Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 20 (20 page)

The Mystery Revealed

 
          
“In
an evil hour we met; my name first arrested him; my beauty (I may speak of it
now for it is gone) attracted him; my evident aversion piqued his pride and
roused his will to overcome it; and then the knowledge of my love for you
fanned his smouldering passion to a blaze and confirmed his wavering purpose. You
asked on that sad night if I had learned to love while you were
gone?
I spoke truly when I answered yes, for absence proved
how dear you had become to me, and I only waited your return to gratefully
accept the love with which I knew your heart was overflowing. You came, and
seeing Stahl’s devotion, doubted the affection I never had confessed. He saw it
plainly, he divined your passion, and in an hour decided upon gratifying his
own desire, keeping the promise he made his mother, yet sparing himself the crime
of murder, well knowing that for you life without me would be a fate more dark
than any death he could devise. I pleaded, prayed and wept, but he was
inexorable. To tell you was to destroy you, for he feared nothing; to keep the
secret was to forfeit your love and sacrifice myself. One hope alone remained
to me, a sinful yet a pardonable one in such a strait as mine; Felix could not
live long; I might support life for a time by the thought that I had saved you,
by the hope that I might soon undeceive and recompense you for the loss you had
sustained. Evan, it was a natural yet unrighteous act, for I did evil that good
might come of it, and such deeds never prosper. Better have left you in God’s
hand,
better even have seen you dead and at peace than have
condemned you to the life you have led and still must lead for years perhaps. I
was a weak, loving, terror- stricken woman, and in that dreadful hour one fear
overwhelmed all other passions, principles and thoughts. I could save you, and
to accomplish that I would so gladly have suffered death in any shape. Believe
that, dearest Evan, and forgive me for the fate to which I have condemned the
man I love, truly, tenderly even to the end.”

 
          
Her
voice died in a broken sob as Evan gathered her close to his sore heart, and
she clung there spent and speechless, as if the pain of parting were for ever
over and her refuge found at last. Evan spoke first, happily and hopefully for,
the future opened clearly, and the long twilight seemed about to break into a
blissful dawn.

 
          
“You
shall be repaid for your exceeding love, Ursula, with
a
devotion
such as man never gave to woman until now. There is no longer
any cloud between us, nor shall there be between you and the world. Justice
shall be done, and then we will leave this city of bitter memories behind us,
and go away together to begin the new life that lies before us.”

 
          
“We
shall begin a new life, but not together, Evan,” was the low answer, as she
tenderly laid her pale cheek to his, as if to soften the hard truth.

 
          
“But,
love, you will be free at once; there can be no doubt of the pardon now.”

 
          
“Yes,
I shall soon be free, but human hands will not open mv prison doors, and I
humbly trust that I may receive pardon, but not from human lips. Evan, I told
you I would never tell my secret till I lay on my deathbed; I lie there now.”

 
          
If
she had stabbed him with the hand folded about his neck, the act would not have
shocked and startled him like those last words. They pierced him to the heart,
and as if in truth he had received a mortal wound, he could only gaze at her in
dumb dismav, with eyes full of anguish, incredulity and grief.

 
          
“Let
me seem cruel that I may be merciful, and end both suspense and fear by telling
all at once. There is no hope for me. I have prayed to live, but it cannot be,
for slowly yet surely Felix has killed me. I said I would gladly die for you,
God takes me at my word, and now I am content. Let me make my sacrifice
cheerfully, and let the suffering I have known be mv atonement for the wrong I
did myself and you.”

 
          
As
she spoke so tranquilly, so tenderly, a veil seemed to fall from before her
cousins
eves. He looked into the face that smiled at him,
saw there the shadow which no human love can banish, read perfect peace in its
pale serenity, felt that life was a poor boon to ask for her, and with a pang
that rent that faithful heart of his, silently relinquished the one sustaining
hope which had upheld him through that gloomy year. Calm with a grief too deep
for tears, he drew the wan and wasted creature w ho had given herself for him
closer to the shelter of his arms, and changed her last fear to loving pride by
saying, with a manful courage, a meek resignation that ennobled him by its
sincerity:

 
          
“Rest
here in peace, my Ursula. No selfish grief shall cloud your sunset or rob you
of one hour of happy love. I can bear the parting, for I shall follow soon; and
thank God that after the long bewilderment of this sad world we may enjoy
together the new life which has no end.”

 
          
THE END

 
          
C
LOTILDE
was IN HER element that
night
, for it was a Spanish
play, requiring force and fire in its delineation, and she threw herself into
her part with an
abandon
that made her seem a beautiful embodiment of
power and passion. As for me I could not plav ill, for when with her my acting
was not art hut nature, and I
was
the lover that I seemed. Before she
came I made a business, not a pleasure, of mv profession, and was content to
fill my place, with no higher ambition than to earn my salary w ith as little
effort as possible, to resign myself to the distasteful labor to which my
poverty condemned me. She changed all that; for she saw
⁷
the talent
I neglected, she understood the w ant of motive that made me indifferent, she
pitied me for the reverse of fortune that placed me w here I was; bv her
influence and example she roused a manlier spirit in me, kindled every spark of
talent I possessed, and incited me to win a success I had not cared to labor
tor till then.

