CHAPTER XLV
MADAM SYLVESTER’S STORY
Earle nearly bounded from his seat at this startling intelligence, and then, controlling himself for the sake of the sick man, sank back into his chair with a low, suppressed cry, his face almost as colorless as that of the dying man’s upon the pillow.
“Editha not your child!” he said at last, in a strained, unnatural voice, his heart beating with great heavy throbs.
“No; not a drop of my blood flows in her veins,” Mr. Dalton panted.
His strength was all gone, now that his story was told, and it was with difficulty that he spoke at all.
“Who’s child is she, then?” Earle asked, trembling with eagerness, a glad gleam leaping into his eyes in spite of his sad surroundings and his sympathy for the panting form upon the bed.
Madam Sylvester now came to the bedside.
She had entered so quietly a few moments before that neither Earle nor Mr. Dalton was aware of her presence until this moment.
“Mr. Dalton must rest now; he is nearly exhausted,” she said, adding: “I will summon the nurse, and as Editha is still sleeping, and you are doubtless anxious to have the mystery explained, I will finish the story of Editha’s parentage.”
Earle instantly arose, and a sudden thought made him glance at her more keenly than he had yet done; then, with a look of sympathy at the panting sufferer, he turned to follow her. Mr. Dalton had seen that look, however, and it stirred his soul to its very depths.
He reached out his wasted hand as if to stay him, and said, weakly, while his features writhed in pain:
“A good father might have been proud to own you as his son. As it is, I cannot even ask you to take my hand.”
Earle turned quickly and bent over him, his manly face softened to almost womanly tenderness and beauty—not from the dawn of any filial affection! that could not be, after all the bitter past—but from pity and compassion for a soul standing alone upon the brink of eternity, with nothing to lean upon as he entered the dark valley of the shadow of death, and no hope in the mysterious future toward which he was hastening.
As his humanity would have prompted him to reach out his strong right hand to save either friend or foe in case of danger, so his grand nature yearned to lead this darkened mind into the light of hope.
“We will not talk of the past anymore,” he said, gently; “It is gone, and it is vain to dwell upon it. The future is what we must think of now.”
“The future—my future! What will it be like, I wonder?” Sumner Dalton asked, helplessly, and searching that noble face with painful earnestness, as if he could tell him.
“The future means ‘heaven’ to those who are ready for it,” was the grave, dignified reply.
“Yes, yes; but to those who are not ready for it?” came breathlessly from the blue lips of the sufferer.
“All may be ready for it if they will,” Earle answered, in low, sweet tones. Then seeing how excited Mr. Dalton was becoming, he added: “You must rest now—you have talked long, and are very weary. I will come to you again when you have slept, and we will talk more of this.”
“You will stay—you will not go away until—after—” the dying man began, wildly, but finished with a groan.
The thought of death was anguish.
“I shall stay for the present—as long as you need me,” Earle replied, understanding him, and pitying him deeply.
A sigh of relief followed this assurance.
In the hour of his weakness and need he turned, with a strange feeling of confidence, to the strong, true nature which he had once so scorned and despised.
His eyes followed the manly form wistfully as it quietly passed from the room, then, with a weary sigh, he turned upon his pillow and slept.
Madam Sylvester led Earle back to the room where she had first met him, and motioning him to a chair, took one herself near him.
“I know you are anxious to see Editha,” she said; “but she is not yet awake. I peeped into her room on my way to Mr. Dalton’s, and the dear child has not moved since I looked in before. She was nearly worn out this morning when she went to rest. Now I will do as you say—leave this interesting story for her to finish, or relieve your suspense and tell you myself while she sleeps,” she added, with her charming manner.
“Tell me by all means,” Earle said, earnestly. “I cannot endure the suspense, and I am utterly amazed by Mr. Dalton’s last statement to me.”
“It is not to be wondered at, and your amazement probably will not end there. Your query, when he told you Editha was not his child, very naturally was, ‘Whose is she, then?’ My lord, I am Editha’s mother!”
Earle looked the astonishment that he could not express, and yet the shadow of suspicion of this had crossed his mind just before leaving Mr. Dalton’s room.
“I never believed anything would ever again give me such joy as this knowledge does,” Earle said, with a deep-drawn sigh of thankfulness, and beginning to realize something of the joy that might be in store for him.
Editha, no longer regarded as a sister, might now be claimed as a wife.
Madam smiled. She greatly admired the handsome young marquis, and her heart was very light to know of the brilliant future that lay before her beautiful daughter.
“It gives me pleasure to hear you say that,” she said. “And now, if you have patience, I will tell you my sad story and all regarding Editha’s parentage, as I have already related it to her.”
