CHAPTER XVII.THE STRANGE INTERVIEW.
“And now they are standing face to face;Hath a dream come over that sylvan place?One of those visions ghastly and wild,That makes her shrink like a frightened child?“For a while she stood as a bird is saidTo meet the gaze of the serpent dread,Pale and still for a time she stoodIn the midst of that woodland solitude.”
“And now they are standing face to face;Hath a dream come over that sylvan place?One of those visions ghastly and wild,That makes her shrink like a frightened child?“For a while she stood as a bird is saidTo meet the gaze of the serpent dread,Pale and still for a time she stoodIn the midst of that woodland solitude.”
“And now they are standing face to face;Hath a dream come over that sylvan place?One of those visions ghastly and wild,That makes her shrink like a frightened child?
“And now they are standing face to face;
Hath a dream come over that sylvan place?
One of those visions ghastly and wild,
That makes her shrink like a frightened child?
“For a while she stood as a bird is saidTo meet the gaze of the serpent dread,Pale and still for a time she stoodIn the midst of that woodland solitude.”
“For a while she stood as a bird is said
To meet the gaze of the serpent dread,
Pale and still for a time she stood
In the midst of that woodland solitude.”
Alma grew up as beautiful as one of Raphael’s picture angels; but her beauty was of a directly opposite style to that of her handsome mother. Alma resembled the patrician women of her father’s family. Her form was of fairy-like proportions, small, slender, delicate, yet well-rounded and very graceful. Her features were of the purest Grecian type, her complexion was exquisitely fair, with the faintest rose-tint flushing cheeks and lips. Her hair was of a pale gold color; her eyebrows and eyelashes, of a darker hue, shaded deep blue eyes full of pensive thought. Hers was a beauty that might have gladdened a family circle and adorned society. But alas for Alma! Her young life passed in a worse than conventual seclusion.
Scarcely any form of existence in this world could be so lonely and monotonous as that of this fair girl at Edenlawn—Edenlawn, a paradise to look at, a purgatory to live in!
After the departure of her governess, Alma was literally solitary. Her mother, in the blind selfishness of a cherished grief, dwelt apart in her own private suite of rooms, which she never left except at the call of charity. Alma had neither brother, sister, friend, nor neighbor; she was utterly companionless, and her life, therefore, more lonely than perhaps that of any other young creature in this world.
The children of the poorest parents have companions among their equals; the inmates of orphan asylums are herded together in great numbers; the cloistered nuns form large communities among themselves; even the convict prisoners work together in great gangs. In a word, the most wretched in this world were, in many respects, happier than Alma Elverton, the young and beautiful heiress-apparent of Edenlawn, Torg Castle, and the Barony of Elverton; for they at least enjoyed human sympathy and companionship, while she had no friend—not one—not a single creature of her own kind to speak with.
It is true there were laborers on the estate and servants in the house; but what society could the young girl find in them?
And there was her mother, retired within the citadel of her own mysterious and selfish sorrows; but what companionship could Alma find in her?
All young girls, as they develop into womanhood, yearn from their secret souls for a more perfect sympathy than they usually meet from their own family circles. This is the real cause of romantic school-girl friendships, and, alas! too frequently of other less harmless attachments.
In large and busy households, of many sisters and brothers, this aspiration is very much modified and rendered quite endurable. But the more lonely and idle the life of a young girl is doomed to be, the more intense is this secret yearning for sympathy. And if she happens to be of a poetic temperament also, the longing of her heart becomes the monomania of her mind.
Alma, with no one to converse with, no work to do, and no visits to receive or to pay, became an aspiring dreamer of beautiful dreams, impossible to be realized in this world of stern realities; for “love, still love!” was the burden of those dreams. And even as it takes a feast to satisfy the hungry, so it would have required the whole circle of human love—father’s, mother’s, sister’s, brother’s, friend’s,and lover’s—to have satisfied the craving of Alma’s starving heart. And she had none, not one atom of love, to keep that heart from perishing!
