Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (9 page)

 
          
“Ah,
if she truly loved, she would; for then one believes blindly, can think no ill,
fear no wrong, desire no confidence that is not freely given. She does not know
the bliss of loving with one's whole heart and soul, and asking no happier fate
than to live for a man whose affection makes a heaven anywhere.”

 
          
They
had paused on the brow of the hill to wait for Harry, and as she spoke, Mrs.
Vane's face kindled with a glow that made it doubly beautiful; for voice, eyes,
lips, and gestures all betrayed how well she could love.
Douglas
regarded her with a curious consciousness
of attraction and repulsion, feeling that had he met her before he saw and
loved Diana, he never should have given his peace into the keeping of that
exacting girl. An involuntary sigh escaped him; Mrs. Vane brightened instantly,
saying:

 
          
“Nay,
do not fall back into your gloomy mood again, or I shall think that I have
increased, not lessened, your anxiety. I came to cheer you if I could, for
though I have done with love myself, it gives me sin- cerest satisfaction to
serve those who are just beginning to know its pleasant pain.”

 
          
She
was smiling as she spoke, but the lovely eyes lifted to her companion's face
were full of tears. Remembering her loneliness, her loss, and with a grateful
sense of all she desired to do for him, Douglas ungloved and offered her his
hand, with an impulsive gesture, saying warmly, “You are very kind; I thank
you, and feel already comforted by the thought that though I may have lost a
lover, I have gained a friend.”

 
          
Here
Harry came up brimful of curiosity, for he had seen and heard more than they
knew. After this they all rode on together, and when
Douglas
dismounted Mrs. Vane she whispered,
“Remember, you are to shun me, no matter how pointedly. I shall forgive you,
and she will be happier for our little ruse.”

 
          
This
speech, as well as the first uttered by Mrs. Vane when their serious
conversation began, was overheard by Harry, and when Diana carelessly asked him
if he had enjoyed his ride, he repeated the two remarks, hoping to gain some
explanation of them before he told his brother, whose cause he heartily
espoused. He knew nothing of Miss Stuart’s love, and made her his confidante
without a suspicion of the pang he was inflicting. She bade him forget what he
had heard, but could not do so herself, and all that day those two sentences
rang through her mind unceasingly.

 
          
Pausing
that evening in the hall to examine one of the ancient portraits hanging there,
Douglas heard a soft rustle, and turning, saw Mrs. Vane entering, as if from a
moonlight stroll on the balcony. The night was cool, and over her head was
drawn a corner of the black lace shawl that drooped from her shoulders. Her
dress of violet silk was trimmed with a profusion of black lace, and
wonderingly becoming to white skin and golden hair was the delicate tint and
its rich decoration.
Douglas
went to her, saying, as he offered his
hand, “You see how well I keep my word; now let me reward myself by taking you
in. But, first, pray tell me if this is a picture of Sir Lionel.”

 
          
He
led her to the portrait that had excited his curiosity, and while she told him
some little legend of it, he still lingered, held as much by the charm of the
living voice as by the exploits of the dead knight. Standing thus, arm in arm,
alone and engrossed in one another, neither, apparently, saw Diana pausing on
the threshold of the library with an expression of deep displeasure in her
face.
Douglas
did not see her; Mrs. Vane did, though not
a sign betrayed it, except that in an instant her whole expression changed. As
Douglas
looked up at the picture, she looked up at
him with love, grief, pain, and pity visibly contending in her beautiful face;
then suddenly withdrawing her arm, she said, “I forgot, we are strangers now.
Let me enter alone.” And gliding from him with bent head, she passed into the
drawing room.

 
          
Much
amazed at her abrupt flight, Earl looked after her, saw Diana watching him, and
inexpressibly annoyed by the contretemps, he started, colored, bowed coldly,
and followed Mrs. Vane without a word. For a moment, Diana lingered with her
head in her hands, thinking disconsolately: “What secret lies between them? She
leaned and looked as if she had a right there. He is already more at ease with
her than me, although they met but yesterday. Have they not met before? She
asked some favor ‘for the sake of one dear to both/
Who
is it? He must shun her that someone may be happy, though deceived. Is that me?
She knows his mystery, has a part in it, and I am to be kept blind. Wait a
little! I too can plot, and watch, and wait. I can read faces, fathom actions,
and play a part, though my heart breaks in doing it.”

