CHAPTER XX.THE FEARFUL SECRET.
“Our actions travel and are veiled; and yetWe sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of oneWhen out of sight its march hath well nigh gone,An unveiled thing which we can ne’er forget!All sins it gathers up into its course,As they do grow with it, and its force,One day with busy speed that thing shall come,Recoiling on the heart that was its home.”
“Our actions travel and are veiled; and yetWe sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of oneWhen out of sight its march hath well nigh gone,An unveiled thing which we can ne’er forget!All sins it gathers up into its course,As they do grow with it, and its force,One day with busy speed that thing shall come,Recoiling on the heart that was its home.”
“Our actions travel and are veiled; and yetWe sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of oneWhen out of sight its march hath well nigh gone,An unveiled thing which we can ne’er forget!All sins it gathers up into its course,As they do grow with it, and its force,One day with busy speed that thing shall come,Recoiling on the heart that was its home.”
“Our actions travel and are veiled; and yet
We sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of one
When out of sight its march hath well nigh gone,
An unveiled thing which we can ne’er forget!
All sins it gathers up into its course,
As they do grow with it, and its force,
One day with busy speed that thing shall come,
Recoiling on the heart that was its home.”
It was late in the afternoon when Alma Elverton, returning from the prison, reached Edenlawn.
Not daring to present herself unsummoned before her stern mother, she went direct to her own chamber, threw off her bonnet and mantle, and then rang for her attendant.
Old Madelon, in her hight Frenchbonne’scap made her appearance.
“Will you go to my mamma, Madelon, and tell her that I have returned from my ride, and ask her to say whether I shall come to her?” said Alma.
“I vill go, Meess Elverton, but miladie is—is more—vat sall I say?” said thebonne, hesitating.
“Disturbed, sorrowful?” suggested Alma.
“No,severe. Miladie is more severe to-day as ever. I no like to go to her, but I vill go.”
“Do, good Madelon; she will be pleased to hear that I have returned,” said Alma, gently.
“I know not, Meess Alma, I know not,” said old Madelon, shaking her head as she left the room.
Alma, full of anxiety upon many subjects, threw herself into an arm-chair to await the coming of thebonne.
Nearly an hour passed before the return of Madelon, who entered, saying:
“You must pardon me for staying so long time, Meess Alma; but it was no mine fault, miladie vas keep me.”
“And has she sent for me at last?”
“No, no, Meess Alma; she say you mus’ dine, and then come to her, and no before.”
Alma made a gesture of impatience. It was now late; time was flying fast. The hour at which she had promised to meet her unhappy father was quickly approaching, and, fraught with danger, as it might be, she was resolved to keep her appointment.
“I am not hungry; I do not wish to dine at all. Why cannot I go to my mother at once?”
“Miladie’s commands—Meess Alma must rest, and must eat, and then come.”
“But if I am neither tired nor hungry. Can I not go to mamma now?”
“No, miladie is engaged. Miladie writes letters. Shewill see Meess Alma later. She will send when she wants her child.”
“Go on then, Madelon, I can go through the form of dinner, at least,” said Alma, looking anxiously at her watch.
It was five o’clock, and she had promised to meet her father at six. There was an hour left. There might yet be time to keep her appointment. She hoped to dispatch her meal, hurry through her interview with her mother, and then hasten to the wood.
She followed old Madelon down into the dining-room, where a delicate little repast had been prepared for her. She ate a piece of chicken and a jelly, and was picking a bunch of grapes when the lady’s bell rang for Madelon, who hastened to answer it, but soon returned with a message summoning Alma to her mother’s apartments.
Alma immediately hurried thither. She found the beautiful, majestic, pale-faced lady seated in the luxurious chair beside the elegant table in the midst of the gloom and glow of that crimson and golden room. That still woman was the picture of which the boudoir was but the back ground and frame.
As her daughter entered, the lady lifted her languid eyes from the book she was reading, and silently motioned Alma to take the chair on the other side of the table.