 
          
She
was the rage that season, tor she came unheralded and almost unknown. Such was
the power
ot
beauty, genius, and character, that she
made her wav at once into public tavor, and before the season was half over had
become the reigning favorite. My position in the theatre threw us much
together, and I had not played the lover to this beautiful woman many weeks
before I found I was one in earnest. She soon knew it, and confessed that she
returned my love; but when I spoke of marriage, she answered with a look and
tone that haunted me long afterward.

 
          
“Not
yet, Paul; something that concerns me alone must be settled first. I cannot
marry till I have received the answer for which I am waiting; have faith in me
till then, and be patient for my sake.”

 
          
I
did have faith and patience; but while I waited I wondered much and studied her
carefully. Frank, generous, and deep- hearted, she won all who approached her;
but I, being nearest and dearest, learned to know her best, and soon discovered
that some past loss, some present anxiety or hidden care, oppressed and haunted
her. A bitter spirit at times possessed her, followed by a heavy melancholy, or
an almost fierce unrest, which nothing could dispel but some stormy drama,
where she could vent her pent-up gloom or desperation in words and acts which
seemed to have a double significance to her. I had vainly tried to find some
cause or explanation of this one blemish in the nature which, to a lover’s
eyes, seemed almost perfect, but never had succeeded till the night of which I
write.

 
          
The
play was nearly over, the interest was at its height, and Clotilde’s best scene
was drawing to a close. She had just indignantly refused to betray a state
secret which would endanger the life of her lover; and the Duke had just
wrathfully vowed to denounce her to the Inquisition if she did not yield, when
I her lover, disguised as a monk, saw a strange and sudden change come over
her. She should have trembled at a threat so full of terror, and have made one
last appeal to the stern old man before she turned to defy and dare all things
for her lover. But she seemed to have forgotten time, place, and character, for
she stood gazing straight before her as if turned to stone. At first I thought
it was some new presentiment of fear, for she seldom played a part twice alike,
and left much to the inspiration of the moment. But an instant’s scrutiny
convinced me that this was not acting, for her face paled visibly, her eyes
dilated as they looked bevond the Duke, her lips fell apart, and she looked
like one suddenly confronted by a ghost.
An inquiring glance
from my companion showed me that he, too, was disturbed by her appearance, and
fearing that she had over-exerted herself, I struck into the dialogue as if she
had made her appeal.
The sound of my voice seemed to recall her; she
passed her hand across her eves, drew a long breath, and looked about her. I
thought she had recovered herself and was about to resume her part, but, to my
great surprise, she only clung to me, saying in a shrill whisper, so full of
despair, it chilled my blood —

 
          
“The
answer, Paul, the answer: it has come!”

 
          
The
words were inaudible to all but myself; but the look, the gesture were eloquent
with terror, grief, and love; and taking it for a fine piece of acting, the
audience applauded loud and long. The accustomed sound roused Clotilde, and
during that noisy moment a hurried dialogue passed between us.

 
          
“What
is it? Are you ill?” I whispered.

 
          
“He
is here, Paul, alive; I saw him. Heaven help us both!”

 
          
“Who
is here?”

 
          
“Hush!
not
now; there is no time to tell you.”

 
          
“You
are right; compose yourself; you must speak in a moment.”

           
“What do I say? Help me, Paul; I
have forgotten every thing but that man.”

           
She looked as if bewildered; and I
saw that some sudden shock had entirely unnerved her. But actors must have
neither hearts nor nerves while on the stage. The applause was subsiding, and
she must speak. Fortunately I remembered enough ol her part to prompt her as
she struggled through the little that remained; tor, seeing her condition,
Denon and I cut the scene remorselessly, and brought it to a close as soon as
possible. The instant the curtain fell we were assailed with questions, but
Clotilde answered none; and though hidden from her sight, still seemed to see
the object that had wrought such an alarming change in her. I told them she was
ill, took her to her dressing-room, and gave her into the hands ol her maid,
for I must appear again, and delay was impossible.

 
          
How
I got through my part I cannot tell, tor my thoughts were with Clotilde; but an
actor learns to live a double lile, so while Paul Lamar suffered torments of
anxiety Don Felix fought a duel, killed his adversary, and was dragged to
judgment. Involuntarily my eyes often wandered toward the spot where Clotilde’s
had seemed fixed. It was one of the stage-boxes, and at first I thought it
empty, but presently I caught the glitter of a glass turned apparently on
mvself. As soon as possible I crossed the stage, and as I leaned haughtily upon
my sword while the seconds adjusted the preliminaries, I searched the box with
a keen glance. Nothing was visible, however, but a hand lying easily on the red
cushion; a man’s hand, white and shapely; on one finger shone a ring, evidently
a woman’s ornament, for it was a slender circlet of diamonds that flashed with
every gesture.