 
          
All
that evening she watched them; saw that Douglas did not shun Mrs. Vane; also
that he feigned unconsciousness of her own keen scrutiny, and seemed
endeavoring to chase from her mind the memory of the morning’s interview, or
the evening’s discovery. She saw Mrs. Vane act surprise, pique, and displeasure
at his seeming desertion, and console herself by making her peace with
Lennox
. To others, Diana appeared unusually
animated and carefree, but never had an evening seemed so interminable, and
never had she so gladly hailed the hour of separation.

 
          
She
was standing by Lady Lennox when Mrs. Vane came up to say good night. Her
ladyship did not like Diana, and did both love and pity the lonely little
widow, who had endeared
herself
in so many ways. As
she swept a curtsy, with the old-fashioned reverence that her hostess liked,
Lady Lennox drew her nearer and kissed her with motherly affection, saying
playfully as she did so, “No pranks tonight among the spirits, my dear, else
these friends will think you and I are witches in good earnest.,,

 
          
“That
reminds me, I have kept my promise, and Mr. Douglas can compare his telltale
bit with my mother's, and, as you see, very precious in every respect."

 
          
Gravely
exploring one pocket after another, Earl presently announced, with some
chagrin, that the bit was lost, blown away while riding, probably. So nothing
could be done, and Mrs. Vane was acquitted of lending her laces to the
household ghost. Diana looked disappointed, and taking up a corner of the
shawl, said, as she examined it narrowly, “As I remember the shred, it matched
this pattern exactly. It is a peculiar one, and I observed it well. I wish the
bit was not lost, for if people play such games with your clothes, they may
take equal liberties with mine."

 
          
Seeing
suspicion in her eyes, Mrs. Vane gathered the four corners of the shawl
together, and with great care spread each over her violet skirt before Diana.
Not a fracture appeared, and when she had done the same with every atom of
trimming on her dress, she drew her slender figure up with an air of proud
dignity, asking almost sternly, “Am I acquitted of this absurd charge, Miss
Stuart?"

 
          
Entirely
disconcerted by the quickness with which her distrust had been seen and
exposed, Diana could only look guilty, apologize, and find
herself
convicted of an unjust suspicion. Mrs. Vane received her atonement graciously,
and wrapping her shawl about her, went away to bed, with a mischievous smile
shining in her eyes as she bowed to
Douglas
,
whose glance followed her till the last glimpse of the violet dress
disappeared.

TREASON

 
          
THE
week passed gaily enough, externally, but to several of the party it was a very
dreary and very memorable week. George Lennox basked in the light of Mrs.
Vane’s smiles, and his mother began to hope that
Douglas
would not take her at her word, but leave
her son to woo and win the bonny widow, if he could. Earl watched and waited
for Diana to
relent,
pleading with his eyes, though
never a word of submission or appeal passed his lips. And poor Diana, hoping to
conquer him, silenced the promptings of her reason, and stood firm, when a
yielding look, a tender word, would have overcome his pride, and healed the
breach. She suffered much, but told no one her pain till the last day came.
Then, driven by the thought that a few hours would seal her fate, she resolved
to appeal to Mrs. Vane. She knew the mystery; she professed to pity her. She
was a woman, and to her this humiliation would not be so hard, this confession
so impossible.

 
          
Diana
haunted the hall and drawing rooms all that morning, hoping to find Mrs. Vane
alone. At last, just before lunch, she caught her playing with Earl’s spaniel,
while she waited for
Lennox
to bring her hat from the garden seat where
she had left it.

 
          
“Be
so kind as to take a turn with me on the balcony, Mrs. Vane. I wish much to say
a few words to you,” began Diana, with varying color and anxious eyes, as she
met her at the great hall door.

 
          
“With pleasure.
Give me your arm, and let us have our little
chat quite comfortably together. Can I do anything for you, my dear Miss
Stuart? Pray speak freely, and, believe me, I desire to be your friend.”

 
          
So
kind, so cordial was the tone, the look, that poor Diana felt comforted at
once; and bending her stately head to the bright one at her side, she said,
with a sad humility, which proved how entirely her love had subdued her pride,
“I hope so, Mrs. Vane, for I need a friend.
You,
and
you alone, can help me. I humble myself to you; I forget not my own misgivings.
I endeavor to see in you only a woman younger, yet wiser than myself, who,
knowing my sore necessity, will help me by confessing the share she bears in
the secret that is destroying my peace.”