The young girl obeyed, and waited for her mother to speak. But the lady’s large eyes had again fallen upon her book, and in a few moments she seemed to have forgotten the presence of her daughter.
Alma stole a glance at her watch. It was half-past five. Her heart throbbed with anxiety. She ventured to break the silence by saying:
“I did your errand faithfully and successfully, dear mother.”
“I will speak to you about that presently, Alma,” saidthe lady, turning a leaf of her book, and relapsing into silence.
Alma fell into thought. She had private anxieties enough of her own to engage her mind. She was extremely desirous to keep her appointment with her unhappy father. She was extremely fearful, also, of a rencounter between her father and her betrothed. She therefore felt the urgent necessity of being herself early on the ground to meet the first comer, whether that should be her father or her betrothed. If it should be the former, she would draw him quickly off in some other direction to avoid a meeting with Captain Montrose. If the latter, she would merely greet him and dismiss him, to shun a rencounter with Mr. Elverton. All these plans were fraught with danger, but they were the best that she could improvise for the exigency. Meanwhile, how quickly the precious minutes flew while she sat waiting her mother’s leisure.
The elegant little ormolu clock on the chimney-piece struck six.
Alma started and looked up. The hour had come.
“Mamma, I wish to take an evening walk. If you will permit me, I will go, and return when you have leisure to attend to me,” said the young girl, desperately.
“Are you so impatient, Alma? Well, then, I will hear you now,” said the lady, closing her book and laying it down.
“No, mamma, I am not impatient. Indeed, I should prefer taking my usual walk first, and then come to you again,” replied the young girl, while a deep blush suffused her cheeks.
“You have had a long drive—enough of fresh air and exercise for one day. You may forego your walk; nay, youmustdo so.”
Alma’s color went and came rapidly.
The lady continued:
“I have finished my book, and am quite ready to attend you; so now tell me, how did you find your friend?”
This turned the current of Alma’s thoughts, and she answered:
“Fearfully changed, mamma—so thin, so pale, so care-worn, you would never have known her.”
“She accepted the loan without reluctance?” asked the lady.
“No, mamma, there was much hesitation; but I used the arguments with which you had provided me, and I assured her that those who sent her the money had a personal interest in her acquittal that made it quite right they should bear their share in the cost of her defence.”
“You were right; but how did she meet this explanation?”
“With the confiding faith of a grateful child—only anxious to know the names of her benefactors, that she might mention them in her prayers.”
“Why do you saybenefactors, when there was butme?” inquired the lady.
“Mamma, when we speak of anyone in the third person, without wishing even to divulge their sex, we say ‘they,’ because we have no third person singular of the common gender. And because I used the pronoun ‘they,’ she fancied there was more than one, and spoke of her benefactors,” answered Alma, blushing deeply at the necessary reservation.
“Well, but you did not give the name?”
“No, mamma.”
“Did she speak of her approaching trial? Is she frightened? Has she hopes? Speak; tell me more about her.”
In reply to this adjuration, Alma related in detail the full account of her visit to Eudora. And while Alma described the anguish to which the poor imprisoned girl was a prey, the lady, long past shedding tears of sympathy, could only drop her head upon her hands, and groan as one suffering under some heavy burthen of remorse.
As Alma, forgetting her own embarrassment in the deep sorrows of Eudora, was still engaged in describing the prison interview, the clock struck seven.
She started, clasped her hands, and gazed appealingly towards her mother.
“Well, it is too late now, Alma, to keep your appointment. Even if Captain Montrose has waited a whole hour over his time, it is not likely that he will wait half an hour longer, which is the length of time it would take you to reach the trysting-ground,” said the lady, coldly.
“Mamma!” exclaimed the dismayed girl, distressed at this discovery of her interview with her lover, and frightened lest that discovery should have also extended to her meeting with her father. Upon this latter point, however, the next words of Mrs. Elverton reassured her.
“Yes, poor child, I know all about it; you went to the wood yesterday to meet Norham Montrose.”