What do physicians mean by an atrophy of the heart? We all know what an atrophy of the stomach is—simply starvation for want of food. Is not an atrophy of the heart also starvation for the lack of love? He who said, “Feed my lambs,” said also, “Love one another.” And perhaps as many are perishing in this world for lack of love as for the want of food.
Alma’s was an extreme case of this sort of starvation. And small as her experience was, she had seen, heard, and read enough to discover that her own life was very different from all other lives around her. At church, every Sunday, she saw happy family parties gathered together in their family pews. After the service, in the churchyard, she saw friends and neighbors greeting each other with affection and delight. She knew that, as the grand-daughter of the celebrated Baron Elverton, and as the heiress-apparent of his titles and estates, she was entitled to fully as much consideration as any other young lady in the county. Why did she not receive it?
From casual words and chance allusions, rather than from any detailed narrative or voluntary communication from the servants, Alma had gleaned as much of the domestic history as was known to the servants themselves. And she dreamed, wondered, and speculated upon the subject of the mystery that enveloped her family.
Her father! What was it that, on the night before her birth, had driven him in an agony of horror from his home forever?
Her mother! What was it that, from the hour of Alma’s birth, had frozen that beautiful and ardent woman into the cold, hard statue that she now seemed?
Herself! What was it that set her apart, lonely and unloved, from all the human race?
Alma could have loved her mother, and been happy in her mother’s love; but the cold and repellant atmosphere that surrounded the lady chilled and repulsed the maiden.
But Alma loved her unknown father with a love passing the love of woman, and all the mystery that hung over his sudden flight, his long exile, and his uncertain fate, only served to strengthen, deepen, and intensify this love.
Adjoining the library was a small study that had once belonged to her father, but which her mother was never known to enter. Here hung a full length portrait of her father, painted in London soon after his marriage. It represented a man in the prime of his youth, of a tall and finely-proportioned form, Grecian features, fair complexion, falcon-fierce blue eyes, and golden brown hair—a man of whom Alma seemed a small feminine copy.
Into this study Alma removed her work-table, her easel, paint-box, and books. And here, seated in front of the beloved portrait, Alma liked best to employ her mornings in needle-work, in drawing, reading, or dreaming of her unknown father. Her afternoons were passed in wandering by the margin of fair Eden’s waters below the villa, or in roaming through the old woods behind the mansion, and ever dreaming of her unknown father, and yearning for his presence and his love.
Alma was very punctual in her attendance upon public worship, not only from religious principle—though that of itself would have been a sufficient motive to her—but also from the absolute necessity of at least looking upon the human beings with whom she could hold no other intercourse.
After the departure of her governess, she alone occupied the great family pew of the Elvertons, until Lady Leaton, who was then recently widowed, felt compassion for the lonely girl, and availing herself of the privilege given by a slight acquaintance with the Honorable Mrs. Elverton, invited Alma to sit with her family. Thereseemed to be no possible objection to this plan, and the solitary girl was only too glad to accept the kind invitation and sit with a party of young creatures of her own age and rank. This party consisted now of Agatha and Eudora Leaton, and Malcolm and Norham Montrose.
Alma informed her mother of this courtesy on the part of Lady Leaton.
Mrs. Elverton made no absolute objection, but gravely shook her head and said:
“I have almost ceased to wage a vain war with destiny; yet, girl, I would warn you against one error that to you would be fatal! There are two young gentlemen on a visit to that family; it is their attentions that I would have you shun as you would shun eternal perdition! Beware of the Messrs. Montrose! Beware of all men! for, Alma, love and marriage are not for you!”
Alma grew pale as death at the awful words and manner of her mother, for she felt that the warning came too late, as warnings generally do.
Alma had been introduced to every member of Lady Leaton’s party, and among the rest, to Captain Norham Montrose, who was at once deeply impressed by the fresh and delicate beauty of the fair young girl, and strongly attracted by the splendid prospects of the rich young heiress.
