Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (21 page)

 
          
           
"She is right!" muttered
Coventry
, who had flushed scarlet with shame and
anger, as his folly became known and Lucia listened in astonished silence.

 
          
           
"Only one more, and my distasteful task will be nearly over," said
Edward, unfolding the last of the papers. "This is not a letter, but a
copy of one written three nights ago. Dean boldly ransacked Jean Muir's desk
while she was at the Hall, and, fearing to betray the deed by keeping the
letter, she made a hasty copy which she gave me today, begging me to save the
family from disgrace. This makes the chain complete. Go now, if you will,
Gerald. I would gladly spare you the pain of hearing this."

 
          
           
"I will not spare myself; I deserve it. Read on," replied
Coventry
, guessing what was to follow and nerving
himself to hear it. Reluctantly his brother read these lines:

 
          
           
 "The enemy has surrendered! Give me joy, Hortense; I can be the wife
of this proud monsieur, if I will. Think what an honor for the divorced wife of
a disreputable actor. I laugh at the farce and enjoy it, for I only wait till
the prize I desire is fairly mine, to turn and reject this lover who has proved
himself false to brother, mistress, and his own conscience. I resolved to be
revenged on both, and I have kept my word. For my sake he cast off the
beautiful woman who truly loved him; he forgot his promise to his brother, and
put by his pride to beg of me the worn-out heart that is not worth a good man's
love. Ah well, I am satisfied, for Vashti has suffered the sharpest pain a
proud woman can endure, and will feel another pang when I tell her that I scorn
her recreant lover, and give him back to her, to deal with as she will."

 
          
           
Coventry
started from his seat with a fierce
exclamation, but Lucia bowed her face upon her hands, weeping, as if the pang
had been sharper than even Jean foresaw.

 
          
           
"Send for Sir John! I am mortally afraid of this creature. Take her away;
do something to her. My poor Bella, what a companion for you! Send for Sir John
at once!" cried Mrs. Coventry incoherently, and clasped her daughter in
her arms, as if Jean Muir would burst in to annihilate the whole family. Edward
alone was calm.

 
          
           
"I have already sent, and while we wait, let me finish this story. It is
true that Jean is the daughter of Lady Howard's husband, the pretended
clergyman, but really a worthless man who married her for her money. Her own
child died, but this girl, having beauty, wit and a bold spirit, took her fate
into her own hands, and became an actress. She married an actor, led a reckless
life for some years; quarreled with her husband, was divorced, and went to
Paris
; left the stage, and tried to support
herself as governess and companion. You know how she fared with the
Sydneys
, how she has duped us, and but for this
discovery would have duped Sir John. I was in time to prevent this, thank
heaven. She is gone; no one knows the truth but
Sydney
and ourselves; he will be silent, for his
own sake; we will be for ours, and leave this dangerous woman to the fate which
will surely overtake her."

 
          
           
"Thank you, it has overtaken her, and a very happy one she finds it."

 
          
           
A soft voice uttered the words, and an apparition appeared at the door, which
made all start and recoil with amazement—Jean Muir leaning on the arm of Sir
John.

 
          
           
"How dare you return?" began Edward, losing the self-control so long
preserved. "How dare you insult us by coming back to enjoy the mischief
you have done? Uncle, you do not know that woman!"

 
          
           
"Hush, boy, I will not listen to a word, unless you remember where you
are," said Sir John with a commanding gesture.

 
          
           
"Remember your promise: love me, forgive me, protect me, and do not listen
to their accusations," whispered Jean, whose quick eye had discovered the
letters.

 
          
           
"I will; have no fears, my child," he answered, drawing her nearer as
he took his accustomed place before the fire, always lighted when Mrs. Coventry
was down.

 
          
           
Gerald, who had been pacing the room excitedly, paused behind Lucia's chair as
if to shield her from insult; Bella clung to her mother; and Edward, calming
himself by a strong effort, handed his uncle the letters, saying briefly,
"Look at those, sir, and let them speak."

 
          
           
"I will look at nothing, hear nothing,
believe
nothing which can in any way lessen my respect and affection for this young
lady. She has prepared me for this. I know the enemy who is unmanly enough to
belie and threaten her. I know that you both are unsuccessful lovers, and this
explains your unjust, uncourteous treatment now. We all have committed faults
and follies. I freely forgive Jean hers, and desire to know nothing of them
from your lips. If she has innocently offended, pardon it for my sake, and forget
the past."

 
          
           
"But, Uncle, we have proofs that this woman is not what she seems. Her own
letters convict her. Read them, and do not blindly deceive yourself,"
cried Edward, indignant at his uncle's words.