“But, mamma—”
“Nay, poor girl, I do not blame you for the past, but I give you leave to blameme, both for the past and the future, if ever you meet your lover again.”
“Oh, mamma!” sobbed Alma, drawing near, and sinking at her mother’s feet.
But Mrs. Elverton, with a shudder of repulsion, rolled her chair back, and said:
“Alma, resume your seat. Keep as far from me as you can, keep so as to remain in ear-shot only, while I speak to you.”
Tremblingly Alma arose and receded to her chair, where she sat with pallid cheeks, clasped hands, and wistful eyes still fixed upon the stern, white face of that strange mother.
“Alma,” said the lady, coldly, “I do not mean to deal in mysteries. I learned this morning from the old gardener, Denny—who begged an interview with me for the purpose of making a communication which he deemed it his duty tomake—that you had an interview with Captain Montrose in the woods behind the house last evening. At least he met you loitering there, and a few minutes later met Captain Montrose going towards you. He inferred that there was an interview and an appointment. Alma, was the old man right?”
“Mamma,” said Alma, seeking to hide her fiery blushes with both hands. “Yes, he told you the truth; but oh, mamma, hear my defence—”
“Not now—not until I have done speaking. I dismissed the old man, with thanks for his fidelity, and with an injunction to silence, which I am sure that he will observe for your sake; for be assured, Alma, that such interviews seriously compromise the fair fame of a young girl.”
“Mamma! Oh! let me explain—” again interrupted Alma, who seemed unable to bear for an instant the implied reproach in her mother’s words.
“Not yet; not yet, Alma; hear me out. After thinking over the old man’s story, I came to the conclusion that the interview of yesterday might have been accidental—”
“It was, indeed, partly so, mamma.”
“And that it might or might not have resulted in an appointment for this evening. I did not wish to accuse you wrongfully, so I resolved to detain you in this room and observe your manner. And, Alma, your own restlessness and anxiety have revealed to me that youhadmade such an appointment with Captain Montrose this evening. Is it not so?”
“Yes, mamma, yes; but hear me and forgive me.”
“Presently—presently; but let me tell you first that the days of romance and poetry, of troubadours and knights, and damsels-errant have passed ages and ages ago. You cannot bring romance into your real life, except at the cost of your fair fame. And I would not have a single evanescent cloud pass before that which should be as bright as a clearsummer day—for it is the only bright thing in your life, Alma!”
“And my fair fame shall continue bright, mamma! Oh! trust me and believe it!” said Alma, earnestly.
“Not if these interviews are repeated,” replied the lady, coldly.
“Mamma, an angel might have been present at our meetings without offence to its heavenly nature,” insisted Alma, fervently.
“And yet not even an angel’s testimony would be taken for that.”
“Oh, mamma!”
“Nay, I do not doubt your word, girl, nor blame you much; but I do very severely censure the conduct of Captain Montrose, who, as a man of the world, knew well how seriously he compromised you,” said Mrs. Elverton, sternly.
“Mamma! mamma! he is not to be censured!” exclaimed Alma, warmly.
“Not for persuading an inexperienced young girl, of high rank, to give him interviews in the woods? What do you mean?”
“Mamma, hear me! Captain Montrose wished nothing better than your sanction to pay his addresses openly to your daughter. He wrote to you and wrote to my grandfather, earnestly entreating such sanction; and his overtures were rejected by both!”
“And properly so!”
“And why, mamma? Oh! why? He is certainly a gentleman of ancient family of unblemished character, and of good position! Why were his proposals so curtly rejected? At least, dear mamma, you owe it to me to give a reason!” pleaded Alma.
“It should be a reason sufficient to satisfy you, Alma, that neither Lord Elverton nor myself chose to favor his addresses.”
“But it is not, mamma! My beating heart cannot be answered so!” said Alma, earnestly.
“Then I have no other answer to give you, Miss Elverton!” said the lady, freezingly.
