Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (7 page)

 
          
“Pardon,
that I betrayed an instinctive shrinking from anything plebeian. The hair of
the dancer is lighter than mine, you see; for this is pure gold, and mine is
fast deepening to brown. Let me atone for my rudeness thus; and believe me, I
can sympathize, for I, too, have loved and lost.”

 
          
While
speaking, she had refolded the lock, and, tying it together with a little knot
of ribbon from her dress, she laid it back into its owner’s hand, with a soft
glance and a delicate dropping of the voice at the last words.

           
If it was a bit of acting, it was
marvelously well done, and all believed it to be a genuine touch of nature.
Diana looked consumed with curiosity, and
Douglas
answered hastily, “Thanks for the pity, but
I need none. I never saw this girl, and as for love—”

 
          
He
paused there, as if words unfit for time and place were about to pass his lips.
His eye grew fierce, and his black brows lowered heavily, leaving no doubt on
the mind of any observer that hate, not love, was the sentiment with which he
now regarded the mysterious danseuse. An uncomfortable pause followed as
Douglas
relocked the case and put it in his pocket,
forgetting, in his haste, the ring he had slipped upon his finger.

 
          
Feeling
that some unpleasant theme had been touched upon, Lady Lennox asked for music.
Diana coldly declined, but Mrs. Vane readily turned to the piano. The two elder
ladies and the major went to chat by the fire;
Lennox
took his brother aside to administer a
reproof; and
Douglas
, after a moment of moody thoughtfulness,
placed himself beside Diana on the couch which stood just behind Mrs. Vane. She
had begun with a brilliant overture, but suddenly passed to a softer movement,
and filled the room with the whispering melody of a Venetian barcarole. This
seeming caprice was caused by an intense desire to overhear the words of the
pair behind her. But though she strained her keen ear to the utmost, she caught
only broken fragments of their low-toned conversation, and these fragments
filled her with disquiet.

 
          
“Why so cold, Miss Stuart?
One would think you had forgotten
me.”

 
          
“I
fancied the forgetfulness was yours.”

 
          
“I
never shall forget the happiest hours of my life. May I hope that you recall
those days with pleasure?”

 
          
There
was no answer, and a backward glance showed Mrs. Vane Diana’s head bent low,
and
Douglas
watching the deepening color on her
half-averted cheek with an eager, ardent glance. More softly murmured the boat
song, and scarcely audible was the whispered entreaty:

 
          
“I
have much to say; you will hear me tomorrow, early, in the park?”

 
          
A
mute assent was given, and, with the air of a happy lover,
Douglas
left her, as if fearing to say more, lest
their faces should betray them. Then the barcarole ended as suddenly as it had
begun, and Mrs. Vane resumed the stormy overture, playing as if inspired by a
musical frenzy. So pale was she when she left the instrument that no one
doubted the fact of her needing rest, as, pleading weariness, she sank into a
deep chair, and leaning her head upon her hand, sat silent for an hour.

 
          
As
they separated for the night, and
Douglas
stood listening to his young host’s arrangements for the morrow, a
singular-looking man appeared at the door of an anteroom and, seeing them,
paused where he stood, as if waiting for them to precede him.

 
          
“Who
is that, George? What does he want?” said
Douglas
, drawing his friend’s attention to the dark
figure, whose gleaming eyes belied his almost servile posture of humility and
respect.

 
          
“Oh,
that is Mrs. Vane’s man, Jitomar. He was one of the colonel’s Indian servants,
I believe. Deaf and dumb, but harmless, devoted, and invaluable—she says. A
treacherous-looking devil, to my mind,” replied
Lennox
.

 
          
“He
looks more like an Italian than an Indian, in spite of his Eastern costume and
long hair. What is he after now?” asked Earl.

 
          
“Going to receive the orders of his mistress.
I would gladly
change places with him, heathen as he is, for the privilege of serving her.
Good night.”

 
          
As
George spoke, they parted, and while the dark servant watched
Douglas
going up the wide oaken stairs, he shook
his clenched hand after the retreating figure, and his lips moved as if he
muttered something low between his teeth.