 
          
           
A low laugh startled them all, and in an instant they saw the cause of it.
While Sir John spoke, Jean had taken the letters from the hand
which he had put behind him, a favorite gesture of his, and, unobserved, had
dropped them on the fire.
The mocking laugh, the sudden blaze, showed
what had been done. Both young men sprang forward, but it was too late; the
proofs were ashes, and Jean Muir's bold, bright eyes defied them, as she said,
with a disdainful little gesture.
"Hands off, gentlemen!
You may degrade yourselves to the work of detectives, but I am not a prisoner
yet. Poor Jean Muir you might harm, but Lady Coventry is beyond your
reach."

 
          
           
"Lady Coventry!" echoed the dismayed family, in varying tones of
incredulity, indignation, and amazement.

 
          
           
"Aye, my dear and honored wife," said Sir John, with a protecting arm
about the slender figure at his side; and in the act, the words, there was a
tender dignity that touched the listeners with pity and respect for the
deceived man. "Receive her as such, and for my sake, forbear all further
accusation," he continued steadily. "I know what I have done. I have
no fear that I shall repent it. If I am blind, let me remain so till time opens
my eyes. We are going away for a little while, and when we return, let the old
life return again, unchanged, except that Jean makes sunshine for me as well as
for you."

 
          
           
No one spoke, for no one knew what to say. Jean broke the silence, saying
coolly, "May I ask how those letters came into your possession?"

 
          
           
"In tracing out your past life,
Sydney
found your friend Hortense. She was poor,
money bribed her, and your letters were given up to him as soon as received.
Traitors are always betrayed in the end," replied Edward sternly.

 
          
           
Jean shrugged her shoulders, and shot a glance at Gerald, saying with her
significant smile, "Remember that, monsieur, and allow me to hope that in
wedding you will be happier than in wooing. Receive my congratulations, Miss
Beaufort, and let me beg of you to follow my example, if you would keep your
lovers."

 
          
           
Here all the sarcasm passed from her voice, the defiance from her eye, and the
one unspoiled attribute which still lingered in this woman's artful nature
shone in her face, as she turned toward Edward and Bella at their mother's
side.

 
          
           
"You have been kind to me," she said, with grateful warmth. "I
thank you for it, and will repay it if I can. To you I will acknowledge that I
am not worthy to be this good man's wife, and to you I will solemnly promise to
devote my life to his happiness. For his sake forgive me, and let there be
peace between us."

 
          
           
There was no reply, but Edward's indignant eyes fell before hers. Bella half
put out her hand, and Mrs. Coventry sobbed as if some regret mingled with her
resentment. Jean seemed to expect no friendly demonstration, and to understand
that they forbore for Sir John's sake, not for hers, and to accept their
contempt as her just punishment.

 
          
           
"Come home, love, and forget all this," said her husband, ringing the
bell, and eager to be gone.
"Lady Coventry's
carriage."

 
          
           
And as he gave the order, a smile broke over her face, for the sound assured
her that the game was won.
Pausing
an instant on the
threshold before she vanished from their sight, she looked backward, and fixing
on Gerald the strange glance he remembered well, she said in her penetrating
voice, "Is not the last scene better than the first?"

 
          
To
and fro, like a wild creature in its cage, paced that handsome woman, with bent
head, locked hands, and restless steps. Some mental storm, swift and sudden as
a tempest of the tropics, had swept over her and left its marks behind. As if
in anger at the beauty now proved powerless, all ornaments had been flung away,
yet still it shone undimmed, and filled her with a passionate regret. A jewel
glittered at her feet, leaving the lace rent to shreds on the indignant bosom
that had worn it; the wreaths of hair that had crowned her with a woman's most
womanly adornment fell disordered upon shoulders that gleamed the fairer for
the scarlet of the pomegranate flowers clinging to the bright meshes that had
imprisoned them an hour ago; and over the face, once so affluent in youthful bloom,
a stern pallor had fallen like a blight, for pride was slowly conquering
passion, and despair had murdered hope.

 
          