“Oh, mother, mother, do not speak to me so coldly; if you knew how sad my life is you would not do it! But, mother, let me talk to you a little of Norham,” prayed Alma.
“In my youth, and in my country, young ladies never talked of their lovers, but blushed when others named them. I know not, however, but that a few years of time and a few miles of space may alter customs,” said Mrs. Elverton, ironically.
“I know not, mamma; but if anywhere young women blush to hear their lovers named, it must be because they are happy in their loves; for if it were otherwise it seems to me that their cheeks would pale, not redden.”
“And yours should blanch to marble, girl, at the name of love or marriage!” said the lady, in a low, stern, sad voice.
Her words escaped the ears of Alma, who, leaning forward, clasping her hands, and fixing her eyes earnestly upon the pale face of her mother, said:
“Mamma, mamma,willyou let me speak to you from my heart this once?”
The lady did not reply, and her daughter continued:
“Oh, let me speak to you freely, my mother! To whom can I speak, if not to you? Oh, hear me!—for who will hear me if not you? Whom have I in the world but you? And, mother, who have you in the world but me? Between what two in the universe should there be confidence if not between us?—so separated as we seem from all the earth, so isolated, so lonely? Mother, may I speak to you, at least for once, from my heart?”
“Speak on, Alma; I hear you!”
“Mamma, I wish to account for these few, very few, and mostly chance meetings with Norham in the woods. Andto do so I must commence at the commencement, and speak of the utter—utter loneliness of my life—the loneliness like living death that has been my lot from the moment of my birth, I think, to the present hour.”
“One would naturally suppose that a condition which had commenced with your birth, Alma, and continued to the present time—since you could have known no other—must have become a second nature.”
“One would think so, perhaps: and yet again, perhaps, such a second nature, formed by unnatural circumstances, could not be so forced upon the first original nature created by God. You may take the chrysalis, and shut it under an inverted glass, and so long as it remains a chrysalis it will be happy in its way; but when it developes into a butterfly, and spreads its wings, must it not pine, and suffocate, and die for want of space, and exercise, and air?”
“What mean you, Alma?”
“Mamma, when I was a child, I was happy dressing my dolls and playing with my pets; when I was a school-girl I was contented pursuing my studies and talking with my governess; but all these things have passed away with childhood and girlhood. I am a woman now, with all a woman’s craving for human society, sympathy, and affection. Oh, if I speak plainly, I cannot help it! I feel every hour in the day, and every minute in the hour, that there is something fearfully wronghereandhere!” said Alma, placing her hand upon her head and heart. “And, mamma, believe me, that I feel, if this dreadful hunger of the heart and mind is not satisfied, idiotcy or death must be the result. Mamma, I was happier during the hour that I passed with poor Eudora in her prison-cell, than I have ever been in all the years that I have passed in this splendid living tomb. And why, mamma—why? Only because in that wretched prison-cell I was at leasten rapportwith another human creature!”
“Alma, come to the point—what is it you wish me to do?”
“Mamma bear with me a little while. I was about to say that it was this utter, utter loneliness of life and heart, that laid me so open to the advances of almost any person, man, woman, or child, who might have crossed my path—for the starving will eat husks rather than perish; but Providence sent across my path a noble-minded man, my equal in birth, intellect, and position. He esteemed me, and won my esteem. He asked the sanction of my parents to his addresses, and his overtures were rejected by them. He loved me, and so he haunted the neighborhood of my home only to be near me. From childhood I have been accustomed to walk in those woods where he often accidentally met me. Yesterday I walked as usual in those woods. I will not deceive you, mamma, or say that I did not secretly hope he might be walking there also. He was; and we met. We had not spoken together for a very long time, and it was then so late in the evening that our interview was necessarily very short. And so we agreed to meet again this afternoon—to meet as betrothed lovers, who are to marry as soon as they both obtain their majority; for, mamma, there must come a time, when, if I live, I shall be free, by the laws of God and man, to give my hand where my heart has long been given—and I have promised, when that time shall come, to be the wife of Norham Montrose, and, mamma, I mean to keep my promise! There, mamma, I have told you all.”
