When Bertram Chesleigh came to full consciousness again he found himself lying on a couch in Mr. Leith's bedroom.
The curtains were drawn at the windows, but the light of the full day glimmered through, and he saw the grave-faced physician sitting beside him, while Richard Leith, from the bed opposite, regarded him with an intent expression. He struggled up feebly and pressed his hand to his brow.
"I have had a shock," he said, with an air of strange perplexity, as he looked into their anxious faces. "What was it? What has happened to me?"
"You have been near to death's door," replied the physician, gravely, "but you will recover now."
"I wish that I had died!" the young man burst out, with such passionate realization of his misery, that the doctor exclaimed, incautiously:
"So, then, youdidtry to commit suicide?"
The brilliant, dark eyes looked at him in amazement.
"Suicide! suicide!" he repeated, blankly. "Who dares to say that of me?"
The doctor regarded him thoughtfully.
"My dear sir," he said, quietly, "I happened in here very opportunely last evening and found you suffering all the terrible symptoms of arsenic poisoning. Your friends feared that your grief had unhinged your mind, and that under temporary aberration you had attempted the destruction of your own life."
"They were wrong. I could never have been such a coward," Bertram answered, in such a tone of convincing truthfulness that no one could doubt him. "Indeed, doctor, you must have been mistaken. I have taken no drug recently."
"I am not mistaken," the physician asserted, confidently. "You had most certainly had arsenic administered to you in a draught of wine."
A startled gleam came into Mr. Chesleigh's eyes, his face whitened, a cry of horror came from his lips.
"Doctor, are you quite, quite sure?" he exclaimed.
"I would swear to the drug," was the instant reply. "Do you admit the wine?"
"Yes," came the grave reply; "I drank a glass of wine before coming in here yesterday evening, but I did not dream it was drugged," and an expression of almost incredulous horror swept over the handsome face.
"Who gave you the wine?" inquired the doctor and Richard Leith almost simultaneously.
But Bertram Chesleigh shook his head.
"Do not ask me," he said. "It is terrible, yet I will not betray my would-be destroyer."
"It was one of the Glenalvans," asserted Richard Leith, seeing the truth as by a flash of light.
"Do not ask me," the young man replied again. "I must not tell you. It is too terrible. I can scarce believe the dread reality myself."
But though he refused to reveal the secret, Richard Leith felt morally certain that it was to some of the family of John Glenalvan the young man owed the attempted destruction of his life. He had heard that Elinor had "set her cap" at him.
This, then, was the dreadful revenge she had taken for her disappointment.
The physician went away and left them together. Then the lawyer told his son-in-law his whole sad story. Bertram's indignation knew no bounds.
"May the curse of an offended God rest upon John Glenalvan's head!" he exclaimed. "It is to him and his family that my poor Golden owes the bitter sorrows of her brief life. My sister's maid, Celine, confessed that it was Elinor Glenalvan who discovered Golden's identity, and bribed her to send her away under a ban of disgrace. Oh, God, Leith, could I only have known that the girl little Ruby loved so dearly, and who shunned me so persistently, was my deserted wife, how joyously would I have taken her to my heart and claimed her for my own."
"Yes, if you had only known," Richard Leith replied, with mournful emphasis. "My poor young daughter, hers indeed was a hard lot. Scorned by her kindred, deserted by her husband, despised and disowned by her miserable father! How glad she must have been to creep into the kindly shelter of the grave! Ah, Heaven, Chesleigh, I never can forget my own wretched share in breaking that tender heart."
His head sank back on his pillow, and almost womanly tears coursed over his pale cheeks.
"But she forgave me before she died," he continued, pathetically, after a little. "She was an angel, Chesleigh. I can never forget how sweet and patient she was. The day before she died they carried me into her room. I lay on a couch by the side of her bed. They showed me the beautiful little waxen image—the babe that had never drawn a single breath of life in this world, and I could not keep from crying when they said her terrible fall had killed the child. The minister came, and told her that she must die in a few hours, too. But was it not strange, Chesleigh? She smiled sadly and shook her head."
"'No, you are all mistaken,' she said. 'I should not be sorry to die, but my time has not come yet. I cannot die until I know whether I shall meet my mother in Heaven, or whether she is still on earth.'
"But that night she passed away peacefully in her sleep. It was so calm and gradual we did not know when the end had come. It was like those sweet lines of Hood:
"'We watched her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeWent heaving to and fro.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied;We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.'"
"'We watched her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeWent heaving to and fro.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied;We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.'"
He ceased, and there was a heavy silence in the room. Bertram Chesleigh broke it in a hushed, low voice.
"Poor, martyred child! Was she, then, so anxious to find her mother?"
"She declared that it was the one dream of her life-time," Richard Leith replied.
"And there is no clew save that which John Glenalvan holds?" inquired Bertram, thoughtfully.
"None, and the villain has fled. I do not believe his own wife and children know aught of his whereabouts."
A look of grave determination swept over Bertram's handsome, pallid face.
"Then I will take up the quest where it dropped from Golden's little hand in dying. I will track the villain, if it is to the end of the world. It shall be my task to vindicate her mother's memory," he said, gravely and earnestly.
"It ismytask rather," said Richard Leith.
"We will join hands in the effort," his son-in-law answered.
Old Dinah came in with a note for Mr. Leith. It was from Gertrude.
