CHAPTER LIII.COMING HOME FROM CALIFORNIA.
A steamer had just arrived, bringing passengers from the gold regions of California,—a rough, wild-looking set, whose half-savage aspect gave the impressionof a gang of returned convicts, rather than of refined and enterprising men, as most of them undoubtedly were. To have seen the coaches and hacks as they gave up their burdens at the various hotels, one would have fancied that the inhabitants of Van Diemen’s land had escaped in battalions, and were about to overrun the country.
One of these carriages drew up at the Astor House, and a young man sprang out, carrying a portmanteau, which seemed of considerable weight, in his hand. His appearance was rather picturesque than otherwise, for he was one of these persons whom no disarray of costume could render less than gentlemanly. In fact, a black wide-awake, set carelessly a little on one side of his head, was the most becoming thing in the world, and a Mexican blanket, bought from a fellow-passenger and flung over his arm, gave a brilliant contrast to his gray and travel-soiled clothes. A flowing beard, which no neglect could prevent from rippling downward in rich waves, veiled the lower portion of his face, revealing a finely curved mouth and a set of snowy teeth when he spoke or smiled. A noble and frank face it was, which looked so eagerly from beneath the hat we have mentioned.
The young man went directly to the office, registered his name, and inquired, in an anxious voice, if Louis De Marke had left an address there.
“Louis De Marke,” was the reply, “is an inmate of the house. He has been in town some months, and is probably in his room, No. ——.”
The young man’s face lighted up. He flung down the pen with which he had just written “George De Marke,” and taking up his portmanteau, followed the waiter, who stood ready to guide him through the intricacies of the establishment.
“Never mind. This is the room, you need not announce me,” exclaimed De Marke, as the waiter paused before a chamber-door.
The waiter disappeared; the door was opened hurriedly, and the quick exclamations, “Louis,” “George,” “brother,” were followed by a warm embrace and an eager clasping of hands.
Never perhaps has it happened, that two men, not twins, bore so close a resemblance to each other, as the persons who stood in that chamber, with their hands interlocked and their eyes sparkling with affectionate welcome. There was scarcely the fraction of an inch by which you could distinguish them in height or size. The same open, frank expression of face was there; the form and color of the eyes were alike; indeed, save for the more neatly trimmed beard and perfect toilet of the one, you could not have known the brothers apart. Even in manner they were the same, for the careless but not ungraceful air which one brother had brought from his wild life in the gold regions, met its counterpart at once. The very smile and laugh of one had the sunshine and heart-warm richness of the other.
The new-comer was perhaps some four years older than the other, but this was only detected by close examination.
“And so you have come at last. O brother, brother! how I have wanted you!” said Louis, drawing his guest to a sofa, and shaking hands with him over and over again. “You have no idea how very, very much I have wanted you!”
A shade of trouble came over his face as he spoke, and instantly that of his brother darkened with the same shadow, as if the pain which one felt must have a mutual vibration.
“And I,” said George, with a sudden overshadowing of all cheerfulness, “I have a great many things to say to you. Since we parted, Louis, I have suffered as you will hardly think me capable of suffering.”
“And I,” answered Louis, sorrowfully,—“and I.”
George sat down by his brother, and threw one arm over his shoulder with a slight caress.
“What is it, my brother? I was in hopes that, save our one great cause of annoyance, you had escaped any serious trouble.”
Louis shook his head and a mist crept over his eyes.
“It is a hard thing, George, for a fellow no older than I am, and disposed to be happy, as you and I both are. It is hard, I say, to carry about a secret, that one feels forever heavy upon the heart, but dares not talk about.”
“What is this secret, my brother?”
Louis turned suddenly and seized his brother’s hand; tears sprung to his fine eyes, and he choked down a sob that struggled hard with his manliness.
“George, before you went away I was married.”
The elder brother started, and turned pale to the lips; but he only said,—
“Go on, Louis, I listen.”
“I had been married some months then. Do not be angry that I did not tell you.”
“Angry, why should I? How dare I be angry with you for a concealment which—but I interrupt you; go on.”
“I think you would have liked Louisa. She was the dearest and most lovable girl in the world.”
“Was, Louis? You saywas, as if your wife were dead.”
“Dead, O brother! if this question could be answered! But it cannot. She is dead to me, I fear, and yet alive, she and her child.”
“Be calm, brother, and explain all this. Whom did you marry? where is your wife?”
“I can hardly answer either question. She was an orphan, and had an only brother older than herself. The name was Oakley. She was in school, but staying with a lady who lived in the next street to us; our gardens adjoined. I mean the year before our father died, when his family lived like civilized beings, for my mother had not then given herself up to avarice as a terrible passion.
“This lady had a daughter somewhat older than her ward. I have since learned that she was also the aunt of Catharine Lacy. You remember Catharine?”
George lifted one hand suddenly to his forehead.
“Yes,” he answered, in a husky voice, “I remember her. She is dead.”
“Yes,” answered Louis, thoughtfully. “Poor girl, she died in a strange way; it was a wonderful thing altogether. This proud woman was her aunt, who bound her out to Madame; Catharine never once mentioned the fact; perhaps Mrs. Judson forbade her. Some one has the murder of that girl upon his soul.”
“Do not say that,” cried the young man, starting up distractedly. “She was my wife, Louis, my lawfully wedded wife; and they let her die in a charity hospital! It was our mother’s work, this foul murder. Louis De Marke, it was her work!”
“And this other woman is answerable for a like crime!” answered Louis, hoarsely. “Louisa went to the same hospital; they were found side by side in that fearful sick ward, your wife and mine. Poor young creatures, scarcely more than children themselves. I saw the record of Catharine’s death, but of my poor girl there is no record, save of a discharge. I have been unable to gain one trace of her since she left the hospital walls. It is now more than three years, George; and I have borne this secret alone till my heart aches with the weight of it.”
“I know, I know what it is,” answered the elder brother, passionately. “Thank God, we have met once more where at least the rash acts of our youth can find a voice. I little thought, Louis, how like your life had been to my own!”
“Poor girls, poor young creatures! we led them into great misery, George.”
George shrunk back, as if some thought, which had stung him for years, became a sudden pang.
“Youth is sometimes very cruel,” he said, with the bitterness of self-reproach. “But Heaven is my judge, I never intended wrong to my poor young wife. Her condition was miserable enough with Madame De Marke, after our father’s death; and our secret marriage could hardly render it worse.”
“But Louisa!Hercondition was happy enough, till I came to embitter it with my love; for I loved, oh! George, IthoughtI loved her!”
“But you talk at random, Louis. Even yet I cannot comprehend who this young person was, or how you became so fatally interested in her,” said George; “come, old fellow, tell me everything,—there is no fighting with death, but if your wife is above-ground, it will go hard if you and I cannot find her?”
Louis shook his head; but George spoke out again with well-assumed cheerfulness. “Let me know every particular about this marriage, and I will go on a crusade for you—it will be like a romance. Indeed, our two lives are a romance. Who would believe that we have never lived under the same roof since you were an infant; that I was bred in Germany, you here; that we never met till both were men, yet loved each other dearly from the first. It was strange, for your mother hated me always. It was she who packed me off to a school in Germany when a mere child. My father sent me money and a letter twice a year. In time, my school was changed to a university; after that I was sent to travel. Then a letter came to say that my father was dead. I came home a stranger; not ten of my father’s nearest friends knew of my existence; but we met as brothers should meet, thank Heaven for that! For your sake I tried to like my father’s widow; I sought her out and went to see her often. Would to Heaven I never had: then one of the sweetest and loveliest creatures that ever lived might have been saved.”