THE PLEDGE REDEEMED.
In one of the old-fashioned hotels of the Rue de l'Université, in that
quarter of Paris around which cling some of the saddest and noblest
memoirs of a history which is but a succession of acts in a great
pompous tragedy, Dr. Hudson had occupied a suite of apartments for
many years. There were other and younger English physicians in Paris
than he; but he had made, and kept, a solid reputation, and his
friends comprised a large number of the native denizens of Paris, and
all his own compatriots "of standing," as the Yankees say. His
_clientèle_ was of wider range; for the English doctor was as well
known to the poor of Paris as to the rich, and he laboured among them
as assiduously.
On the self-same day which had witnessed Mr. Thacker's visit to
Middlemeads, and the failure of his application to Mrs. Gordon
Frere--on which he had expressed himself with so much resentment to
Charles Yeldham--and at the self-same hour at which the project of his
vengeance began to take shape in the brain of the angry Hebrew,--Dr.
Hudson was seated in his study, conversing earnestly with a lady, who
wore the mournful garb of widowhood in the English form. The frank,
thoughtful face of the physician was clouded, and his voice was low
and troubled, as he spoke to the lady.
"I don't like to let you go, Katharine. You have been doing too much.
This long attendance upon poor Louise has been too much for you
already; and now the care of an old blind woman--no, no; it ought not
to be."
"The care of your mother, my best friend!" returned the lady in a tone
of remonstrance; "does _that_ not make all the difference? Besides,
what does it matter? here, or in Brittany? The work has to be done,
and place does not make the smallest difference. You cannot bring the
old lady to Paris; and since Marion's death you have had no peace of
mind, no confidence about your mother. Let us look at this rationally.
Is there any one in whom you have such confidence as in me?"
"Certainly not, Katharine, though----"
"Though I do not return it. Well, in one sense I do not; but let us
not discuss that for the present. If you do not let me go to Morlaix,
to your mother, you must send some one in whom you have less
confidence. That's a 'logical sequence,' as you learned people say,
isn't it?--and I should also call it a very silly proceeding. Next,
you must provide me with work here; and I can assure you, you can give
me none I should like half so well. I am free too, and I don't know
that any other of your helpers are:--let me see the list."
She took a manuscript volume from the table, turned to a certain page,
and ran over a list of names.
"No; I thought not. All busy, and with serious cases,--'long jobs,' as
the 'regulars' call them. You see Fate and my self-will are against
you--and I must go; so that's settled. And now, Mr. Doctor, let me
make my report."
"This was your last visit to Louise, I think?" he asked absently.
"My last regular visit. She is quite well now; but I shall never lose
sight of her, I hope. She is a good girl and a grateful; and so long
as she has this illness, and I have Martigny to talk about and the
same rescuer to praise--though she little knows how small an item in
the account between him and me Martigny is--we are not likely to tire
of each other's company. Where are your wits wandering to? you are not
listening to a word I am saying to you."
He turned his face fully towards her, and the serious expression it
bore increased. He took an ivory paper-knife from off his desk, and
beat it softly upon his open palm as he spoke.
"My wits are wandering to speculations about you, my dear. How long
are you going to lead this life? and when am I to know the meaning of
it all? It is not fit for you, Katharine; you must rest."
"No, no," she said nervously; "you know the only thing I cannot do
when you bid me, is rest. Besides, I am going to be very quiet, you
know, down in Brittany----"
"That will not be for long, if even I let you go. My poor old mother's
life is nearly ended; and then----"
"And then--for I mean to go; it is quite settled---are there no more
duties for me? are the poor and the sick to cease out of the land?"
"No, it is not that; I am thinking of you seriously, Katharine, and
wondering whether I am doing right by you. I had no doubt, when you
came to me, and claimed the fulfilment of the promise I made to you at
Martigny--there was such desperation, such utter self-abandonment
about you--that I, who knew the symptoms of despair, and their
deadliness, could not hesitate about what was to be done. But now,
Katharine, now, has not time made any difference?--it has made a great
alteration in you, my dear--a very great and blessed change; not time
alone, I know, but life and suffering and self-knowledge, and a higher
wisdom still--has it not changed circumstances too? You told me your
return to your husband's home was an impossibility then; and I knew, I
felt it was so. You never told me why; you never placed the secret
of his sin, whatever it may have been, in my possession. Now I ask
you--the matter has been pressing long upon my mind, and is daily
growing heavier--is the same impossibility in force still?"
Katharine did not make any answer, but she looked at him, pale and
tearful. Then he continued:
"Think of your youth, Katharine. Your life is almost all before you;
and you have no friend but me. Supposing I were to die, my dear, how
would it be with you then? For though you are not so helpless and so
ignorant of the world's ways as when you came to me that winter's
night, and told me I must hide you, and that without a question, and I
did it--you are as little fitted as any woman I know for the
loneliness of a friendless life. Is this offence quite past
forgiveness? is there no way of reconciliation?"
"None, none," she murmured. "O, do not talk to me of the past."