"I have gone away," she wrote. "I can leave you no address, but I shall be cognizant of all that transpires at Glenalvan Hall, and I may see you again ere long. You will soon be well enough to go about again, and that you may be enabled to solve the distressing mystery of your lost wife's fate, is the earnest prayer of"Gertrude."
"I have gone away," she wrote. "I can leave you no address, but I shall be cognizant of all that transpires at Glenalvan Hall, and I may see you again ere long. You will soon be well enough to go about again, and that you may be enabled to solve the distressing mystery of your lost wife's fate, is the earnest prayer of
"Gertrude."
"Surely no man was ever placed in such a terrible position," said Richard Leith. "For aught I know, I may have two wives living."
"It is through no fault of yours," replied Mr. Chesleigh; "but it is most distressing. Your second wife appears to be a very beautiful and winning woman."
"She is both, but I never discovered her worth until it was too late to love her," Mr. Leith replied, sadly. "Her noble conduct to my helpless daughter first opened my eyes to her lovable character."
"God bless her!" Bertram Chesleigh uttered, fervently.
They had some further conversation, and then Mr. Chesleigh announced his intention of going away.
"I will not trespass further on Mr. Glenalvan's hospitality," he said decidedly. "I do not forget how much reason he has to hate the sight of me."
The twilight hour found Bertram Chesleigh wending his way to the green graveyard where his hapless wife lay buried. As he had hoped, he found the old grave-digger waiting for him.
He had been sodding the mound with velvety green turf, and planting lilies and immortelles upon it.
"Why have you done this?" he said. "Did you not know I would come to-night? I was at death's door last night, or I would have come as I said. Did you do what you promised?"
"Yes, sir, and waited a long time for you," said the man, doffing his cap respectfully. "I even sent my son to look for you. He learned of your bad condition, and then we were compelled to put the coffin back in the ground again."
There was a strange, repressed excitement in the man's manner, but Mr. Chesleigh, absorbed in the bitterness of his own despair, did not observe it.
He counted over a hundred dollars into the man's hand, and then said, with a tremor of hope in his voice:
"I will double the amount if you will do your work over to-night. Imustsee her. I am mad for one last look at my darling's face!"
The grave-digger shuddered.
"Oh, sir, it is too late," he said. "Have you forgotten how soon death's touch blasts everything human? And the little babe—thatwas dead long beforeshewas. I know you could not bear to see them now."
"Hush, hush!" the mourner cried, in a voice of agony. "I will hear no more. Go, now, and leave me!"
"Cheer up, sir," said the man, with a strange gleam in his eyes, as he turned to go. "The Lord may have some blessing in store for you yet, sir."
His only answer was a hollow groan from the wretched man. He threw himself face downward on the green grave, crushing all the sweet lilies and immortelles beneath his shuddering frame, and cried out to Heaven to kill him because he had blighted Golden's innocent life.
He lay there an hour or two, musing sorrowfully over the hapless fate of his beautiful girl-bride.
He recalled their brief, happy love-dream from which they had been so rudely awakened.
Over and over again he cursed himself for that first impulse of pride and selfishness that had made him false to his bride in the hour when he should have protected and shielded her.
A passionate, despairing longing to see her again filled his soul.
"I will go back and wander by the lake again," he resolved, inthe madness of his despair. "It was there that we spent our sweetest, most blissful hours. In the calm and silence of the night I will dream them over again."
He went to the lake, but the very spirit of unrest was upon him.
The stars came forth and shone weirdly in the sky, the perfume of spring flowers sweetened the air. He grew restless and fanciful.
Such a brief while ago she had stolen nightly from the haunted rooms to meet him here beside the silvery lake.
It almost seemed that she would come to him presently, gliding like a fairy across the green lawn to the glad shelter of his arms.
Some impulse prompted him to seek the haunted rooms, to spend an hour of solitary musing in their quiet shade.
He knew of a retired stairway by which he could make his way unperceived, and following the blind fate that led him, he went up to the hall and up the narrow, secluded stairs which little Golden had shown him, and by which she had obtained egress to her lover.
He went along the dark corridor with a strangely beating heart, and paused before the closed door of the haunted room.
He placed his hand on the knob, but to his surprise it refused to yield to his touch.
Disappointed, he was about turning away, when a heavy step crossed the floor inside, the key clicked in the lock, and the door was cautiously opened.
A flood of light streamed out into the corridor, and showed Bertram Chesleigh the tall form, and dark, saturnine face of John Glenalvan.
There was a moment of complete astonishment on the part of each of the two men.
Both recoiled from each other in the first suddenness of the shock, and then an angry oath burst from John Glenalvan's lips.
"I thought it was Elinor!"
"Luckily you were mistaken," returned Mr. Chesleigh, quickly recovering his wits. "Thisrencontreis most opportune for me, sir. I have wished to see you."
He stepped into the room as he spoke, and boldly confronted the villain, who glared at him with a mixture of defiance and dismay.
"You wished to see me. I feel flattered," he said, with an attempt at cutting sarcasm. "May I ask why?"