And Alma, with all her lonely heart and soul yearning and aching for companionship and sympathy, became too easily fascinated by the love-tuned voice and love-tempered gaze of the handsome young hussar.
A few weeks, therefore, irretrievably decided the destiny of Alma—she loved, and loved for ever!
To have gained the passionate love of a creature so good and beautiful, with a heart so fresh and pure, was a triumph such as had never before fallen to the lot of the fascinating young officer. And what at first had been to him a pursuit half of admiration, half speculation, becameat length a mad passion, an infatuation, a delirium! He could scarcely be said to live out of Alma’s presence. The world to him soon came to be divided only into two parts—where she was, and where she was not; and time into two eras—when she was present, and when she was absent. He saw her only at church on Sundays, and the six days that intervened between were to him “spaces between stars.”
To boldly ask the hand of this heiress of her grandfather and her mother, was nothing less than madness on the part of a young officer with only his pay. And yet, instigated as much by his overweening pride as by his headlong passion, Captain Montrose wrote to Lord Elverton and to Mrs. Elverton, asking their permission to pay his addresses to Miss Elverton at Edenlawn. From Lord Elverton he received a courteous but decided refusal—from Mrs. Elverton a sharp and peremptory denial.
And after this poor Alma’s only social solace was taken away from her, and she was forbidden to go to church.
This prohibition, as might have been expected, did more harm than good; for whereas, before it was issued, the young lovers met only once a week at church in the presence of others, they now met almost every day alone in the woods behind Edenlawn. These meetings commenced not by appointment, but rather by accident. Alma, as has been already said, was in the daily habit of walking by the margin of the lake below Edenlawn, or in the woods behind the house.
Norham, missing her from her seat at church, and forbidden to call upon her at her mother’s house, and longing for her society as the dying long for life, walked to Edenlawn, and rambled through the woods, only to be near the dwelling that contained his idol. In these rambles he met Alma. But an angel might have been present at these meetings for any indiscretion on the part of the young lovers.
Norham did indeed use all the eloquence of passion to persuade Alma to fly with him to Scotland. But dreary as was the home life of the unhappy girl, she was so far firm to her filial duty as to resist all his persuasions.
“No, no, Norham,” she would answer; “my heart reproaches me bitterly enough for walking with you here, and I should not do it, perhaps, only I feel that if I did not see you sometimes I should go mad with loneliness. But, Norham, I will not farther wrong my mother. Wait until I am of age, and have the right to dispose of my hand; then, Norham, I will place it in yours.”
And no arguments, entreaties, or prayers on the part of her lover availed anything against the conscientious resolution of Alma. And even when at length his leave of absence expired, and he was ordered to join his regiment, which was stationed in Scotland, he took advantage of this fortuitous combination of circumstances to urge upon his beloved Alma the consideration of the deep pain of separation, and the facilities for their union offered by the locality of his service, she remained true to her convictions of duty, and had the firmness to bid him adieu and see him depart.
To young creatures surrounded by sisters, brothers, and cousins, relatives, friends, and neighbors, the self-denial of this lonely girl will scarcely be appreciated.
From the time of her lover’s departure for Scotland she saw no more of him until the day of the double funeral at Allworth Abbey.
We have already said that it was only in the times of their affliction that the Honorable Mrs. Elverton ever visited her neighbors. Thus recluse as she was, she had ordered her mourning coach, and with Alma seated by her side, had attended the funeral solemnities at Allworth Abbey.
In the course of that day Alma had exchanged a glance and a bow with Norham. And the next afternoon,instinctrather than understanding led her out to take a walk in the woods behind Edenlawn.
It was a lovely summer’s afternoon, and the low descending sun was striking his level yellow rays through the interlacings of the forest-trees, edging each leaf and twig, with a golden flame.
Alma wandered on, and in that mental struggle between duty and inclination, or rather between conscience and necessity, that occupies one half of our inner lives.