It was impossible that that white-faced woman could have become whiter, but now a livid grayness crept over her features that also seemed to harden into stone. It was in a low, level, ominous monotone that she repeated:
“You have told me all—now what is it you wish me to do?”
“Oh, mamma, pity me, take me to your heart, give me your confidence, make me happy—it will take but a littleto do that! Recall Norham Montrose; give him your sanction to visit me here in your house—here under your eye!” prayed Alma, with clasped hands and beseeching eyes.
“I am glad that you have spoken so plainly, girl, for now I can answer you; and you must take that answer to be as final and immutable as though the words were sealed by the most solemn and binding oaths. And my answer is this—that you must never see Captain Montrose again!”
“Oh, mamma, mamma, tell me at least why you object to him. Is it his birth, his position, or his character?” exclaimed Alma, earnestly.
“It is neither. His birth, position, and character might fairly entitle him to wed any young lady in the land.”
“Is there, then, any family feud between his House and mine, such as sometimes divide——”
“Lovers?—a Montague and Capulet folly? No! His family and yours have always been the best friends. In short, Alma, neither Lord Elverton nor myself, nor any of our friends have the least personal objection whatever either to Captain Montrose himself or to any of his family. I can assure you of that, if it can give you any satisfaction.”
“Oh, it does—it does, mamma! God bless you for that tribute to Norham’s worth! Oh, mamma, you have told me what the objection isnot—oh, tell me what itis! I might find a way—”
“Alma,” interrupted the lady, in a deep, low, stern voice, “many months ago I warned you that love and marriage were not for you; many months ago I warned you, if you would escape the heaviest curse that could hurl a soul to perdition, to avoid the friendship of woman, and the love of man—DIDI not?”
“Yes, you did—you did! butwhy,WHY, my mother?” demanded Alma, with her hands still tightly clasped and extended, and her eyes still fixed upon the face of her mother.
“Alma,” commenced the lady, in a voice of almost awful solemnity, “if I might be permitted to do so, I would willingly spare you the anguish of hearing the words that I must speak; but destiny is stronger than I am—stronger than all are!”
“Say on, my mother. Oh, say on! If there is anything I ought to know, let me hear it—never mind the pain!” prayed Alma, with her clasped hands.
“But, oh! must it be my tongue that tells you at last, Alma, that your parents’ marriage proved the most awful calamity that could have crushed any two human beings! That your birth was a curse to Hollis Elverton—a curse to me, and deeper still, a curse to you! Thatyourlove lighting upon any human being would be the darkest misfortune that could fall upon them! Thatyourmarriage with any man would be the direst catastrophe that could blight him—”
Her dreadful words were interrupted by a wild, half-suppressed shriek from Alma, who buried her face in her open hands for a moment, and then raising her head, cried:
“Mother, I must be marble!—yes, marble! I cannot be flesh and blood as others, or your words would kill me!”
“And you are not flesh and blood as others! but something set apart, accursed, that must not join heart or hand with any other human being!”
“But why,why,WHY, my mother? that is what I wish to know, what Ioughtto know, what Iwillknow! for when you pronounce a sentence that may consign me at eighteen years of age to the long-living death of an existence without love, without friendship, without sympathy, without communion with my kind, I ought, Imust, IWILLknow the reasonwhy!” cried Alma, with wild and startling energy.
“Poor wretch!” muttered the lady, with something like pity vibrating in the cold monotone of her voice, and disturbing the strong rigidity of her features—“poor wretch! you rush blindly upon your fate just as I did! Aye, yourvery words were once mine! Alma, when, eighteen years ago, Hollis Elverton rushed into my presence, and, in frenzied despair, told me that we must part then, there, and forever, I, too, in the extremity of my anguish and terror, demanded and wrung from him thewhy—theWHYthat doomed me to that living death of widowhood.”