There was a moment's silence while Bertram Chesleigh rapidly reviewed the situation in his mind. Then he spoke:
"You may ask, and I may answer," he said. "Mr. Glenalvan, I might heap the bitterest reproach upon your head, if by so doing the cruel work of your life might be undone. But the past is past. My wife is dead, and no reproaches and no lamentations can bring her back to me. But there is one issue between you and me. I have taken up my dead wife's quest where she left it.I demand that you shall tell me where to find my little Golden's deeply-wronged mother."
The dark face before him whitened to the awful pallor of death, the man's eyes blazed luridly, his hands were clenched as they hung at his sides.
"What if I refuse to answer your question?" he inquired, in a low, tense voice.
"I will find means to force you to confession," Bertram Chesleigh replied, unhesitatingly.
"I defy you to do so," John Glenalvan replied, with an imprecation. "I am not afraid of you."
"You have caused my wife's death, and nearly murdered her father. I will have you arrested for it," exclaimed Mr. Chesleigh.
"Do so, and I will prove that I only acted in self-defense," was the instant reply.
"I will charge you with the murder or abduction of Golden Leith, your own sister," pursued Mr. Chesleigh.
"And I will swear before any court in the land that she is the inmate of a nameless house in New York," was the taunting answer of the villain.
They gazed at each other a moment, then Bertram Chesleigh exclaimed, in wonder:
"What a black and unnatural heart you must have, John Glenalvan. How can you thus malign the fair fame of your own sister?"
"Do not call her my sister. I hated her, the blue-eyed, doll-faced creature. She stole the love of my parents from me. It was all lavished on her, there was none left for me. But I have had a most glorious revenge," he laughed, wickedly.
"Yes, you have had a most terrible revenge," said Bertram Chesleigh, with a shudder. "You have blighted her life and that of her child. Four lives—perhaps five—have been ruined by your sin. Is it not time that vengeance should cease?"
"No!" thundered John Glenalvan, harshly. "For sixteen years the taste of revenge has been sweet on my lips. It is sweet still."
"And you will not speak?" asked Bertram Chesleigh.
"Never!" with triumphant malice.
"I have one card yet to play," began the other, slowly.
A light step suddenly crossed the threshold, and Elinor Glenalvan appeared in the room, bearing a waiter with a substantial supper arranged upon it.
"Papa, were you growing impatient?" she asked; then her startled eyes fell on Bertram Chesleigh, meeting a glance of fiery scorn.
"You here!" she gasped.
The waiter fell from her nerveless hands, and its contents crashed upon the floor.
"Yes, Miss Glenalvan, it is I," was the answer, as his burningeyes devoured her pale, frightened face. "Did you take me for a ghost?"
"Why should I take you for a ghost?" she faltered, trembling, but trying to brave it out with an air of defiance.
"Because you tried to murder me last night, and came very near succeeding," he replied.
"It is false. How dare you accuse me of such a crime?" she broke out, passionately, flying to her father's side, as if for protection.
"How dare you?" echoed John Glenalvan, furiously.
Bertram Chesleigh lifted his hand imperiously.
"Listen," he said, "I told you I had one more card to play. Your fair daughter there attempted to poison me last night with drugged wine. The physician who saved my life declared that I had taken arsenic in a draught of wine. Do you see where you standnow?"
"Do not believe him, father; it is false!" cried Elinor, furiously; but John Glenalvan, turning to look into her wild, frightened face, read the signs of guilt too plainly to be mistaken.
The sight forced a groan even from his hardened lips.
"You see where you stand," repeated Bertram Chesleigh, with stern brevity. "How will you bear to see your cherished daughter dragged into court on such a dreadful charge?"
"You will not dare do such a thing," Elinor flashed out, quivering with rage.
"That will be as your father says," was the firm reply. "If it pleases him to reveal the secret of Golden Leith's fate, I'll spare you and him; if not, you need expect no mercy from me."
The grimultimatumwas spoken. Elinor and her father knew by that flashing eye and stern-set lip that there was no appeal from the calmly-spoken decision.
"Coward, to threaten a girl," she cried, taking refuge in vituperation now that denial had failed.
But Mr. Chesleigh regarded them in silent scorn, and her father sternly silenced her. He was furious with wrath, and it seemed to him that not even for his daughter's sake could he forego his dear revenge.
"Elinor," he said, with a dark frown, "if indeed you have done this thing you must prepare to face the consequences. I will not accede to his demand. Nothing shall balk me of my revenge."
Abject terror and despair filled Elinor's soul at those threatening words. She knew too well how guilty she was. She was filled with terror at the too probable punishment of her wickedness.
Falling on her knees, she caught her father's hand in hers, and bathed them with her frightened tears.
"Oh, father, do not sacrifice me to your revenge," she cried, wildly. "Remember that I am your own child. I should be dearer to you than your revenge. Oh! for mercy's sake, make terms with the wretch, and save me from his wicked vengeance."
Mr. Chesleigh did not even notice her. He stood with folded arms and curling lips awaiting his enemy's reply.
The sullen determination on John Glenalvan's face softened as she continued her anxious pleading.
"Father, I cannot live if that wretched story becomes known," she wailed. "If you do not save me I shall drown myself."
A slight shudder convulsed his frame at the words. He looked down at the frightened, tear-wet face.
"Elinor," he said, "if I have to sacrifice my revenge for your sake, I shall hate you every moment of your future life."
"Anything but exposure," she wailed. "Oh, father, save me."
His dark brow lowered like a thunder cloud.
"So be it," he said, "but, mark me, girl, I shall hate you forever after."