“I have patience,” Earle said, smiling; and madam began:
“Nearly twenty-three years ago I met with the saddest loss that ever falls to the lot of women—the loss of a love that would have brightened all my future life. From my early girlhood, I had an affection for my own cousin and was beloved in return by him. As we grew older that affection increased, until at the age of eighteen I was betrothed to him. Soon after, he went to sea, hoping on his return to be able to make me his wife. He had a share in a trading vessel, and, if they made a successful voyage, he hoped to realize a handsome sum, which, with what he already had, would enable him to support a wife. Three months later came the news of the loss of the vessel, and his name was among the list of those who perished. Our engagement had been a secret, and so it was only in secret that I could mourn. In the presence of others, of course, I must appear the same as usual, and so, to hide the grief that was burning my heart to ashes, I assumed a reckless gayety that deceived everyone. About this time a stranger appeared in our circle. He was wealthy, fascinating, and very handsome. He appeared attracted by my beauty, as my friends were pleased to term my good looks and paid me much attention. My family was pleased with him, I liked him, and when he offered me marriage I accepted him, thinking that perhaps, under new excitement and change of scene and country, I might find some balm for my wounded heart. We were married and spent several months in traveling, and then contrary to my expectations my husband preferred to remain indefinitely in Paris, and we set up a home of our own in the suburbs of the city. Before the end of a year, a little child was given to us—a blue-eyed, golden-haired daughter, whom we both loved with almost idolatrous affection, and it seemed as if Heaven had at last sent healing to my sore spirit, for I became calmly and quietly happy; my acute grief had passed, and, though my deepest affection was in the ocean grave of my sailor lover, yet I looked forward to a future of quiet happiness with the new ties that bound me to life.
“My baby—Editha we had named her—was only three months of age, when one day, as my husband and I were watching her as she lay crowing and laughing in her cradle, the door behind us opened and someone entered the room. We both turned and saw a form gaunt and trembling, a face pale and wasted, but dearer than life to me. It was Louis Villemain, my lost lover, whom I believed lying cold in death at the bottom of the sea.
“I was young, impulsive, and not yet strong after the birth of my child, and the shock was more than I could bear. With one wild cry of joy, I sprang forward and threw myself upon his bosom, forgetting that I was already a wife and a mother, forgetful of my husband’s presence—of everything save that Louis was alive and had returned. I murmured fond, wild words of love and delight, words which a wife has no right to speak save in the ear of her husband, and mine, sitting there, listened horror-struck, and learned the whole. It was only when exhausted with my joy, I lay weeping on Louis’s bosom that I was at last aroused to a consciousness of what I had done, by my husband’s stern sarcasm.
“‘What may be the meaning of this exceedingly affecting scene, allow me to ask?’ he said, hissing the words between his teeth; and then with a shriek, I realized our relative positions, and fell fainting to the floor.
“I need not dwell upon what followed,” madam said, with a sigh, “when I came to myself, Louis was gone, and my husband, angry and wretched at discovering how he had been deceived, was very unreasonable, and poured forth such a storm of jealous wrath upon me that I was nearly crushed. I confessed everything to him then, I pleaded my sorrow and weakness and implored his forgiveness and mercy, but he denounced me as an unfaithful wife, at least at heart, and vowed that from that day we should live as strangers, and yet, for our child’s sake, every outward propriety must be observed. I was more wretched than I can express, and very unwisely poured forth my troubles into Louis’s ear, when he came the next day and sought me alone. I could not deny that the old love was stronger than the new, and the future looked like the darkest gloom to me—my husband’s respect and confidence gone—my lover returned to look reproach upon me from sad and hollow eyes, and my conscience constantly upbraiding me for having married a good and noble man when I had no heart to give him. I felt like a forsaken thing, and, always morbidly sensitive, I was tenfold more so than in my weakened, nervous state. I do not pretend to excuse my sin—I can only tell it just as it happened. Louis, as wretched as myself, comforted me with the old, tender words that he used to speak, and, bemoaning my sad fate in being linked to such a cruel husband, urged me to fly with him on a new vessel that he was to command, and be happy in our own way. The vessel was to sail in a few days, and with passionate eloquence, he pictured the delight of the free, beautiful, roving life we would lead. I consented, and one day, when my husband was absent for a few hours, I took my baby and fled. Louis had gone on before me, and was to meet me at the seaport town from which the vessel was to sail. Not being able to leave home until afternoon, I was obliged to stop overnight at a small town about halfway from the port. I was more lonely than I can tell you, as alone and unprotected I retired and lay with my baby in my arms, thinking of what I had done. I thought of my dead mother and her early teachings—of the words she used to love and repeat from the sacred book, and the earnestness with which she used to impress their meaning upon me, and the horror and guilt of the step I was contemplating overwhelmed me. My baby awoke at midnight, and would not be coaxed to sleep again; so, lighting the candle, I lay there and watched her play, and talk, and coo in her charming little way. Every now and then she would stop, look around the room as if she knew she was in a strange place, and then glance up at me with great serious eyes that seemed to question my conduct and reproach my rashness. I thought of my husband, who, though he had been hasty and somewhat cruel in his reproaches, was yet a good, true man. I pictured the despair he would feel when he should return and find his wife and child gone, his home desolate, his name dishonored, and all the horror of my rash act rushed with overwhelming force upon me. I threw myself upon my knees beside my bed and wept out my repentance there, resolving that early morning should find me returning like the prodigal to my home. I acted upon that resolve, first dispatching a note to Louis telling him of my resolution, and entreating him not to come to me again, nor seek to hold any communication with me.
