COMING HOME FROM CALIFORNIA.
A steamer had just arrived, bringing passengers from the gold regions of
California,—a rough, wild-looking set, whose half-savage aspect gave the
impression of a gang of returned convicts, rather than of refined and
enterprising men, as most of them undoubtedly were. To have seen the
coaches and hacks as they gave up their burdens at the various hotels,
one would have fancied that the inhabitants of Van Diemen’s land had
escaped in battalions, and were about to overrun the country.
One of these carriages drew up at the Astor House, and a young man
sprang out, carrying a portmanteau, which seemed of considerable weight,
in his hand. His appearance was rather picturesque than otherwise, for
he was one of these persons whom no disarray of costume could render
less than gentlemanly. In fact, a black wide-awake, set carelessly a
little on one side of his head, was the most becoming thing in the
world, and a Mexican blanket, bought from a fellow-passenger and flung
over his arm, gave a brilliant contrast to his gray and travel-soiled
clothes. A flowing beard, which no neglect could prevent from rippling
downward in rich waves, veiled the lower portion of his face, revealing
a finely curved mouth and a set of snowy teeth when he spoke or smiled.
A noble and frank face it was, which looked so eagerly from beneath the
hat we have mentioned.
The young man went directly to the office, registered his name, and
inquired, in an anxious voice, if Louis De Marke had left an address
there.
“Louis De Marke,” was the reply, “is an inmate of the house. He has been
in town some months, and is probably in his room, No. ——.”
The young man’s face lighted up. He flung down the pen with which he had
just written “George De Marke,” and taking up his portmanteau, followed
the waiter, who stood ready to guide him through the intricacies of the
establishment.
“Never mind. This is the room, you need not announce me,” exclaimed De
Marke, as the waiter paused before a chamber-door.
The waiter disappeared; the door was opened hurriedly, and the quick
exclamations, “Louis,” “George,” “brother,” were followed by a warm
embrace and an eager clasping of hands.
Never perhaps has it happened, that two men, not twins, bore so close a
resemblance to each other, as the persons who stood in that chamber,
with their hands interlocked and their eyes sparkling with affectionate
welcome. There was scarcely the fraction of an inch by which you could
distinguish them in height or size. The same open, frank expression of
face was there; the form and color of the eyes were alike; indeed, save
for the more neatly trimmed beard and perfect toilet of the one, you
could not have known the brothers apart. Even in manner they were the
same, for the careless but not ungraceful air which one brother had
brought from his wild life in the gold regions, met its counterpart at
once. The very smile and laugh of one had the sunshine and heart-warm
richness of the other.
The new-comer was perhaps some four years older than the other, but this
was only detected by close examination.
“And so you have come at last. O brother, brother! how I have wanted
you!” said Louis, drawing his guest to a sofa, and shaking hands with
him over and over again. “You have no idea how very, very much I have
wanted you!”
A shade of trouble came over his face as he spoke, and instantly that of
his brother darkened with the same shadow, as if the pain which one felt
must have a mutual vibration.
“And I,” said George, with a sudden overshadowing of all cheerfulness,
“I have a great many things to say to you. Since we parted, Louis, I
have suffered as you will hardly think me capable of suffering.”
“And I,” answered Louis, sorrowfully,—“and I.”
George sat down by his brother, and threw one arm over his shoulder with
a slight caress.
“What is it, my brother? I was in hopes that, save our one great cause
of annoyance, you had escaped any serious trouble.”
Louis shook his head and a mist crept over his eyes.
“It is a hard thing, George, for a fellow no older than I am, and
disposed to be happy, as you and I both are. It is hard, I say, to carry
about a secret, that one feels forever heavy upon the heart, but dares
not talk about.”
“What is this secret, my brother?”
Louis turned suddenly and seized his brother’s hand; tears sprung to his
fine eyes, and he choked down a sob that struggled hard with his
manliness.
“George, before you went away I was married.”
The elder brother started, and turned pale to the lips; but he only
said,—
“Go on, Louis, I listen.”