"Then you will speak?" Bertram Chesleigh cried, gladly.
John Glenalvan hesitated a moment, then answered, gloomily:
"Yes, to save that wretched girl I will reveal the secret that has been locked in my breast for sixteen years."
There was a moment's silence, then Bertram Chesleigh said, quickly:
"Come with me, Mr. Glenalvan. Let the secret you have kept so long be revealed in the hearing of your father and Richard Leith."
The guilty man recoiled from the demand. He said, hoarsely:
"I refuse to do so. I will reveal it to you, and you may bear the news yourself to them."
Bertram Chesleigh considered the reply a moment, then answered, firmly.
"I prefer that they should hear it from your own lips."
John Glenalvan regarded him with furious eyes.
"You wish to humble me all you can," he said.
"Not so," replied Mr. Chesleigh. "But I consider that they have too decided a right to hear your confession, for me to exclude them from this momentous interview."
The angry man regarded him silently a moment, then said, with a sigh of baffled rage:
"So be it. I am not now in a position to dictate terms, and must obey your will. You swear to keep Elinor's secret if I do this thing?"
"Yes," Bertram answered.
"I am ready to accompany you, then. Elinor," he turned a furious gaze on his daughter who was weeping nervously near the door; "go to your mother, now. Tell her that you have ruined all my plans, and that I forever curse the hour in which you were born."
She turned away, casting one last look of fiery anger and hatred on the man she had tried to murder, and left the room.
The two men went down together to Richard Leith's room. The lawyer was sitting up in an easy-chair, talking to old Hugh Glenalvan who occupied a chair near the window.
They both looked up in surprise at the unexpected sight of JohnGlenalvan, whom they had supposed to be far away in hiding somewhere.
Bertram spoke at once, quietly:
"You will pardon this late intrusion, Mr. Glenalvan. This gentleman has an important communication to make to you, and I ventured to bring him at once."
"A communication?" faltered the old man, looking blankly at his son.
"Yes," answered Mr. Chesleigh, with the flush of joyful triumph on his handsome face. "He will solve for you the strange mystery of your daughter's disappearance, sixteen years ago."
A cry came from Richard Leith's white lips. The old man echoed it feebly, as he rose and went to his son, but John waved him rudely back.
"Do not come near me," he said, harshly; "I have always hated you because you loved my sister best."
"I could not help it, John. She was more lovable than you," the father faltered, feebly.
"And so she stole your love from me and earned my hate. But I have had a great revenge," said the relentless wretch, grimly.
"Oh, John, John!"
The wailing cry came from the old man's lips; he looked at his son in surprise and horror.
"Yes, revenge," repeated John Glenalvan, seeming to take a malicious pride in his wickedness now that its revelation was forced upon him. "I hated her, and when my opportunity came, I seized upon it. I knew she was a wife, yet it was my hand that sent her that lying letter that made her leave her husband."
"Devil!" Richard Leith muttered, making an effort to spring upon him, but Bertram Chesleigh held him back, and the villain who had so wronged him laughed mockingly.
"She came home," he went on, after a minute, "came home, and her child was born. The following night came her mysterious disappearance which I accounted for by declaring that she had returned to her deceiver, unable to exist away from him."
All eyes were fixed on his dark, demoniac face as he proceeded. Every heart hung trembling on his further words.
At last the fearful mystery of little Golden's fate would be known to those who loved and mourned her.
Old Dinah had stolen silently in, and sat crouching in a corner, her beady, black eyes fixed intently on the face of the man whom she had always distrusted.
"Speak," Richard Leith thundered, almost mad with impatience. "Speak! You know she never came to me. Where is she now, my poor, wronged darling?"
"Is she dead or living?" echoed the wronged woman's father.
"She is dead!" John Glenalvan answered, coldly.
"Dead!" they echoed, despairingly.
"She has been dead these sixteen years," he answered.
"Vile wretch, then you murdered her," cried Richard Leith, struggling frantically in Bertram Chesleigh's strong hold.
The villain laughed heartlessly.
"Not so," he replied. "I hated her, but I would not have risked hanging for her sake. It was no fault of mine that she came to her death so tragically."
"Dead and buried these sixteen years," old Hugh moaned, wringing his feeble hands, and weeping as if the bereavement were but of yesterday. "John, tell me where to find my darling's grave."
"She lies in the bottom of the lake!" he replied, and those who watched him saw him shudder and turn pale for the first time.
"How came she there?" broke out Bertram Chesleigh.
"My sister was a somnambulist, Mr. Chesleigh. You will not deny that fact, father. She wandered from the house in her sleep, and walked deliberately into the lake."
"You saw her?"
"Yes, I was the only witness to the tragic deed," he replied, and again they saw a shudder shake his strong frame, and the chill dew beaded his forehead.
"Devil, you lie! You pushed her in!" cried Richard Leith, wild with rage and grief.
"Did you, John? Oh, tell me the truth," moaned his father.
"No, I did not, as there is a Heaven that hears me. I hated Golden because you and my mother loved her best, and because half of your property would go to her, but the thought of murder had not entered my head. I was out late that night, and returning with my mind full of envious thoughts toward my sister, I saw her crossing the moonlighted lawn, and on coming nearer saw that she was asleep. Keeping near to her, I followed her down to the lake, and she walked on straight, without pause or backward glance, into the water."