Pausing
in her troubled march, she swept away the curtain swaying in the wind and
looked out, as if imploring help from Nature, the great mother of us all. A
summer moon rode high in a cloudless heaven, and far as eye could reach
stretched the green wilderness of a Cuban
cafetal
. No forest, but a
tropical orchard, rich in lime, banana, plantain, palm, and orange trees, under
whose protective shade grew the evergreen coffee plant, whose dark-red berries
are the fortune of their possessor, and the luxury of one-half the world. Wide
avenues diverging from the mansion, with its belt of brilliant shrubs and
flowers, formed shadowy vistas, along which, on the wings of the wind, came a
breath of far-off music, like a wooing voice; for the magic of night and
distance lulled the cadence of a Spanish
contradanza
to a trance of
sound, soft, subdued, and infinitely sweet. It was a southern scene, but not a
southern face that looked out upon it with such unerring glance; there was no
southern languor in the figure, stately and erect; no southern swarthiness on
fairest cheek and arm; no southern darkness in the shadowy gold of the
neglected hair; the light frost of northern snows lurked in the features,
delicately cut, yet vividly alive, betraying a temperament ardent, dominant,
and subtle.
For passion burned in the deep eyes, changing
their violet to black.
Pride sat on the forehead, with its dark brows; all
a woman's sweetest spells touched the lips, whose shape was a smile; and in the
spirited carriage of the head appeared the freedom of an intellect ripened
under colder skies, the energy of a nature that could wring strength from
suffering, and dare to act where feebler souls would only dare desire.

 
          
Standing
thus, conscious only of the wound that bled in that high heart of hers, and the
longing that gradually took shape and deepened to a purpose, an alien presence
changed the tragic atmosphere of that still room and woke her from her
dangerous mood. A wonderfully winning guise this apparition wore, for youth,
hope, and love endowed it with the charm that gives beauty to the plainest,
while their reign endures. A boy in any other climate, in this his nineteen
years had given him the stature of a man; and Spain, the land of romance,
seemed embodied in this figure, full of the lithe slenderness of the whispering
palms overhead, the warm coloring of the deep-toned flowers sleeping in the
room, the native grace of the tame antelope lifting its human eyes to his as he
lingered on the threshold in an attitude eager yet timid, watching that other
figure as it looked into the night and found no solace there.

 
          
"Pauline!"

 
          
She
turned as if her thought had taken voice and answered her, regarded him a
moment, as if hesitating to receive the granted wish, then beckoned with the
one word.

 
          
"Come!"

 
          
Instantly
the fear vanished, the ardor deepened, and with an imperious "Lie
down!" to his docile attendant, the young man obeyed with equal docility,
looking as wistfully toward his mistress as the brute toward her master, while
he waited proudly humble for her commands.

 
          
"Manuel,
why are you here?"

 
          
"Forgive
me! I saw Dolores bring a letter; you vanished, an hour passed,
 
I could wait no longer, and I
came."
 
          
"I
am glad, I needed my one friend. Read that."

 
          
She
offered a letter, and with her steady eyes upon him, her purpose strengthening
as she looked, stood watching the changes of that expressive countenance. This
was the letter:

 
          
Pauline—

 
          
Six
months ago I left you, promising to return and take you home my wife; I loved
you, but I deceived you; for though my heart was wholly yours, my hand was not
mine to give. This it was that haunted me through all that blissful summer,
this that marred my happiness when you owned you loved me, and this drove me
from you, hoping I could break the tie with which I had rashly bound myself. I
could not, I am married, and there all ends. Hate me, forget me, solace your
pride with the memory that none knew your wrong, assure your peace with the
knowledge that mine is destroyed forever, and leave my punishment to remorse
and time.

 
          
Gilbert

 
          
With
a gesture of wrathful contempt, Manuel flung the paper from him as he flashed a
look at his companion, muttering through his teeth, "Traitor! Shall I kill
him?"

 
          
Pauline
laughed low to herself, a dreary sound, but answered with a slow darkening of
the face that gave her words an ominous significance. "Why should you?
Such revenge is brief and paltry, fit only for mock tragedies or poor souls who
have neither the will to devise nor the will to execute a better. There are
fates more terrible than death; weapons more keen than poniards, more noiseless
than pistols. Women use such, and work out a subtler vengeance than men can
conceive.
Leave Gilbert to remorse—and me."

 
          
She
paused an instant, and by some strong effort banished the black frown from her
brow, quenched the baleful fire of her eyes, and left nothing visible but the
pale determination that made her beautiful face more eloquent than her words.

 
          
"Manuel,
in a week I leave the island."

 
          
"Alone, Pauline?"

 
          
"No, not alone."

 
          
A
moment they looked into each other's eyes, each endeavoring to read the other.
Manuel saw some indomitable purpose, bent on conquering all obstacles. Pauline
saw doubt, desire, and hope; knew that a word would bring the ally she needed;
and, with
a courage
as native to her as her pride,
resolved to utter it.

 
          
Seating
herself, she beckoned her companion to assume the place beside her, but for the
first time he hesitated. Something in the unnatural calmness of her manner
troubled him, for his southern temperament was alive to influences whose
presence would have been unfelt by one less sensitive. He took the cushion at
her feet, saying, half tenderly, half reproachfully, "Let me keep my old
place till I know in what character I am to fill the new. The man you trusted
has deserted you; the boy you pitied will prove loyal. Try him, Pauline."