"Katharine," he said, with deeper solemnity still, "think, be very
sure, before you answer. Remember that nothing but the extremest
injury can justify the course you are pursuing. Your name is false,
your position is false, your very dress"--he stretched out his hand
and touched it--"is a lie!"
"My widowhood at least is real," she said in an abrupt and bitter
tone.
"My poor child, I don't doubt that. I know it is; but the evils dealt
by man's hand are often of God's sending. Are you resisting God, and
not man only? I am talking to you in the dark about many things, but
there are some broad truths applicable to all circumstances. One of
them is, that no self-imposed duties can stand in the place of those
which God has appointed. When I watch--and I watch it closely--your
exemplary life of usefulness, your self-denial, your promptitude in
doing good--and see that you are not at peace in it, I cannot but
think that you are doing this--that you are trying to do your own
will, and not God's will; and that you are reaping the inevitable
consequences."
Her head was bowed now, and she was crying.
"I don't know why I have felt forced to say all this to you to-day,
Katharine. Something has forced me to say it, certainly. Think of it,
my dear; and if there be any possible way to reconciliation with your
home and your former life, turn your steps towards it."
"Are you weary of the charge of me? are you tired of the thankless
task?"
He smiled, very slowly and tenderly; then rose; and, arranging some
papers on his desk, said:
"Do you think to turn away my meaning by such a silly subterfuge? I am
going out now: think of what I have said, Katharine; and, remember, if
I have hurt you, it is because of my ignorance. I don't reproach you
that you have kept me in it; but you must not wonder if it sometimes
tells against yourself. Be sure of this, Katharine, there is no life
so acceptable as that in which we carry _our own_ burdens, without
selecting them; and no spirit so safe as that which takes trials as
they are sent, not sought for--kissing the rod."
He was leaving the room, when she rose impetuously and went up to him.
She caught his arm, and pressed it to her closely, as she said:
"Don't say more to me now; I can't bear it. I wonder why you have
spoken like this again--it is so long since you did so before. Let me
go to your mother, and think it all out there--all you know and all
you don't know; and when I come back I will tell you every thing."
"My dear, you mistake me. I don't want to know; it is from no feeling
of that kind I speak;--it is for your own sake, and because of the
treacheries and changes of life----"
"Yes, yes; I know. When had you any but good motives, or did any but
good deeds? Just give me this little time, and keep your vow to me,
that you will never answer a question about me, or give any human
being a clue to finding me; and when I come back you shall know all,
and judge for me."
"Agreed," said Dr. Hudson; "I will keep my promise, and you will keep
yours."
A day or two later Katharine Streightley left Paris.
"I give you my word of honour--I will take the most solemn and sacred
oath you can dictate to me, that nothing you can tell me, of what I
ask you, can harm the lady. I am here on behalf of her husband."
"Her husband!" said Louise Hartmann, with a disdainful smile; "now I
know you are deceiving me. She is a widow--her husband is dead."
"Indeed--indeed he is not, my dear young lady; for God's sake listen
to me! Her husband is alive, and he loves her better than his life.
Indeed he is dying, I truly believe, because he cannot find or hear of
her. A quarrel--a misunderstanding parted them, and he has sought her
vainly ever since. Just think of the dreadful weary time, and have
pity on this poor man."
Charley Yeldham's friends would have been only less astonished than
himself had they heard him thus eloquently pleading the cause of
Robert to the inflexible little German girl, who stood before him, the
very image of immovable fidelity.
"See! look at her portrait again; you have acknowledged that you know
it, and that it is Madame Sidney's likeness. Well, I tell you her
husband has worn it on his breast night and day for nearly three
years, and would not have parted with it for a moment for any less
object than enabling me to trace her by it. He asks nothing but to
know where she is--nothing but the means of communicating with her.
Surely you will tell him that much?"
"Have you asked Dr. Hudson? he knows her better than I," was the
cautious questioning reply of the German girl.
"Yes," said Yeldham incautiously; "I went to his house at once, and I
waited a long time to see him, but all in vain. He knew Madame Sidney,
but he would tell me nothing about her--not even whether she was now
in Paris, or ever in the habit of residing in Paris."
"And yet Dr. Hudson is her best friend, and knows more about her than
any one in the world."
"Yes, yes; we heard that: then so much was right at least."
Louise Hartmann deliberately sat down, tucked her feet comfortably
under her chair, and folded her hands in her lap. Yeldham waited,
breathlessly anxious for her to speak. She kept him waiting for some
time; but at length she said, slowly and emphatically:
"Soh! you fine English gentleman, who give your word of honour and
your sacred and solemn oath, you come to a poor girl like me, and you
try to make me tell you about Madame Sidney--who nursed me, and was
more good to me than ever any one in the world was before--what the
good doctor, her own friend, refuses to tell you. You may go away,
sir, back to England; I will tell you nothing--no, not one single
word. If this lady's husband is alive, he has done something that
makes her think of him as dead, and she knows best. He has made her
miserable; for she is not happy, I know that--I often saw that; and he
shall never render her miserable again through help of mine."