"And you put out no hand to save her—murderer!" cried Bertram Chesleigh, in terrific scorn.
"I did not know what she would do until all was over," he replied.
"You might have saved her even then," Bertram Chesleigh said.
"Yes, I might, but I hated her, and the devil whispered to me that this was my opportunity, so I watched the water close over her head, and then I walked away," he replied.
"Oh, my God, is de vengeance ob Hebben asleep dat such debbils roam de yerth?" wailed old Dinah.
They echoed her cry. Surely the vengeance of Heaven slumbered that such demons walked the earth unsmitten.
"Then temptation entered my soul," he continued. "I did not think it was right for Golden's child to inherit her share of the property when I needed it so much for my own growing family. So I fabricated that slander, and eventually forced my father to make over the remnant of the Glenalvans' possessions to me, and I transferred my hatred from Golden to her child. Now you know all."
Old Hugh pointed to the door with a shaking finger.
"Go, now, before I call down the terrible vengeance of God onyour guilty head!" he cried. "Go, and leave me to weep for my murdered darling!"
The next day men were set to work to drag the lake for Golden Leith's body.
A poor, bleached skeleton, partially petrified by the action of the water, and therefore in a good state of preservation, was all they found.
The broad, gold band of a wedding-ring still clung to the fleshless finger, and the name within was all that remained to assure them that this was she whom they sought—the hapless girl whose bright life had been blasted by a brother's sin, and whose name had been covered with ignominy and shame for sixteen years.
They placed the precious remains in a coffin, and prepared to give them Christian burial the next day.
All night and all day it stood on trestles in Hugh Glenalvan's sitting-room, with mourners at head and foot—the husband and father, so tragically bereaved of their darling, sat there dumb and tearless in their great affliction, and old Dinah stole in and out, with the corner of her apron pressed to her streaming eyes, her old black face convulsed with grief.
Only a few days ago the daughter's coffin had stood there where the mother's rested now.
Both her nurslings were gone, and the faithful, old creature's heart was almost broken.
Throughout the night and day not a member of John Glenalvan's family was visible. The curtains remained drawn at the windows, the doors closed, there was no sign of life within the house.
The time came when poor little Golden's remains were to be consigned to the kindly shelter of the grave.
It was a beautiful evening about the first of March. The grass was blue with violets, the birds twittered softly in the orange and magnolia trees, the sun shone brightly as it slowly declined in the western sky; Dinah had been in and deposited some beautiful wreaths of flowers upon the bier.
The friends who had loved the dead woman long ago had come to know her mournful fate at last, and had sent these sweet testimonials of their sympathy and grief.
They were waiting in the graveyard to pay the last outward tokens of respect to the lost one, but they would not venture to the house to intrude on the privacy of the bereaved ones.
So the gentle minister came and told them that they must bid a last farewell to the loved one, and Bertram Chesleigh stood ready to support the still feeble footsteps of Richard Leith with his strong young arm.
"Oh, my daughter, my daughter, how cruelly God has afflicted me," moaned the bereaved father, laying his white head down upon the coffin-lid, while the first heavy tears splashed down his cheeks.
"Do not arraign your Maker. Rather thank Him that your child has at last been proven pure and innocent," said the minister, to whom Golden's whole history was known.
"Thank God," Bertram Chesleigh uttered fervently, then, with a sigh that was almost a sob, he added: "Ah, if only my wife had lived to see this day!"
"She lives—she is here!" said a low, clear voice in the doorway.
All looked around, startled. Two figures were entering the room. Both were clothed in deep mourning.
One was Gertrude Leith, pale and grave-looking, the other was alight, and deeply veiled. She clung to Mrs. Leith's arm tremblingly. They crossed the floor and stood by that long, dark, solemn object that occupied the center of the room. Mrs. Leith raised her companion's veil.
All started and uttered a cry of incredulous surprise.
Little Golden's daughter, pallid, beautiful, tearful, was standing there, looking at them across her mother's coffin.
"Thank God!" she said, in her sweet, clear voice, with a sound of tears in its sweetness. "Thank God, my mother was pure and innocent! The dream of my life-time is fulfilled at last."
"Does the grave give up its dead?" they cried, and Bertram Chesleigh went to her side and touched her white hand, half-fearfully.
"My wife," he said.
"Yes, your wife," she answered, lifting her violet eyes to his face with such deep reproach in their tragic depths, that he was awed into momentary silence.
Then she turned from him, and went to her grandfather, who was gazing at her with dazed eyes full of grief and dread. She put her arms around his neck, and kissed his poor, withered cheek with her sweet, quivering lips.
"Grandpa, you must not take me for a ghost," she said. "It is your own little Golden come back to live and love you again. I was not dead, after all. Did I not tell you I could not die yet? But I cannot tell you all the story of my rescue from the grave now. Let us give all our thoughts to our martyred dead."
She looked up and saw her father and old Dinah waiting to greet her.
It was a strange scene beside that flower-wreathed coffin.
There was passionate joy over the living girl, and bitter sorrow over the dead.
Mrs. Leith had beckoned Bertram Chesleigh away. Behind the heavy hangings of the bay-window she said to him, gently:
"Do not press your wife yet, Mr. Chesleigh. Remember you have wronged her deeply, and she does not yet know how you have repented and atoned."