“I reached home at noon the next day, but my husband had already discovered my flight. I suppose I might have told him some story—that I had only been to visit a friend in my loneliness, or something of that kind, and he might have accepted it; but I did not; I went to him and confessed the whole, imploring his pardon, and swearing fidelity for the future. I think if he could have had time to think it over and consider the matter, he would have acted differently; but his heart was already too sore to bear more, and his naturally fierce temper swept all reason before it. He took my baby from my arms and bade me ‘go,’ refusing to believe I had not flown with Louis instead of to him. I prayed him to leave my child, my beautiful, blue-eyed, fair-haired Editha, but he told me I was not a fit mother to rear a child, and he refused me even the comfort of a parting caress. He said hard, cruel things to me in that fit of passion—words that broke my heart, seared my brain, and drove me nearly crazed from the sight of every familiar face. I never saw him again—I never heard aught of him for long, long years. After I had recovered somewhat from the first shock of my wild grief I began to reason with myself. I knew I had sinned deeply—I had committed a great wrong in marrying one man when my heart was another’s, even though I believed that other dead, and I had enhanced that wrong a hundredfold in yielding to Louis’ persuasions and consenting to fly with him. True, I had repented before it was too late to turn back, but it was a bitter blow to my husband; it was an act of treachery, and I could not blame him for his first wild outbreak. But I felt that it was cruel of him to be so relentless when I had confessed all; if he had but been merciful—if he could but have consented to give me a place at his hearth-stone until he had tested my sincerity, I feel that a comparatively happy life might have eventually been ours. I wrote to him times without number, begging him to let me come and be the faithful wife and mother I knew I was capable of being; but he never returned me one word in reply—never told me aught of my child, over whom my heart has yearned as only a mother’s heart can yearn for her only darling.
“A short time after our separation I received a letter from Louis telling me of his marriage with an Italian lady and begging me to forgive him for the wrong he had done me in tempting me from my duty as a wife. A year later news of his death reached me, and then I sought my brother, the only living relative I then had. He received me kindly and has devoted himself to my comfort and happiness ever since, and we have lived for each other and for the good we could do to others who have suffered and sinned. I have had much of peace—I have even known something of happiness since no one can relieve the wants of others and witness their comfort and gratitude without being blessed for the good wrought. But I am wearying you with my long story,” Madam said, stopping, with a sad smile.
“No; it is thrillingly interesting, but so sad,” Earle said, longing to hear the remainder.
“I shall soon finish now. I told you, I believe, that my husband was an American, did I not?”
“No; is it possible?” Earle exclaimed, greatly surprised.
“Yes; and for years I have longed to come to the United States to visit his native land, hoping that by some chance I might glean some news of him and my child. My brother and I visited the place that used to be his home, but he had been gone from there for many years. After the death of his parents, he had removed to some city, but no one could tell us where, and no one knew anything of his having a child, and were even surprised to learn that he had ever been married. We could trace him no farther, and I gave up all hope, believing that my child must have died before it reached this country, and so he had never owned the fact of his marriage.
“We thought we might as well visit some of the points of interest here before returning home, and it was while at Newport that I found Editha.”
“Surely you could not have recognized her after so many years?” Earle said, thinking she meant to imply that.
“Oh, no, although we were both strongly attracted to each other at once. She was ill; she had seen sorrow something akin to mine—that I knew as soon as I looked into her sad eyes—and just as I had discovered its nature, and was seeking a better acquaintance with her, she and her father suddenly disappeared from Newport. I learned through Mr. Tressalia that they had gone to Saratoga, and, being determined to know something more of her, and wishing also to visit Saratoga, we followed them thither. Immediately upon our appearance Mr. Dalton became strangely excited and behaved in the most unaccountable manner.
“We arrived at night, while they were at a garden party. We went to seek them, and, after a short interview, Editha and Mr. Dalton withdrew. Early the next morning, before any of us had arisen, they had departed, leaving no trace behind them as to their destination.”
“Aha! Mr. Dalton must have had some suspicion of who you were, and, for reasons of his own, desired to keep the knowledge from Editha,” exclaimed Earle, getting really excited over this strange history.
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