She was happy in the hope of seeing Norham, and miserable in the fear of doing wrong. This is a paradox of daily occurrence.
While she walked on in the dulcemarah, the bitter sweet of this forbidden hope, she heard the fallen leaves and twigs break beneath a firm footstep behind her.
Her breath stopped, her heart fluttered, her cheek crimsoned. She paused for the coming up of the footsteps, but she did not turn her head.
“I have the honor of speaking to Miss Elverton, I presume.”
The voice of the speaker was deep, rich, and inexpressibly mournful.
Alma started, turned round, and dropped her eyes, while a deep blush mantled her face.
The speaker was a tall, finely-formed, fair-complexioned, and very handsome man, of about forty years of age.
While addressing Alma he held his hat entirely off his head, and stood with a courtly grace that the girl had never seen equalled.
She was naturally surprised and even terrified at the unexpected apparition of a stranger in that lonely place and at that late hour, but aside from these natural emotions, there was something in the aspect of the man that thrilled her with a feeling which was neither surprise nor terror, but something infinitely deeper than either.
“I have the honor of addressing Miss Elverton, I presume?”repeated the stranger, with the same gracious courtesy of tone and manner.
“Yes, sir,” breathed the girl, with her heart throbbing quickly.
“Miss Elverton, does your mother still live?” inquired the deep voice of the stranger.
The throbbing of Alma’s heart nearly suffocated her. Her breath came quickly and gaspingly. She threw her arm around a tree for support, and leaned her head against the rough bark, while she stole another look at the stranger.
Yes, there was the same noble head, with its bright locks of golden brown waving round the broad, white forehead; the same dark blue eyes with the falcon glance; the same Grecian nose, short, proud upper lip, and rounded chin; the same face, only a little older, that daily looked down upon her from the portrait in the study. As Alma realized this truth, she felt as though her last hour of life had come, and that she was dying in a dream.
“Does your mother still live?” repeated the stranger.
“My mother still lives, if breathing means living,” answered Alma, in an expiring voice, and trembling in every limb.
The eyes of the stranger were fixed upon her—were reading her very soul. At length he spoke.
“Girl, your eyes never beheld me before, and yet—does not your instinct recognize me?”
“Oh, Heaven, my heart!” gasped the girl, leaning, pale as death, against the tree.
“Yes, your heart acknowledges him whom your eyes never before saw—”
“My father—”
“Hush—hush—no word of that sort—”
“Oh, my father—”
“Hush, hush, no word like that, I say!” repeated Hollis Elverton, in a sepulchral voice.
But his daughter, pale as death, trembled like a leaf, andnearly fainting with excessive agitation, had entirely lost her self-possession.
She either did not hear or did not understand his strange words.
Extending her arms towards him with a look of imploring affection, and in a voice of thrilling passion, she cried:
“Father! oh father! will you not embrace your child?”
The tall figure of the man shook as a tree shaken by the wind, but he averted his face, and threw his hand towards her with a repelling gesture.
She dropped her arms with a look of shame, sorrow and wonder, murmuring:
“Never since I lived have I been pressed to my mother’s bosom, or received a mother’s kiss, or known a mother’s love. And the father for whose presence my heart has longed through all the years of my lonely youth—the father whom my love has followed through all the years of his long exile—now, in the first moments of our meeting, repulses his child and turns away! Oh, father!” she exclaimed, in passionate earnestness, “what have I done that both my parents should hate me!”
“You have done nothing wrong, nor do we hate you, poor girl!” replied Elverton, in an agitated voice.
“What am I, then, that those who gave me life should turn shudderingly away from me as from a monster accursed?”
“Child, child, cease your wild questionings! There are mysteries in this world that may never be revealed until that last dread day of doom, when all that is hidden shall be made clear!”
After this there was silence between them for a few minutes, during which they gazed upon each other’s faces with mournful, questioning interest. Then Hollis Elverton, in a gentle voice, inquired:
“What name have they given you, child?”