"I can never atone," he said, heavily.
"Perhaps she may think differently when she knows all," said Mrs. Leith. "Women are very tender and forgiving, you know."
"If she never speaks to me again, I shall still rejoice that sheis living," he said, with a beam of gladness in his large, black eyes.
"Do you wonder how she was saved?" she inquired.
"Yes."
"I will tell you, then, briefly," she answered. "You remember how you bribed the grave-digger to open her coffin for you that night?"
"Yes, and then I was too ill to keep my appointment," he answered.
"That wild fancy of yours was the means of her rescue," said Mrs. Leith. "When the man opened the coffin to be in readiness for you, he discovered slight signs of life in Golden. Growing alarmed and impatient at your tardiness, he sent his son to look for you, and the youth encountered me. I went with him, and we removed her to the man's little cottage near by. Little by little we fed the signs of reviving life, and you see the result."
"For which I bless and thank you forever," he said, kissing her hand respectfully.
"I have but little more to say," she went on, smiling a little sadly, "and it is this: Golden is very weak and exhausted yet. She is not strong enough to bear the excitement of her mother's burial. I will remain here with her while they are bearing Mrs. Leith to the grave, and I will tell her your whole story. She shall hear how you came back here to seek her in two days after your ill-considered desertion of her, and found her gone. I will tell her how nobly you vindicated her honor beside her grave. She shall know that you forced John Glenalvan to reveal the hidden story of her mother's fate. When you come back I think she cannot fail to forgive you."
"You will do all this for me?" he said, with a strange moisture in his eyes. "I cannot thank you sufficiently. You are an angel."
"No, only a very faulty and sad-hearted woman," she replied, with a pensive sigh, and then they went back to the mourners.
She kept her promise nobly. While they bore the poor remains of Richard Leith's first wife to the grave, his second wife sat with his daughter and tried to turn the swelling current of her grief by relating the story of Bertram Chesleigh's repentance and atonement.
"Golden, if you could have heard his noble vindication of your honor beside your grave; how proudly he claimed you for his wife, and your child for his own, you could not fail to pity and forgive him for the one great error into which he was led by his own pride and John Glenalvan's evil counsel."
"I have suffered so much through his fault," said the wronged wife, with mournful pathos.
"Yes, dear, but you must show your own nobility of soul now," said the step-mother, gently. "You must remember:
"'To err is human,To forgive divine.'"
"'To err is human,To forgive divine.'"
The beautiful, pale face grew very grave and troubled.
"If only I could forget his cruelty," she said. "Ah, my friend,I was hurt so cruelly by that letter he sent me! I trusted him so fully. I believed in his truth as I believed in my God. I was almost maddened by the suddenness of my sorrow. Every word is branded upon my memory. See! I can repeat every sentence:
"'Though it almost kills me to forsake you, Golden, I must go away. The disgrace of your birth is so terrible that I can never claim you for my wife. Pride and honor alike forbid it. You must see for yourself, poor child, that your terrible misfortune has wholly set you apart from the world, and as you have sworn to keep our private marriage a secret until I give you leave to reveal it, I must beg you to hold the story unspoken in your breast forever.'"
She paused and looked at Mrs. Leith with a whole tragedy of sorrow in her violet orbs.
"Were they not cruel words to write to his own wife?" she said pathetically. "But I obeyed him. Through all the shame and sorrow that came afterward I kept my promise. Do you think I did not suffer more than death in keeping it? When Mrs. Desmond drove me out in such terrible disgrace do you think I did not long to say to her: I am as good and pure as you are; I am your brother's wife! And what did I not suffer when I knew she was separated from her husband on my account? Then when my own father disowned and despised me, how my heart ached to answer, I am Bertram Chesleigh's own wife! Oh, Gertrude, is it right and just that I should forgive him for all that I have suffered and made others suffer for his sake?"
"Yes, dear, because his repentance was so quick and his remorse so deep," said the gentle monitor. "You must remember, Golden, that if you had not gone away that night you would have escaped all that suffering; your husband returned in twenty-four hours to claim you, and John Glenalvan told him that you had gone away with the deliberate intention of leading a sinful life. Do you wonder that it threw him on a bed of sickness that almost cost him his life? You must forgive him and love him again, dear, because he is so penitent and devoted now."
And when the mourners returned from that sad funeral, Mrs. Leith sent him in to his wronged wife.
He knelt down before the pale, golden-haired girl, and begged her to forgive him, not that he deserved it, but because he loved her so dearly.
With the meek tenderness of woman, she forgave him and there was peace between them.
Several hours later he had led her out to old Hugh Glenalvan who was dozing sadly in his easy-chair.
"Mr. Glenalvan," he said, "you see my darling has risen from the grave to forgive me. Will you keep the promise you made, and forgive me too?"
"Yes, grandpa, you must forgive him, for I love him dearly," said little Golden.
So the old man forgave him, and solemnly blessed them as they knelt before him, one withered hand resting kindly on the dark, bowed head, and the other on the golden one.
Gertrude Leith having done what she could for the happiness of others, prepared to take her own departure.
"You will not leave us, my dear, true friend, my second mother," Golden exclaimed, as she came in veiled and bonneted, to bid her good-bye.