 
          
A
few moments afterward, as Earl sat musing over his fire, there came a tap at
his door. Having vainly bidden the knocker to enter, he answered the summons,
and saw Jitomar obsequiously offering a handkerchief. Douglas examined it,
found the major’s name, and, pointing out that gentleman’s room, farther down
the corridor, he returned the lost article with a nod of thanks and dismissal.
While he had been turning the square of cambric in his hands, the man’s keen
eyes had explored every corner of the room. Nothing seemed to escape them, from
the ashes on the hearth, to a flower which Diana had worn, now carefully
preserved in water; and once a gleam of satisfaction glittered in them, as if
some desired object had met their gaze. Making a low obeisance, he retired, and
Douglas
went to bed, to dream waking dreams till
far into the night.

 
          
The
great hall clock had just struck one, and sleep was beginning to conquer love,
when something startled him wide awake. What it was he could not tell, but
every sense warned him of impending danger. Sitting up in his bed, he pushed
back the curtains and looked out. The night lamp burned low, the fire had
faded, and the room was full of dusky shadows. There were three doors: one led
to the dressing room, one to the corridor, and the third was locked on the
outside. He knew that it opened upon a flight of narrow stairs that
communicated with the library, having been built for the convenience of a
studious
Lennox
long ago.

 
          
As
he gazed about him, to his great amazement the door was seen to move. Slowly, noiselessly
it opened, with no click of lock, no creak of hinge. Almost sure of seeing some
ghostly visitant enter, he waited mute and motionless. A muffled hand and arm
appeared and, stretching to their utmost, seemed to take something from the
writing table that stood near this door. It was a human hand, and with a single
leap
Douglas
was halfway across the room. But the door
closed rapidly, and as he laid his hand upon it, the key turned in the lock. He
demanded who was there, but not a sound replied; he shook the door, but the
lock held fast; he examined the table, but nothing seemed gone, till, with an
ominous thrill, he missed the iron ring. On reaching his chamber, he had taken
it off, meaning to restore it to its place; had laid it down, to put Diana’s
rose in water; had forgotten it, and now it was gone!

 
          
Flinging
on dressing gown and slippers, and taking a pistol from his traveling case, he
left his room. The house was quiet as a tomb, the library empty, and no sign of
intruders visible, till, coming to the door itself, he found that the rusty
lock had been newly oiled, for the rusty key turned noiselessly, and the hinges
worked smoothly, though the dust that lay thickly everywhere showed that this
passage was still unused. Stepping into his room, Douglas gave a searching
glance about him, and in an instant an expression of utter bewilderment fell
upon his face, for there, on the exact spot which had been empty five minutes
ago, there lay the iron ring!

A SHRED OF LACE

 
          
LONG
before any of the other guests were down, Diana stole into the m garden on her
way to the park. Hope shone in her eyes, smiles sat on her lips, and her heart
sang for joy. She had long loved in secret; had believed and despaired
alternately; and now her desire was about to be fulfilled, her happiness
assured by a lover’s voice. Hurrying through the wilderness of autumn flowers,
she reached the shrubbery that divided park and garden.
Pausing
an instant to see if anyone awaited her beyond, she gave a great start, and
looked as if she had encountered a ghost.

 
          
It
was only Mrs. Vane; she often took early strolls in the park, followed by her
man; Diana knew this, but had forgotten it in her new bliss. She was alone now,
and as she seemed unconscious of her presence, Diana would have noiselessly
withdrawn, if a glimpse of Mrs. Vane’s face had not arrested and detained her.
As if she had thrown herself down in a paroxysm of distress, sat Mrs. Vane,
with both hands tightly clasped; her white lips were compressed, and in her
eyes was a look of mingled pain, grief, and despair. The most careless observer
would have detected the presence of some great anxiety or sorrow, and Diana,
made generous by the assurance of her own happiness, for the first time felt a
touch of pity for the woman of whom she had been both envious and jealous.
Forgetting herself, she hastened forward, saying kindly, “Are you suffering,
Mrs. Vane? What can I do for you?”

 
          
Mrs.
Vane started as if she had been shot, sprang to her feet, and putting out her
hands as if to keep the other off, cried, almost incoherently, “Go back! Go
back, and save yourself! For me you can do nothing —it is too late!”

 
          
“Indeed,
I hope not. Tell me your trouble, and let me help you if I can,” urged Diana,
shocked yet not alarmed by the wildness of Mrs. Vane’s look and manner.

 
          
But
she only clasped her hands before her face, saying despairingly, “You can help
both of us—but at what a price!”