“I had been married some months then. Do not be angry that I did not
tell you.”
“Angry, why should I? How dare I be angry with you for a concealment
which—but I interrupt you; go on.”
“I think you would have liked Louisa. She was the dearest and most
lovable girl in the world.”
“Was, Louis? You say _was_, as if your wife were dead.”
“Dead, O brother! if this question could be answered! But it cannot. She
is dead to me, I fear, and yet alive, she and her child.”
“Be calm, brother, and explain all this. Whom did you marry? where is
your wife?”
“I can hardly answer either question. She was an orphan, and had an only
brother older than herself. The name was Oakley. She was in school, but
staying with a lady who lived in the next street to us; our gardens
adjoined. I mean the year before our father died, when his family lived
like civilized beings, for my mother had not then given herself up to
avarice as a terrible passion.
“This lady had a daughter somewhat older than her ward. I have since
learned that she was also the aunt of Catharine Lacy. You remember
Catharine?”
George lifted one hand suddenly to his forehead.
“Yes,” he answered, in a husky voice, “I remember her. She is dead.”
“Yes,” answered Louis, thoughtfully. “Poor girl, she died in a strange
way; it was a wonderful thing altogether. This proud woman was her aunt,
who bound her out to Madame; Catharine never once mentioned the fact;
perhaps Mrs. Judson forbade her. Some one has the murder of that girl
upon his soul.”
“Do not say that,” cried the young man, starting up distractedly. “She
was my wife, Louis, my lawfully wedded wife; and they let her die in a
charity hospital! It was our mother’s work, this foul murder. Louis De
Marke, it was her work!”
“And this other woman is answerable for a like crime!” answered Louis,
hoarsely. “Louisa went to the same hospital; they were found side by
side in that fearful sick ward, your wife and mine. Poor young
creatures, scarcely more than children themselves. I saw the record of
Catharine’s death, but of my poor girl there is no record, save of a
discharge. I have been unable to gain one trace of her since she left
the hospital walls. It is now more than three years, George; and I have
borne this secret alone till my heart aches with the weight of it.”
“I know, I know what it is,” answered the elder brother, passionately.
“Thank God, we have met once more where at least the rash acts of our
youth can find a voice. I little thought, Louis, how like your life had
been to my own!”
“Poor girls, poor young creatures! we led them into great misery,
George.”
George shrunk back, as if some thought, which had stung him for years,
became a sudden pang.
“Youth is sometimes very cruel,” he said, with the bitterness of
self-reproach. “But Heaven is my judge, I never intended wrong to my
poor young wife. Her condition was miserable enough with Madame De
Marke, after our father’s death; and our secret marriage could hardly
render it worse.”
“But Louisa! _Her_ condition was happy enough, till I came to embitter
it with my love; for I loved, oh! George, I _thought_ I loved her!”
“But you talk at random, Louis. Even yet I cannot comprehend who this
young person was, or how you became so fatally interested in her,” said
George; “come, old fellow, tell me everything,—there is no fighting with
death, but if your wife is above-ground, it will go hard if you and I
cannot find her?”
Louis shook his head; but George spoke out again with well-assumed
cheerfulness. “Let me know every particular about this marriage, and I
will go on a crusade for you—it will be like a romance. Indeed, our two
lives are a romance. Who would believe that we have never lived under
the same roof since you were an infant; that I was bred in Germany, you
here; that we never met till both were men, yet loved each other dearly
from the first. It was strange, for your mother hated me always. It was
she who packed me off to a school in Germany when a mere child. My
father sent me money and a letter twice a year. In time, my school was
changed to a university; after that I was sent to travel. Then a letter
came to say that my father was dead. I came home a stranger; not ten of
my father’s nearest friends knew of my existence; but we met as brothers
should meet, thank Heaven for that! For your sake I tried to like my
father’s widow; I sought her out and went to see her often. Would to
Heaven I never had: then one of the sweetest and loveliest creatures
that ever lived might have been saved.”