"Yes, dear, it will be better for a time, at least, that I should go away. I shall return north and go back to those quiet quarters in Brooklyn, where you and I spent those peaceful weeks before we came south. When you come to New York with your husband you will find me there."
"I will certainly seek you out," Golden replied. "But surely you do not intend to forsake my father. The doubt and perplexity are all over now. You know that you are legally his wife, my own mother being dead before he ever knew you."
"Yes, I know, dear," she answered, gently. "Yet it is best I should go away for a time. Your father must have time for his grief. After awhile, if he desires it, I may return to him."
Her words were too full of wisdom for anyone to gainsay them, so she went away.
Richard Leith's grief and remorse over his lost little Golden was as deep and passionate as if she had died yesterday instead of more than sixteen years ago.
He was too sorrowful to remember the fair woman he had put in the dead wife's place in the vain hope of stilling the fever and pain that had ached ceaselessly at his heart for sixteen years.
The time came later on when the first wife's memory became a sweet and chastened dream to him, and his second wife's new loveliness of character won its place in his heart.
Some years of quiet happiness and mutual love came to them after they learned to know each other better, but there was no year in which Richard Leith did not return south once, at least, to spend a few solemn hours by the low grave under the whispering cedars and broad-leaved magnolias, where the broken marble shaft bore the fond inscription:
"IN LOVING MEMORY OF GOLDEN,
WIFE OF RICHARD LEITH."
There was one other to whom that green grave became like a shrine, a holy Mecca, to which his poor, faltering footsteps were daily bent.
It was old Hugh Glenalvan, whom old Dinah daily guided to the sacred spot, where he would sit for hours, his gray locks fluttering in the gentle breeze, meditating, or perhaps holding spirit communion with the sainted dead.
It was discovered on the day of Golden Leith's burial that John Glenalvan and his whole family had secretly left the house the night previous.
A week later a letter came from the villain to Bertram Chesleigh, offering to sell Glenalvan Hall on fair terms, and stating that he should never live in the south again.
A bargain was closed at once, and Bertram Chesleigh became the possessor of the old hall, which was speedily repaired and remodeled under the supervision of himself and his lovely young wife.
Before the work was completed a chance newspaper chronicled the fact of a distressing railway accident and among the list of killed appeared the name of John Glenalvan.
Bertram and Golden destroyed the newspaper, and old Hugh never knew that his wicked son had gone suddenly and without preparation into the presence of his august Maker.
The old man's life flowed on in sweet serenity. All his happiness was centered in the living Golden, and beside the grave of the dead one.
While he lived, Golden and her husband made their home at Glenalvan Hall, but after several years of quiet peace the white soul of the noble old man took on the wings of immortality, and soared to its Heavenly home through the open gates of the sunset.
They made him a grave by his daughter's side, and when the grass was growing green upon his grave they took old Dinah with them and turned their faces northward.
Black mammy had become reconciled to Mr. Chesleigh when she saw how happy he made her little missie. Her kind and wrinkled old visage reflected the radiant happiness that shone on Golden's beautiful face.
She waited on her kindly and devotedly as ever, declaring that no starched-up French maid should ever take her place while she lived, and Golden, with a shuddering remembrance of the wicked Celine's treachery, always assured her "old mammy" that she need never fear such an intruder on her privileges.
The day came when one of the most beautiful and palatial homes in New York opened wide its doors to receive Bertram Chesleigh's fair wife as its honored mistress.
Though Golden had seen some of the stately homes of New York she was astonished at the luxury and magnificence of her own.
Mr. Chesleigh smiled indulgently at her pretty, childish delight as he led her through suite after suite of the sumptuous, luxurious apartments the day after their arrival.
"I am glad you are so pleased with your new home," he said, "but now, my darling, you must run away and let black mammy dress you. I have invited a few guests to dinner."
"Strangers?" she asked, with a shy pretty blush on the exquisite face that was fresh and sweet as a rosebud with only that pensive droop of the golden-brown lashes to hint at the sorrow through which she had passed.
"Not exactly,'" he replied with a smile. "Lawyer Leith and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Desmond, and little Ruby. I think you will be glad to see her, though she must have tyrannized over you dreadfully in the old days."
"A dear little tyrant she was," laughed Mrs. Chesleigh. "I shall be very pleased to see her again."
She went to her dressing-room, and a loving remembrance ofsome things the child had said to her once, caused her to choose a lovely dress of white and blue, with large, gleaming white pearls for her neck and wrists, and knots of fragrance-breathing violets fastened among her creamy laces.
Bertram uttered a cry of delight when she came to him in the drawing-room in the beautiful dress with the golden curls framing the perfect face in a halo of light.
She looked beyond him and saw her father and his wife gazing at her with eyes full of love and wonder, and she sprang joyfully to their embrace.
Mrs. Leith released her after some low-murmured words of love and praise, and she saw her husband's sister by her side.
Mrs. Desmond had grown more brilliantly lovely than ever. Happiness and contentment had lent new radiance to the lovely face, but there was a wistful air, almost amounting to humility, about her as she extended her jeweled hand, and said, sweetly:
"My dear little sister, can you ever forgive me?"
"Freely," she said, clasping the offered hand, and proffering the kiss of peace.
"And me, too—I am deeply repentant," said a low voice beside Mrs. Desmond, and looking up, Golden saw Mr. Desmond, debonairly handsome as ever, but so humble and ashamed that even a harder heart than our little Golden's must have pardoned his folly.