 
          
“No
price will be too costly, if I can honorably pay it. I have been unjust,
unkind; forgive it, and confide in me; for indeed, I pity you.”

           
“Ah, if I dared!” sighed Mrs. Vane.
“It seems impossible, and yet I ought
—
for you, not I,
will suffer most from my enforced silence.”

 
          
She
paused
an instant, seemed to calm herself by strong effort,
and, fixing her mournful eyes upon Diana, she said, in a strangely solemn and
impressive manner, “Miss Stuart, if ever a woman needed help and pity, it is I.
You have misjudged, distrusted, and disliked me; I freely forgive this, and
long to save you, as I alone can do. But a sacred promise fetters me—I dare not
break it; yet if you will pledge your word to keep this interview secret, I
will venture to give you one hint, one warning, which may save you from
destroying your peace forever. Will you give me this assurance?”

 
          
Diana
shrank back, disturbed and dismayed by the appeal and the requirement. Mrs.
Vane saw her hesitation, and wrung her hands together in an agony of impotent
regret.

 
          
“I
knew it—I feared it. You will not trust me—you will not let me ease my
conscience by trying to save another woman from the fate that darkens all my
life. Go your way, then, and when the bitter hour comes, remember that I tried
to save you from it, and you would not hear me.” “Stay, Mrs. Vane! I do trust
you—I will listen; and I give you my word that I will conceal this interview.
Speak quickly—I must go,” cried Diana, won to compliance even against her
wishes.

 
          
“Stoop
to me—not even the air must hear what I breathe. Ask Allan Douglas the mystery
of his life before you marry him, else you will rue the hour that you became
his wife.”

 
          
“Allan
Douglas! You know his name? You know the secret of his past?” exclaimed Diana,
lost in wonder.

 
          
“My
husband knew him, and I— Hush! Someone is coming. Quick! Escape into the park,
or your face will betray you. I can command myself; I will meet and accost
whoever comes.”

 
          
Before
the rapid whisper ended, Diana was gone, and when
Douglas
came hastening to his tryst, he too found
Mrs. Vane alone—and he too paused a moment, surprised to see her there. But the
picture he saw was a very different one from that which arrested Diana. Great
indeed must have been Mrs. Vane’s command of countenance, for no trace of
agitation was visible, and never had she looked more lovely than now, as she
stood with a handful of flowers in the white skirt of her dress, her bright
hair blowing in the wind, her soft eyes fixed on vacancy, while a tranquil
smile proved that her thoughts were happy ones.

 
          
So
young, so innocent, so blithe she looked that
Douglas
involuntarily thought, with a touch of
self-reproach: “Pretty creature! What injustice my ungallant smile did her last
night! I ask her pardon.”
Then aloud, as he approached, “Good
morning, Mrs. Vane.
I am off for an early stroll.”

 
          
With
the shy grace, the artless glance of a child, she looked up at him, offering a
flower, and saying, as she smilingly moved on, “May it be a pleasant one.”

 
          
It
was not a pleasant one, however; and perhaps Mrs. Vane’s wish had been sweetly
ironical. Diana greeted her lover coldly, listened to his avowal with an air of
proud reserve, that contrasted strangely with the involuntary betrayals of love
and joy that escaped her. Entirely laying aside the chilly gravity, the lofty
manner, which was habitual to him,
Douglas
proved that he could woo ardently, and forget the pride of the man in the
passion of the lover. But when he sued for a verbal answer to his prayer,
although he thought he read the assent in the crimson cheek half turned away,
the downcast eyes, that would not meet his own, and the quick flutter of the
heart that beat under his hand, he was thunderstruck at the change which passed
over Diana. She suddenly grew colorless and calm as any statue, and freeing
herself from his hold, fixed a searching look upon him, while she said slowly
and distinctly, “When you have told me the mystery of your life, I will give my
answer to your love—not before.”

 
          
“The
mystery of my life!” he echoed, falling back a step or two, with such violent
discomposure in face and manner that Diana’s heart sank within her, though she
answered steadily:

 
          
“Yes;
I must know it, before I link my fate with yours.”

 
          
“Who
told you that I had one?” he demanded.

 
          
“Lady
Lennox. I had heard the rumor before, but never gave it thought till she
confirmed it. Now I wait for your explanation.”

