Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (27 page)

 
          
"As it began—in sorrow, shame and loss."
Then, in
words that
fell
hot and heavy on the sore heart made
desolate, she poured out the dark history of the wrong and the atonement wrung
from him with such pitiless patience and inexorable will. No hard fact remained
unrecorded, no subtle act unveiled, no hint of her bright future unspared to
deepen the gloom of his. And when the final word of doom died upon the lips
that should have awarded pardon, not punishment, Pauline tore away the last
gift he had given, and dropping it to the rocky path, set her foot upon it, as
if it were the scarlet badge of her subjection to the evil spirit which had
haunted her so long, now cast out and crushed forever.

 
          
Gilbert
had listened with a slowly gathering despair, which deepened to the blind
recklessness that comes to those whose passions are their masters, when some
blow smites but cannot subdue. Pale to his very lips, with the still white
wrath, so much more terrible to witness than the fiercest ebullition of the ire
that flames and feeds like a sudden fire, he waited till she ended, then used
the one retaliation she had left him. His hand went to his breast, a tattered
glove flashed white against the cliff as he held it up before her, saying, in a
voice that rose gradually till the last words sounded clear above the
waterfall's wild song:

 
          
"It
was well and womanly done, Pauline, and I could wish Manuel a happy life with
such a tender, frank, and noble wife; but the future which you paint so well
never shall be his. For, by the Lord that hears me! I swear I will end this
jest of yours in a more bitter earnest than you prophesied. Look; I have worn
this since the night you began the conflict, which has ended in defeat to me,
as it shall to you. I do not war with women, but you shall have one man's blood
upon your soul, for I will goad that tame boy to rebellion by flinging this in
his face and taunting him with a perfidy blacker than my own. Will that rouse
him to forget your commands and answer like a man?"

 
          
"Yes!"

 
          
The
word rang through the air sharp and short as a pistol shot, a slender brown
hand wrenched the glove away, and Manuel came between them. Wild with fear,
Mrs. Redmond clung to him. Pauline sprang before him, and for a moment the two
faced each other, with a year's smoldering jealousy and hate blazing in fiery
eyes, trembling in clenched hands, and surging through set teeth in defiant
speech.

 
          
"This
is the gentleman who gambles his friend to desperation, and skulks behind a
woman, like the coward he is,"
sneered
Gilbert.

 
          
"Traitor
and swindler, you lie!" shouted Manuel, and, flinging his wife behind him,
he sent the glove, with a stinging blow, full in his opponent's face.

 
          
Then
the wild beast that lurks in every strong man's blood leaped up in Gilbert
Redmond's, as, with a single gesture of his sinewy right arm he swept Manuel to
the verge of the narrow ledge, saw him hang poised there one awful instant,
struggling to save the living weight that weighed him down, heard a heavy
plunge into the black pool below, and felt that thrill of horrible delight which
comes to murderers alone.

 
          
So
swift and sure had been the act it left no time for help. A rush, a plunge, a
pause, and then two figures stood where four had been—a man and woman staring
dumbly at each other, appalled at the dread silence that made high noon more
ghostly than the deepest night. And with that moment of impotent horror,
remorse, and woe, Pauline's long punishment began.

 
          
           
 
 
Trevlyn lands and Trevlyn gold,
 
 Heir nor heiress e'er shall hold,
 
 Undisturbed, till, spite of rust,
 
 Truth is found in Trevlyn dust
.

 
          
           
"This is the third time I've found you poring over that old rhyme. What is
the charm, Richard? Not its poetry I fancy." And the young wife laid a
slender hand on the yellow, time-worn page where, in Old English
text,
appeared the lines she laughed at.

 
          
           
Richard Trevlyn looked up with a smile and threw by the book, as if annoyed at
being discovered reading it. Drawing his wife's hand through his own, he led
her back to her couch, folded the soft shawls about her, and, sitting in a low
chair beside her, said in a cheerful tone, though his eyes betrayed some hidden
care, "My love, that book is a history of our family for centuries, and
that old prophecy has never yet been fulfilled, except the 'heir and heiress'
line. I am the last Trevlyn, and as the time draws near when my child shall be
born, I naturally think of his future, and hope he will enjoy his heritage in
peace."