Then Ruby took possession of her and gave her a bear-like hug.
"Oh, you darling," she cried, "I have missed you so much, and to think you were Uncle Bert's wife all the while. It is just like one of mamma's novels that she is always reading. I warn you, Uncle Bert, that I shall make you jealous, I shall stay with her so much. And I do so want to see that dear old black mammy I have heard about."
Her childish curiosity was gratified, and the New York child, after her first surprise, grew very fond of the good-natured, old negress who had been Golden's nurse from babyhood up.
"I do not have a nurse any more," she confided to Golden. "They have hired a governess for me, and I like to study. It improves my temper."
"Which was never very bad," smiled Golden, kissing the pretty little brunette.
"When you go into society you will be surprised to meet Elinor Glenalvan again," Mrs. Desmond said to her after awhile. "She has picked up a rich, old man somewhere, and is Mrs. Langley now. Six months ago she burst upon society in a blaze of glory, and at present she is considered the handsomest woman in New York. But her star will fade when you are introduced to the social world."
Soon afterward the two cousins met at a brilliant reception. Both looked their best, Elinor in Ruby velvet and diamonds, Golden in misty, white lace and pearls, Elinor just touched with the tips of her fingers the arm of her decrepit old spouse, Golden clung lovingly to her princely-looking and devoted husband. As they passed each other Mrs. Langley cast one look of bitter hatred and envy upon her fair, angelic-looking rival.
It was as Mrs. Desmond had predicted. Elinor's star paled before the superior loveliness of Golden, and in bitter anger and chagrin, the eclipsed beauty retired from the field, and removed to a distant city, where she was seen and heard of no more by those who had formerly known her.
Little Golden was glad when her enemy was gone, but she felt no vanity over her brilliant social successes. Her chief joy and pride was that she reigned queen over her husband's adoring heart.
This story was originally serialized in theFamily Story Paper, where it ran from June 5, 1882 to September 4, 1882. This e-text is derived from a later reprint as No. 218 inThe Favorite Librarypublished by The American News Company. The reprint edition also included two filler short stories: "A Mock Idyl" by Percy Ross and "Farewell" by W. H. Stacpoole. The filler stories are not included here.
A table of contents was added for the convenience of the reader.
Some inconsistent punctuation was retained (e.g. "Life Time" vs. "Life-Time" in title; "upturned" vs. "up-turned").
Some inconsistently italicized text was retained (e.g. "rencontre").
Some unusual spellings were retained (e.g. "exhult," "ballustrade").
Accent marks to match original were omitted (e.g. "protege").
Page 3, changed "herelf" to "herself."
Page 4, changed "to hasty" to "too hasty."
Page 6, added missing quote before "Oh, grandpa."
Page 13, changed "strangly" to "strangely."
Page 17, changed "recounter" to "rencontre."
Page 22, changed "neverspeak" to "never speak."
Page 24, changed "aughs" to "laughs."
Page 27, added comma after "Oh, my darlin'."
Page 29, changed "founding" to "foundling" and changed ? to ! after "the girl is my niece."
Page 31, changed "furthur intercouse" to "further intercourse."
Page 37, changed "matin" to "mating."
Page 38, added missing quote after "Jest wait one minute, darlin'."
Page 42, changed "struggled" to "straggled."
Page 48, changed "greatsest" to "greatest."
Page 54, added missing quote before "He likes pretty faces."
Page 55, changed "flirted" to "flitted."
Page 56, changed "you hair" to "your hair."
Page 60, changed "must not thing" to "must not think."
Page 61, changed "significent" to "significant."
Page 66, changed "thoughfully" to "thoughtfully."
Page 75, removed extra "the" from "It is the the truth."
Page 80, changed "Your know" to "You know" and "father as" to "father has."
Page 83, changed "distress" to "mistress."
Page 84, changed ? to ! in "you are mistaken!"
Page 85, added missing quote before "Go, and take."
Page 87, changed "her her husband" to "her husband."
Page 91, changed "idendity" to "identity," "Lieth" to "Leith," "Bestram" to "Bertram," "maked" to "marked" and "cousse" to "course."
Page 97, changed "cempetence" to "competence."
Page 101, changed "gazedw onderingly" to "gazed wonderingly."
Page 102, changed "perference" to "preference," "you wife" to "your wife," and "guilty of his" to "guilty of this."
Page 104, changed "delerious" to "delirious."
Page 106, added missing open quote before "I wonder how."
Page 107, changed "bess" to "bless."
Page 110, changed "prostate" to "prostrate."
Page 111, added missing quote before "Iknow."
Page 112, changed "Lieth's" to "Leith's," "Lieth" to "Leith" and "idict" to "indict."
Page 113, changed "as last" to "at last."
Page 116, adding missing comma after "for God's sake" and changed "unable so bear" to "unable to bear."
Page 117, added missing quote after "seen her even once."
Page 118, changed "requim" to "requiem."
Page 120, added missing quote after "absent for several days."
Page 124, changed "Lieth" and "Keith" to "Leith."
Page 127, changed "queit" to "quiet."
Page 128, changed "No?" to "No!"
Page 129, changed "belive" to "believe."
Page 130, changed "hated" to "hatred."
Page 139, changed "uncle Bert" to "Uncle Bert."