 
          
“I
wish I could! I wish I dared! I have thought of it often; have longed to do it
at all costs; and then remembering my vow, I have held my peace!”

 
          
“Assure
me of one thing and I will submit. I will ask Allan to forgive me, and I will
be happy in my ignorance, if I can. He told me that this mystery would not
stain his honor, or mar my peace if it were known. Mrs. Vane, is this true?”
asked Diana solemnly.

 
          
“No;
a man's honor is not tarnished in his eyes by treachery to a woman, and he
believes that a woman's peace will not be marred by the knowledge that in God's
sight she is not his wife, although she may be in the eyes of the world.”

 
          
“Mrs.
Vane, I conjure you to tell me what you mean! I have a right to know; it is
your duty to save me from sin and sorrow if you can, and I will make any
promise you exact to keep eternally secret whatever you may tell me. If you
fear
Douglas
, he shall never know that you have broken
your vow, whether I marry or discard him. Have pity upon me, I implore you, for
this day must make or mar my life!”

 
          
Few
women could have withstood the desperate urgency of Diana's prayer; Mrs. Vane
did not. A moment she stood, growing paler as some purpose took shape in her
mind, then drew her companion onward, saying hurriedly, as George Lennox
appeared in the avenue, “Invite me to drive out alone with you after lunch, and
then you shall know all. But, O Miss Stuart, remember that you bring the sorrow
upon yourself if you urge this disclosure. I cannot think it right to see you
give yourself to this man without a protest; but you may curse me for
destroying your faith in him, while powerless to kill your love. Go now, and if
you retract your wish, be silent; I shall know.”

 
          
They
parted, and when
Lennox
came up, the balcony was deserted.

 
          
“My
love, you get so pale and spiritless that I am quite reconciled to our
departure; for the air here does not suit you, and we must try the seashore,”
said Mrs. Berkeley, as they rose from the table after lunch.

 
          
“I
shall be myself again soon, Aunt. I need more exercise, and if Mrs. Vane will
allow me, I should enjoy a long drive with her this afternoon,” returned Diana,
growing still paler as she spoke.

           
Mrs. Vane bowed her acceptance, and
as she left the room a curious shiver seemed to shake her from head to foot as
she pressed her hands together and hurried to her chamber.

 
          
The
two ladies drove in silence, till Diana said abruptly, “I am ready, Mrs. Vane;
tell me all, and spare nothing.”

 
          
“Your
solemn oath first, that living or dying, you will never reveal to any human
soul what I shall tell you.” And as she spoke, Mrs. Vane extended her hand.

 
          
Diana
gave her own, and took the oath which the other well knew she would keep
inviolate.

 
          
“I
shall not torture you by suspense,” Mrs. Vane began, “but
show
you at once why I would save you from a greater suffering than the loss of
love. Miss Stuart, read that, and
learn
the mystery of
your lovers life.”

 
          
With
a sudden gesture, she took from her bosom a worn paper, and unfolding it, held
before the other’s eyes the marriage record of Allan Douglas and Virginie
Varens.

 
          
Not
a word passed Diana’s lips, but with the moan of a broken heart she covered up
her face, and slowly, tremulously, the voice at her side went on, “You see here
the date of that mysterious journey to
Paris
, from which he returned an altered man.
There, too, is his private seal. That long lock of hair, that stained slipper, belonged
to Virginie; and though he said he had never seen her, the lie cost him an
effort, and well it might, for I sat there before him, and I am Virginie.”

 
          
Diana’s
hands dropped from her pallid face, as she shrank away from her companion, yet
gazed at her like one fascinated by an awful spell.

