the darkness.



II. 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 Brake my house, I was
strolling over my farm in the evening apparently inspecting my
agriculture, but in reality speculating on that topic which latterly
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 rush into the grove, and then and there strangle the villain who
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 earshot. 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 Dayton
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 yet be blessed with the 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, unclasping 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 twice as powerful as he was,
so I seized him in my arms, and in a moment transported 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;
"what do you ask?"

"What are you?" was my question, as I ceased cutting at the stem.

"A Mormon," was the answer, uttered with a 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 murder, so I swung him back again on 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."



THE END



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