Yeldham was utterly confounded by the girl's calm speech, and the
resolution which showed itself in her face and sounded in her voice.
He stood bewildered and silent for several minutes. At length Louise
spoke again:
"Please to go away, sir; you have nothing to hear from me, and nothing
to say to me more."
He caught joyfully at the anxiety she expressed to get rid of him. Was
it not a proof that Katharine was in Paris still--was near; that she
was then expecting or fearing her coming? He made another appeal.
"Listen to me, my dear young lady," he said. "No one can honour your
fidelity to your friend, or respect you for keeping your word so
firmly, more than I do; but I swear to you you are acting under a
mistake,--a most fatal and lamentable mistake. At all events, I, who
am not this lady's husband, cannot injure her--cannot force her to do
any thing against her will. Let me see her. I swear to you, if you
will, that if she bids me be silent, I will not utter a word; and I
will neither follow her nor have her followed. I ask you this, because
if you will only do it, you shall see for yourself the error there is
in all this, and you will probably be the means of richly rewarding
your friend for all she has done for you, by restoring her confidence
in her husband."
Louise had looked at Charles Yeldham with earnest intentness all the
time he was speaking, and the incredulous scorn which had possessed
her wholly during the earlier part of their interview began to give
way. She dropped her eyes, put her hand to her brow, and thought
intently.
"I dare not believe you," said she at last; "I dare not listen
longer to you, lest I might be persuaded to do Madame Sidney a wrong.
So now you must go away. You had better; if you stay here a month, I
will tell you no more than this--and it cannot harm her, if her
husband, and you too--and perhaps you are her husband--bah, how can I
tell?--were ever so wicked and cruel. She is not in Paris. Now go; you
shall not got another answer out of me."
She rose, and stepped towards the door, as though about to open it for
his departure.
"Thanks," he exclaimed, "a thousand thanks, even for that information;
and, as you say, it could not harm her, if we, who are her devoted
servants, desired to do so. Yes," for she had her hand on the latch of
the door, "I will leave you immediately; only let me say a few words
more."
Louise frowned. "I will give you no answer," she said sullenly.
"O yes, I think you will, when I have spoken them. If Madame Sidney
ever comes back to Paris--I don't ask whether you expect her-- (here
he stole a quick glance at her, but she was prepared to meet and
conquer it--there was not the smallest change in her face, from its
expression of sullen waiting)--but if she comes back, and comes to see
you, tell her about my visit; tell her I came from her husband--here
is my card. There can be no harm in telling her, you know, and then
it will depend on herself--not on you, or on me, but on herself
only--whether she will let any one who loves her see her again in this
world. You understand me in this, do you not, mademoiselle? You see
that I am speaking now what must be the truth, and cannot by
possibility deceive any one."
Louise appeared to be moved by this direct appeal to her
understanding. She took up the card, which he had laid on the table,
and read the name aloud.
"Mr. Yeldham! Yes; I understand that if I tell her you have been here,
she will be free to choose whether you shall come again; and unless
she or I tell you, you can never know whether she comes again. So it
will be her own affair, and I cannot be betrayed into injuring her.
Yes,"--she looked up suddenly at him,--"I will tell her if she comes
here ever again."
"Thank God!" exclaimed Yeldham in a tone of infinite relief; "then all
will be right, and it is only waiting a little longer; for I am sure
she will come back at some time. God bless you for that promise! You
do not know all the good you may do, all the ill you may prevent, by
keeping it."
"I always keep my promises," said Louise coldly, rather offended by
his thanks.
"Yes, yes, I know that; but O, if I could but make you understand!
_She_ will make you understand, some day, all I could never explain. A
word more, and I leave you. When you tell her that I was here, and the
story I have told you of my business and my hopes--_she_ will believe
it, though it is quite natural and right that _you_ should hesitate to
do so--tell her this, that I entreated you to write to me and let me
know that she had returned to Paris. You will do this too, will you
not? You see it is only a part of what you have already promised: it
is not a new thing. I cannot know that she has returned, unless she
permits you to tell me, and so only can harm her. You see I take your
own view, with her own consent."
"I see that," said Louise; "it follows from the first. Yes, if she
gives me leave, I will write to you."
He contented himself with a more moderate expression of gratitude than
was natural to him under the circumstances; and then, having written
his address in full, and very distinctly, on the card Louise had
consented to keep, he took his leave.
He had been defeated in the greater purpose, but he had achieved a
less one, whose gain would have seemed to the friends priceless good
fortune a little while ago, but which was robbed of its fail
proportions by the larger hope unfulfilled.
Yeldham communicated to Robert the result of his expedition by letter
the same evening, and the following day he returned to London.
"I am thankful, Charley, for the light I have been granted. It is dawn
after dark, and now I will wait and hope for the day," said Robert;
and Yeldham rejoiced to see his fortitude.
So October passed, and November; and December came, and it was only
twilight still.