 
          
“It
is impossible to give it; but I swear to you, Diana, that I am innocent of any
act that could dishonor my name, or mar your peace, if it were known. The
secret is not mine to tell; I have promised to keep it, and I cannot forfeit my
word, even for your sake. Be generous; do not let mere curiosity or pique
destroy my hopes, and make you cruel when you should be kind.”

 
          
So
earnestly he spoke, so tenderly he pleaded, that Diana’s purpose wavered, and
would have failed her, had not the memory of Mrs. Vane’s strange warning
returned to her, bringing with it other memories of other mysterious looks,
hints, and acts which had transpired since Douglas came. These recollections
hardened her heart, confirmed her resolution, and gave her power to appear
inexorable to the last.

 
          
“You
mistake my motive, sir. Neither curiosity nor pique influenced me, but a just
and natural desire to assure myself that in trusting my happiness to your
keeping, I am not entailing regret upon myself, remorse upon you. I must know
all your past, before I endanger my future; clear yourself from the suspicions
which have long clung to you, and I am yours; remain
silent,
and we are nothing to each other from this day forth.”

 
          
Her
coldness chilled his passion, her distrust irritated his pride; all the old
hauteur returned fourfold, his eye grew hard, his voice bitter, and his whole
manner showed that his will was as inflexible as hers.

 
          
“Are
you resolved on making this unjust, ungenerous test of my affection, Miss
Stuart?”

           
“I am.”

 
          
“You
have no faith in my honor, then? No consideration for the hard strait in which
my promise places me? No compassion for the loss I must sustain in losing the
love, respect, and confidence of the woman dearest to me?”

 
          
“Assure
me that you are worthy of love, respect, confidence, and I gladly accord them
to you.”

 
          
“I
cannot, in the way you demand. Will nothing else satisfy you?”

 
          
“Nothing!”

 
          
“Then,
in your words, we are nothing to one another from this day forth. Farewell,
Diana!”

 
          
With
an involuntary impulse, she put out her hand to detain him as he turned away.
He took it, and bending, kissed it, with a lingering fondness that nearly
conquered her. The act, the look that accompanied it, the tremor of the lips
that performed it, touched the poor girl’s heart, and words of free acceptance
were rising to her lips, when, as he bent, a miniature, suspended by a chain of
mingled hair and gold, swung forward from its hiding place in his breast, and
though she saw no face, the haste with which he replaced it roused all her
suspicions again, and redoubled all her doubts. Scorning herself for her
momentary weakness, the gesture of recall was changed to one of dismissal, as
she withdrew her hand, and turned from him, with a quiet “Farewell, then,
forever!”

 
          
“One
moment,” he pleaded. “Do not let us destroy the peace of both our lives by an
unhappy secret which in no way but this can do us harm. Bear with me for a few
days, Diana; think over this interview, remember my great love for you, let
your own generous nature appeal to your pride, and perhaps time may show you
that it is possible to love, trust, and pardon me.”

 
          
Glad
of any delay which should spare her the pain of an immediate separation, she
hesitated a moment, and then, with feigned reluctance, answered, “My visit was
to have ended with the coming week; I will not shorten it, but give you till
then to reconsider your decision, and by a full confession secure your
happiness and my own.”

 
          
Then
they parted—not with the lingering adieus of happy lovers, but coldly,
silently, like estranged friends—and each took a different way back, instead of
walking blissfully together, as they had thought to do.

 
          
“Why so triste, Diana?
One would think you had seen a ghost
in the night, you look so pale and solemn. And, upon my word, Mr. Douglas looks
as if he had seen one also,” said Mrs. Berkeley, as they all gathered about the
breakfast table two hours later.

 
          
“I
did see one,” answered
Douglas
,
generously distracting general attention from Diana, who could ill sustain it.

 
          
“Last
night?” exclaimed Mrs. Berkeley, full of interest at once.

 
          
“Yes, madam—at
one o’clock
last night.”

 
          
“How charming!
Tell us all about it; I dote upon ghosts, yet
never saw one,” said Mrs. Vane.

 
          
Douglas
narrated his adventure. The elder ladies
looked disturbed, Diana incredulous; and Mrs. Vane filled the room with her
silvery laughter, as Harry protested that no ghost belonged to the house, and
George explained the mystery as being the nightmare.