 
          
"I
will."

 
          
And
with the bitter smile unchanged upon her lips, the low voice unshaken in its
tones, the deep eyes unwavering in their gaze, Pauline went on:

 
          
"You
know my past, happy as a dream till eighteen. Then all was swept away, home,
fortune, friends, and I was left, like an unfledged bird, without even the
shelter of a cage. For five years I have made my life what I could, humble,
honest, but never happy, till I came here, for here I saw Gilbert. In the poor
companion of your guardian's daughter he seemed to see the heiress I had been,
and treated me as such. This flattered my pride and touched my heart. He was
kind, I grateful; then he loved me, and God knows how utterly I loved him! A
few months of happiness the purest, then he went to make home ready for me, and
I believed him; for where I wholly love I wholly trust. While my own peace was
undisturbed, I learned to read the language of your eyes, Manuel, to find the
boy grown into the man, the friend warmed into a lover. Your youth had kept me
blind too long. Your society had grown dear to me, and I loved you like a
sister for your unvarying kindness to the solitary woman who earned her bread
and found it bitter. I told you my secret to prevent the utterance of your own.
You remember the promise you made me then, keep it still, and bury the
knowledge of my lost happiness deep in your pitying heart, as I shall in my
proud one. Now the storm is over, and I am ready for my work again, but it must
be a new task in a new scene. I hate this house, this room, the faces I must meet,
the
duties I must perform, for the memory of that
traitor haunts them all. I see a future full of interest, a stage whereon I
could play a stirring part. I long for it intensely, yet cannot make it mine
alone. Manuel, do you love me still?"

 
          
Bending
suddenly, she brushed back the dark hair that streaked his forehead and
searched the face that in an instant answered her. Like a swift rising light,
the eloquent blood rushed over swarthy cheek and brow, the slumberous softness
of the eyes kindled with a flash, and the lips, sensitive as any woman's,
trembled yet broke into a rapturous smile as he cried, with fervent brevity,
"I would die for you!"

 
          
A
look of triumph swept across her face, for with this boy, as chivalrous as
ardent, she knew that words were not mere breath. Still, with her stern purpose
uppermost, she changed the bitter smile into one half-timid, half-tender, as
she bent still nearer, "Manuel, in a week I leave the island. Shall I go
alone?"

 
          
"No,
Pauline."

 
          
He
understood her now. She saw it in the sudden paleness that fell on him, heard
it in the rapid beating of his heart, felt it in the strong grasp that fastened
on her hand, and knew that the first step was won. A regretful pang smote her,
but the dark mood which had taken possession of her stifled the generous
warnings of her better self and drove her on.

 
          
"Listen,
Manuel. A strange spirit rules me tonight, but I will have no reserves from
you, all shall be told; then, if you will come, be it so; if not, I shall go my
way as solitary as I came. If you think that this loss has broken my heart,
undeceive yourself, for such as I live years in an hour and show no sign. I
have shed no tears, uttered no cry, asked no comfort; yet, since I read that
letter, I have suffered more than many suffer in a lifetime. I am not one to
lament long over any hopeless sorrow. A single paroxysm, sharp and short, and
it is over. Contempt has killed my love, I have buried it, and no power can
make it live again, except as a pale ghost that will not rest till Gilbert
shall pass through an hour as bitter as the last."

 
          
"Is
that the task you give yourself, Pauline?"

 
          
The
savage element that lurks in southern blood leaped up in the boy's heart as he
listened, glittered in his eye, and involuntarily found expression in the
nervous grip of the hands that folded a fairer one between them. Alas for
Pauline that she had roused the sleeping devil, and was glad to see it!

 
          
"Yes,
it is weak, wicked, and unwomanly; yet I persist as relentlessly as any Indian
on a war trail. See me as I am, not the gay girl you have known, but a
revengeful woman with but one tender spot now left in her heart, the place you
fill. I have been wronged, and I long to right myself at once. Time is too
slow; I cannot wait, for that man must be taught that two can play at the game
of hearts, taught soon and sharply. I can do this, can wound as I have been
wounded, can sting him with contempt, and prove that I too can forget."

 
          
"Go on, Pauline.
Show me how I am to help you."

 
          
"Manuel,
I want fortune, rank, splendor, and power; you can give me all these, and a
faithful friend beside. I desire to show Gilbert the creature he deserted no
longer poor, unknown, unloved, but lifted higher than himself, cherished,
honored, applauded, her life one of royal pleasure, herself a happy queen.
Beauty, grace, and talent you tell me I possess; wealth gives them luster, rank
exalts them, power makes them irresistible. Place these worldly gifts in my
hand and that hand is yours. See, I offer it."