“And he told you. My father kept no secret from the wife of his bosom,” said the young girl.
“He told me. Alma, there are things that kill the soul in the body and turn the body into stone! He told me—he whispered one dreadful word in my ear that struck me down at his feet as a thunderbolt strikes a statue to the ground! When I recovered my consciousness he was gone, and I knew that he could not, ought not, must not ever return!”
“And yet he loved you, my mother?” whispered Alma, in the half hushed tone of awe.
“Yes,” muttered the lady.
“And yet you loved him?”
“Yes.”
“And your marriage was happy up to that fatal evening?”
“Perfectly happy.”
“And yet—and yet——”
“And yet we parted—yes, as ships at sea that meet and strike in the fog and fly asunder—wrecks doomed to go down to destruction! So we married, and so we severed.”
“Was it right?”
“It was right.”
“Oh, mother, what made it right? What could make it right that you and my father, who loved each other so devotedly, who were so worthy of each other, too, and whose marriage was so happy in itself, and so highly approved by all, should separate so suddenly—so utterly and everlastingly.”
The lady did not reply, but turned away her face to avoid the searching eyes of her daughter.
“Oh, Heaven!” cried Alma, “there could have been but one reason—some previous engagement, or bond, or, or——”
She could not bring herself to utter the other word, but dropped her face in her hands, while her bosom rose and fell with those convulsive, tearless sobs that seem to “press the life from out young hearts.”
“I know what you would say, Alma; but you are mistaken, poor, unhappy girl! There was no previous engagement, bond or love, far less marriage, either on Hollis Elverton’s side or mine, with any third person whose existence could invalidate our marriage. Hollis Elverton was a bachelor and I a girl when we married, nor had either of us ever loved until we met and loved each other. No, Alma, it was no previous marriage that burst ours asunder,” said the lady, as some memory of unusually exquisite pain convulsed her statue-like form.
“Then, in the name of heaven, earth and hades,whatwas it?” exclaimed Alma, with starting vehemence.
“I have told you enough—enough to decide your fate. I must not tell you more!”
“Yes, and without any reason assigned, you have pronounced a sentence of excommunication and outlawry against me; a sentence that cuts me off from the comforts of religion and the intercourse of society; a sentence that dooms me to a fate worse, infinitely worse than death. But, mother, without a reason that shall convince my own judgment, and satisfy my own conscience, I cannot, and ought not, to accept that sentence or submit to that fate!” said Alma, with gentle firmness.
“Rash girl, what do you mean by that?”
“I mean, mamma, that, though I may obey your hard commands while I am a minor, even though obedience may destroy my life or reason, as it may, but when I am free, mamma, as every one ought to be at some period of their life, I must redeem my plighted troth by bestowing myhand upon that Norham Montrose to whom even you acknowledge that you have no personal objection whatever. This is all I mean, mamma.”
“But in the interval you will meet him and converse with him often?”
“No, mother, I will not seek to see him; I will even try to avoid him.”
“But if he should throw himself in your way, or happen to meet you and speak to you, you would answer him—you would converse with him?”
“I wish I could promise you that I would not, mamma; but oh, I could not keep such a promise, believe me I could not,” said Alma, convulsed with sobs.
“I do believe you; and that belief forces me at length to speak that word—that word which must sever you at once and forever from him and from all others—that word which may sink into your heart and corrode your life until you are as bloodless as I am; or, that may kill you at once—strike you down dead before me! Be it so; better you should die than live to marry,” said the lady, rising and approaching her daughter, while the grayness of death again overspread her pallid face.
Alma, with a dreadful sickness of the heart, waited to hear some fatal communication.
Mrs. Elverton bent down and whispered in her ear.
Alma sprang to her feet, gazed with dilated eyes and blanched cheeks in bewildering despair upon her mother’s face, as though unable to receive at once the full horror of her words, and then drew her hands wildly to her head, reeled forward and fell senseless to the floor.