 
          
           
"God grant it!" softly echoed Lady Trevlyn, adding, with a look
askance at the old book, "I read that history once, and fancied it must be
a romance, such dreadful things are recorded in it. Is it all true,
Richard?"

 
          
           
"Yes, dear.
I wish it was not. Ours has been a
wild, unhappy race till the last generation or two. The stormy nature came in
with old Sir Ralph, the fierce
Norman
knight, who killed his only son in a fit of
wrath, by a blow with his steel gauntlet, because the boy's strong will would
not yield to his."

 
          
           
"Yes, I remember, and his daughter Clotilde held the castle during a siege,
and married her cousin, Count Hugo
. '
Tis a warlike
race,
and I like it in spite of the mad deeds."

 
          
           
"Married her cousin!
That has been the bane of
our family in times past. Being too proud to mate elsewhere, we have kept to
ourselves till idiots and lunatics began to appear. My father was the first who
broke the law among us, and I followed his example: choosing the freshest,
sturdiest flower I could find to transplant into our exhausted soil."

 
          
           
"I hope it will do you honor by blossoming bravely. I never forget that
you took me from a very humble home, and have made me the happiest wife in
England
."

 
          
           
"And I never forget that you, a girl of eighteen, consented to leave your
hills and come to cheer the long-deserted house of an old man like me,"
returned her husband fondly.

 
          
           
"Nay, don't call yourself old, Richard; you are only forty-five, the
boldest, handsomest man in Warwickshire. But lately you look worried; what is
it? Tell me, and let me
advise
or comfort you."

 
          
           
"It is nothing,
Alice
, except my natural anxiety for you—Well,
Kingston
, what do you want?"

 
          
           
Trevlyn's tender tones grew sharp as he addressed the entering servant, and the
smile on his lips vanished, leaving them dry and white as he glanced at the
card he handed him. An instant he stood staring at it, then asked, "Is the
man here?"

 
          
           
"In the library, sir."

 
          
           
"I'll come."

 
          
           
Flinging the card into the fire, he watched it turn to ashes before he spoke,
with averted eyes: "Only some annoying business, love; I shall soon be
with you again. Lie and rest till I come."

 
          
           
With a hasty caress he left her, but as he passed a mirror, his wife saw an
expression of intense excitement in his face. She said nothing, and lay
motionless for several minutes evidently struggling with some strong impulse.

 
          
           
"He is ill and anxious, but hides it from me; I have a right to know, and
he'll forgive me when I prove that it does no harm."

 
          
           
As she spoke to herself she rose, glided noiselessly through the hall, entered
a small closet built in the thickness of the wall, and, bending to the keyhole
of a narrow door, listened with a half-smile on her lips at the trespass she
was committing. A murmur of voices met her ear. Her husband spoke oftenest, and
suddenly some word of his dashed the smile from her face as if with a blow. She
started, shrank, and shivered, bending lower with set teeth, white cheeks, and
panic-stricken heart. Paler and paler grew her lips, wilder and wilder her
eyes, fainter and fainter her breath, till, with a long sigh, a vain effort to
save herself, she sank prone upon the threshold of the door, as if struck down
by death.

 
          
           
"Mercy on us, my lady,
are
you ill?" cried
Hester, the maid, as her mistress glided into the room looking like a ghost,
half an hour later.

 
          
           
"I am faint and cold. Help me to my bed, but do not disturb Sir
Richard."

 
          
           
A shiver crept over her as she spoke, and, casting a wild, woeful look about
her, she laid her head upon the pillow like one who never cared to lift it up
again. Hester, a sharp-eyed, middle-aged woman, watched the pale creature for a
moment, then left the room muttering, "Something is wrong, and Sir Richard
must know it. That black-bearded man came for no good, I'll warrant."

 
          
           
At the door of the library she paused. No sound of voices came from within; a
stifled groan was all she heard; and without waiting to knock she went in, fearing
she knew not what. Sir Richard sat at his writing table pen in hand, but his
face was hidden on his arm, and his whole attitude betrayed the presence of
some overwhelming despair.

 
          
           
"Please, sir, my lady is ill. Shall I send for anyone?"

 
          
           
No answer. Hester repeated her words, but Sir Richard never stirred. Much
alarmed, the woman raised his head, saw that he was unconscious, and rang for
help. But Richard Trevlyn was past help, though he lingered for some hours. He
spoke but once, murmuring faintly, "Will
Alice
come to say good-bye?"