 
          
“Hear
my story, and then judge between us,” the voice continued, so melancholy, yet
so sweet that tears came to the listener’s eyes, as the sad story was unfolded.
“I am of a noble family, but was left so poor, so friendless, that but for a
generous boy I should have perished in the streets of
Paris
. He was a
dancer,
his poor earnings could not support us both. I discovered this, and in my
innocence, thought no labor degrading that lessened my great debt to him. I,
too, had become a dancer. I had youth, beauty, health, and a grateful heart to
help me on. I made money. I had many lovers, but Victor kept me safe, for
he
, too, loved, but in secret, till he was sure I could give
him love, not gratitude. Then Allan came, and I forgot the world about me; for
I loved as only a girl of seventeen can love the first man who has touched her
heart. He offered me his hand and honorable name, for I was as wellborn as
himself, and even in my seeming degradation, he respected me. We were married,
and for a year I was as happy as an angel. Then my boy was born, and for a time
I lost my beauty. That cooled Allan’s waning passion. Some fear of
consequences, some later regret for his rash act, came over him, and made him
very bitter to me when I most needed tenderness. He told me that our marriage
had been without witnesses, that our faith was different, and that vows
pronounced before a Catholic priest alone were not binding upon him. That he
was weary of me, and having been recalled to
Scotland
, he desired to return as free as he went.
If I would promise solemnly to conceal the truth, he would support the boy and
me abroad, until I chose to marry; that I must destroy the record of the deed,
and never claim him, or he would denounce me as an impostor, and take away the
boy. Miss Stuart, I was very ignorant and young; my heart was broken, and I
believed myself dying. For the child’s sake, I promised all things, and he left
me; but remorse haunted him, and his peace was poisoned from that hour.”

 
          
“And
you? You married Colonel Vane?” whispered Diana, holding her breath to listen.

 
          
“No,
I have never married, for in my eyes that ceremony made me Allan’s wife, and I
shall be so till I die. When I was most forlorn, Colonel Vane found me. He was
Allan’s friend; he had seen me with him, and when we met again, he pitied me;
and finding that I longed to hide myself from the world, he took me to
India
under an assumed name, as the widow of a
friend. My boy went with me, and for a time I was as happy as a desolate
creature could be. Colonel Vane desired to marry me; for, though I kept my
promise, he suspected that I had been deceived and cruelly deserted, and longed
to atone for his friend’s perfidy by his own devotion. I would not marry him;
but when he was dying, he begged me to take his name as a shield against a
curious world, to take his fortune, and give my son the memory of a father when
his own had cast him off. I did so; and no one knew me there except under my
false name. It was believed that I had married him too soon after my husband’s
death to care to own it at once, and when I came to
England
, no one denied me the place I chose to
fill.”

 
          
“Oh,
why did you come?” cried Diana, with a tearless sob.

 
          
“I
came because I longed to know if Allan had forgotten me, if he had married, and
left his poor boy fatherless. I saw him last winter, saw that you loved him,
feared that he would love you, and when I learned that both were coming here, I
resolved to follow. It was evident that Allan had not forgotten
me, that
he had suffered as well as I; and perhaps if he
could bring himself to brave the pity, curiosity, and criticism of the world,
he might yet atone for his deceit, and make me happy. We had met in
London
; he had told me to remember my vow; had confessed
that he still loved me, but dared not displease his haughty family by owning
me; had seen his boy, and reiterated his promise to provide for us as long as
we were silent. I saw him no more till we met here, and this explains all that
has seemed so strange to you. It was I who entered his room, but not to juggle
with the ring. He invented that tale to account for the oiled lock, and
whatever stir might have been
overheard,
I went to
implore him to pause before he pledged himself to you. He would not yield,
having gone too far to retract with honor, he said. Then I was in despair; for
well I knew that if ever the knowledge of this passage in his life should come
to you, you would feel as I feel, and regard that first marriage as sacred in
God’s eye, whatever the world might say. I gave him one more opportunity to
spare you by the warning I whispered in the park. That has delayed the wrong,
but you would have yielded had not other things roused suspicion of me. I had
decided to say no more, but let you two
tangle
your
fates as you would. Your appeal this morning conquered me, and I have broken
every vow, dared every danger, to serve and save you. Have I done all this in
vain?”

           
“No; let me think, let me
understand—then I will act.”

 
          
For
many minutes they rolled on silently, two pale, stern-faced women, sitting side
by side looking out before them, with fixed eyes that saw nothing but a hard
task performed, a still harder one yet to be done. Diana spoke first, asking,
“Do you intend to proclaim your wrong, and force your husband to do you
justice?”

 
          
“No,
I shall not ask that of him again, but I shall do my best to prevent any other
woman from blindly sacrificing her happiness by marrying him, unconscious of my
claim. For the boy’s sake I have a right to do this.”