 
          
“Some
fop, doubtless; a man like that could never daunt Clotilde,” I thought. And
eager to discover if there was not another occupant in the box, I took a step
nearer, and stared boldly into the soft gloom that filled it. A low derisive
laugh came from behind the curtain as the hand gathered back as if to permit me
to satisfy myself. The act showed me that a single person occupied the box, but
also effectually concealed that person from my sight; and as I was recalled to
my duty by a w arning whisper from one of my comrades, the hand appeared to
wave me a mocking adieu. Baffled and angry, I devoted myself to the affairs of
Don Felix, wandering the while if Clotilde would be able to reappear, how' she
would bear herself, if that hidden man was the cause of her terror, and why?
Even w'hen immured in a dungeon, after my arrest, I beguiled the tedium of a
long soliloquy w
⁷
ith these questions, and executed a better
stage-start than any I had ever practised, when at last she came to me,
bringing liberty and love as my reward.

 
          
I
had left her haggard, speechless, overwhelmed with some mysterious woe, she
reappeared beautiful and brilliant, wdth a joy that seemed too lovelv to be
feigned. Never had she played so w'ell; for some spirit, stronger than her own,
seemed to possess and rule her royally. If I had ever doubted her love for me,
I should have been assured of it that night, for she breathed into the fond
words of her part
a tenderness
and grace that filled
my heart to overflowing, and inspired me to play the grateful lover to the
life. The last w'ords came all too soon for me, and as she threw herself into
my arms she turned her head as if to glance triumphantly at the defeated Duke,
but I saw that again she looked beyond him, and with an indescribable
expression of mingled pride, contempt, and defiance. A soft sound of applause
from the mysterious occupant of that box answered the look, and the white hand
sent a superb bouquet flying to her feet. I was about to lift and present it to
her, but she checked me and crushed it under foot with an air of the haughtiest
disdain. A laugh from behind the curtain greeted this demonstration, but it was
scarcely observed by others; for that first bouquet seemed a signal for a rain
of flowers, and these latter offerings she permitted me to gather up, receiving
them with her most gracious smiles, her most graceful obeisances, as if to
mark, for one observer at least, the difference of her regard for the givers.
As
1
laid the last floral tribute in her arms I took a parting glance at
the box, hoping to catch a glimpse of the unknown face. 1 he curtains w ere
throw n back and the door stood open, admitting a strong light from the
vestibule, but the box was empty.

 
          
Then
the green curtain fell, and Clotilde whispered, as she glanced from her full
hands to the rejected bouquet —

 
          
“Bring
that to my room; I must have it.”

 
          
I
obeyed, eager to be enlightened; but when we were alone she flung dow n her
fragrant burden, snatched the stranger’s gilt, tore it apart, drew
^r
out a slip of paper, read it, dropped it, and w alked to and fro, w ringing her
hands, like one in a paroxysm of despair. I seized the note and looked at it,
but found no key to her distress in the enigmatical words —

 
          
“I
shall be there. Come and bring your lover with you, else
— ”
There it abruptly ended; but the unfinished threat seemed the more menacing for
its obscurity, and I indignantly demanded, “Clotilde, who dares address vou so?
Where w ill this man
be
? You surely will not obey such
a command? Tell me; I have a right to know.”

           
“I cannot tell you, now; I dare not
refuse him; he will be at Keen’s; we
must
go. How w ill it end! How will
it
end!
’

 
          
I
remembered then that we were all to sup
ett costume
, with a brother
actor, who did not play that night. I was about to speak yet more urgently, w
hen the entrance of her maid checked me. Clotilde composed herself by a strong
effort —

 
          
“Go
and prepare,” she whispered; “have faith in me a little longer, and soon you
shall know all.”

 
          
There
was something almost solemn in her tone; her eye met mine, imploringly, and her
lips trembled as if her heart were full. That assured me at once; and with a
reassuring word I hurried away to give a few touches to my costume, which just
then was fitter for a dungeon than a feast. When I rejoined her there was no
trace of past emotion; a soft color bloomed upon her cheek, her eyes were
tearless and brilliant, her lips were dressed in smiles. Jewels shone on her white
forehead, neck, and arms, flowers glowed in her bosom; and no charm that art or
skill could lend to the rich dress or its lovely wearer, had been forgotten.

 
          
“What
an actress!” I involuntarily exclaimed, as she came to meet me, looking almost
as beautiful and gay as ever.

 
          
“It
is well that I am one, else I should yield to my hard fate without a struggle.
Paul, hitherto I have played for money, now I play for love; help me by being a
calm spectator to-night, and whatever happens promise me that there shall be no
violence.”

 
          
I
promised, for I was wax in her hands; and, more bewildered than ever, followed
to the carriage, where a companion was impatiently awaiting us.