 
          
           
"Bring her if she can come," said the physician.

 
          
           
Hester went, found her mistress lying as she left her, like a figure carved in
stone. When she gave the message, Lady Trevlyn answered sternly, "Tell him
I will not come," and turned her face to the wall, with an expression
which daunted the woman too much for another word.

 
          
           
Hester whispered the hard answer to the physician, fearing to utter it aloud,
but Sir Richard heard it, and died with a despairing prayer for pardon on his
lips.

 
          
           
When day dawned Sir Richard lay in his shroud and his little daughter in her
cradle, the one unwept, the other unwelcomed by the wife and mother, who,
twelve hours before, had called herself the happiest woman in
England
. They thought her dying, and at her own
command gave her the sealed letter bearing her address which her husband left
behind him. She read it, laid it in her
bosom,
and,
waking from the trance which seemed to have so strongly chilled and changed
her, besought those about her with passionate earnestness to save her life.

 
          
           
For two days she hovered on the brink of the grave, and nothing but the
indomitable will to live saved her, the doctors said. On the third day she
rallied wonderfully, and some purpose seemed to gift her with unnatural
strength. Evening came, and the house was very still, for all the sad bustle of
preparation for Sir Richard's funeral was over, and he lay for the last night under
his own roof. Hester sat in the darkened chamber of her mistress, and no sound
broke the hush but the low lullaby the nurse was singing to the fatherless baby
in the adjoining room. Lady Trevlyn seemed to sleep, but suddenly put back the
curtain, saying abruptly, "Where does he lie?"

 
          
           
"In the state chamber, my lady," replied Hester, anxiously watching
the feverish glitter of her mistress's eye, the flush on her cheek, and the
unnatural calmness of her manner.

 
          
           
"Help me to go there; I must see him."

 
          
           
"It would be your death, my lady. I beseech you, don't think of it,"
began the woman; but Lady Trevlyn seemed not to hear her, and something in the
stern pallor of her face awed the woman into submission.

 
          
           
Wrapping the slight form of her mistress in a warm cloak, Hester half-led,
half-carried her to the state room, and left her on the threshold.

 
          
           
"I must go in alone; fear nothing, but wait for me here," she said,
and closed the door behind her.

 
          
           
Five minutes had not elapsed when she reappeared with no sign of grief on her
rigid face.

 
          
           
"Take me to my bed and bring my jewel box," she said, with a
shuddering sigh, as the faithful servant received her with an exclamation of
thankfulness.

 
          
           
When her orders had been obeyed, she drew from her bosom the portrait of Sir
Richard which she always wore, and, removing the ivory oval from the gold case,
she locked the former in a tiny drawer of the casket, replaced the empty locket
in her breast, and bade Hester give the jewels to Watson, her lawyer, who would
see them put in a safe place till the child was grown.

 
          
           
"Dear heart, my lady, you'll wear them yet, for you're too young to grieve
all your days, even for so good a man as my blessed master. Take comfort, and
cheer up, for the dear child's sake if no more."

 
          
           
"I shall never wear them again" was all the answer as Lady Trevlyn
drew the curtains, as if to shut out hope.

 
          
           
Sir Richard was buried and, the nine days' gossip over, the mystery of his
death died for want of food, for the only person who could have explained it
was in a state which forbade all allusion to that tragic day.

 
          
           
For a year Lady Trevlyn's reason was in danger. A long fever left her so weak
in mind and body that there was little hope of recovery, and her days were
passed in a state of apathy sad to witness. She seemed to have forgotten
everything, even the shock which had so sorely stricken her. The sight of her
child failed to rouse her, and month after month slipped by, leaving no trace
of their passage on her mind, and but slightly renovating her feeble body.

 
          
           
Who the stranger was, what his aim in coming, or why he never
reappeared, no one discovered.
The contents of the letter left by Sir
Richard were unknown, for the paper had been destroyed by Lady Trevlyn and no
clue could be got from her. Sir Richard had died of heart disease, the
physicians said, though he might have lived years had no sudden shock assailed
him. There were few relatives to make investigations, and friends soon forgot
the sad young widow; so the years rolled on, and Lillian the heiress grew from
infancy to childhood in the shadow of this mystery.