“My mother called me by no name, but the good doctor gave me that of Alma.”
“Then you did not receive the rites of Christian baptism?”
“Not in infancy—not until I was old enough to act for myself in that respect; then I presented myself at the altar, and received at the same time the sacraments of baptism and confirmation.”
“And your mother?”
“She made no objection, but gave me no encouragement. She was neutral in the matter; but, father, did I not do right?”
Hollis Elverton groaned, but made no reply. And again silence fell between them, while they studied each other with the same painful interest. At length she broke the spell by asking, in a tearful voice:
“Father, will you not accompany me to the house, and see my mother?”
“Never!” exclaimed Hollis Elverton, while a spasm of unutterable anguish convulsed his fine face.
“Alas, sir, if not to see her, what motive has brought you back to England?”
“Two of the strongest that can ever govern human action—the love of one I love, the hate of one I hate! I come to watch over and save an angel girl from utter ruin, and to hunt a demon woman to her doom!”
“Your words are strange and alarming, my father.”
“And I can give you no explanation of them now; I am even here in secret. I must see you only in secret, and you must give me your word of honor never to mention this meeting, or even mention the fact of my return to England.”
“Not even to my mother?”
“Not even to her; least of all to her!”
“Alas, alas, my father, do you hate her so?”
“Hate her?—hate your mother?—hate Athenie?—hatemy—oh, Heaven, Alma!—no, I do not hate her; on the contrary—”
Here his voice broke down, and raising his cloak, he veiled his agitated face in its folds.
“Alas, alas, my father! what horror was it that so suddenly burst asunder all ties of affection between you? Father—father, answer me!—tell me that it was not her fault—not my mother’s fault!”
He dropped the fold of his cloak from his face, and looking for the first time angrily upon his daughter, demanded sternly:
“Why should you dare to ask if your mother was in fault?”
“Alas, I know not. I beg your pardon and hers. My short life has been made a desert by this mystery, father, and yet for myself I have never once complained, but when I know that her life is one prolonged agony, and now see the agony stamped upon your brow, I become half crazy, and think—I know not what.”
“I will answer your question, unhappy girl; and assure you, in the presence of high Heaven, that our violent parting was not caused by your mother’s fault. A purer, sweeter, nobler woman than your mother never lived,” said Hollis Elverton, earnestly.
“Oh, God, I thank thee!—I thank thee—I thank thee for that!” cried Alma, in a thrilling voice that betrayed how heavy had been the burden of doubt that rested on her mind, and how ineffable was the sense of relief now that it was lifted off.
“You are satisfied?” inquired Elverton.
“For her, oh, yes; but oh, my father, tell me—this separation was not your fault either?” she cried, clasping her hands, and gazing with imploring eyes into his face.
“No, nor my fault either, Alma; I swear it to you, by all my hopes of Heaven! We loved each other as man and woman seldom love in this world,” replied Elverton,in a hollow voice; “we severed, and until the judgment day it may never be known why.”
“You loved each other so devotedly; you married publicly with the blessings of all your friends; you came hither to your beautiful home, and in one month, in the very perfection of your happiness, your union was shattered as by a thunderbolt from Heaven. You parted; oh, my father, was that well?”
“It was well!” he answered, solemnly.
She looked into the stern sorrow of his face, and read there that, in the simple words of his reply, he had uttered some awful truth. Again her heart yearned towards her father with inextinguishable love. She extended her arms and advanced towards him with imploring looks. But he waved her off, saying, in pitying tones:
“Come, no nearer, unhappy girl! Between you and me there is a great gulf fixed. Hark! Some one approaches! I must leave you now! Good-night—nay, stop one moment! I must see you again at this hour to-morrow. In the meantime, drop no hint of my presence in England.”
“None; I will keep your secret, my father,” replied Alma, as Hollis Elverton, waving adieu, disappeared in the coverts of the woods.