THE BROTHERS CONSULT AGAIN.
The two brothers sat together in Louis De Marke’s room. Both seemed
anxious and thoughtful. George had a look of habitual sadness upon his
face; but Louis was like one who struggles against fate without the
resolution to brave it.
“Go to her, George, go, I entreat you,” said the latter, “for I dare
not, I cannot. Tell her the simple truth, say that in doubt of my
position, sometimes almost forgetting it in the magnitude of my great
love for her, I looked and acted as no honorable man should have done,
bound as I was. True, I never spoke of love, and in this sometimes
strove to satisfy my conscience; but words are the weakest confessions
that a man can make; and nothing but a coward shelters his honor under
the miserable pretence, that a passion uttered in every action and look
is unspoken, if not syllabled in so many words.
“I loved this woman in her girlhood—hopelessly, for she married another.
But even in look, or gesture, it was unexpressed. Then my poor Louisa
came as a more solemn barrier against this passion, came and vanished
like a troubled shadow, leaving me desolate and a wanderer on the face
of the earth. I came home; I found Townsend Oakley dead, and the woman I
had so worshipped a widow, free as air, more beautiful than ever, and
ready to renew her acquaintance with me as the dearest of her early
friends.
“It was wrong, I know it, George, but how could I resist the happiness
of seeing her? How force myself to repel the dawning favor that I found
in her eyes? I did not speak—thus appeasing conscience with mental
craft. But she must have known how madly I loved her, and, conceal it as
I may, it was the very delirium of joy that I felt whenever an
unconscious proof escaped her, that her own warm heart answered back the
passion burning so fatally in mine.
“During the winter, this intimacy continued. In the spring the young
widow, in pursuance of a plan laid out by her husband before his death,
completed a pretty cottage on Staten Island, near the sea-shore, and
retired there with her little boy.”
“She had a child then?” interrupted George, with interest.
“One of the loveliest children that you ever set eyes on, so bright, so
incapable of being spoiled, my heart leaped toward the child the moment
I saw him!”
George remained thoughtful, while Louis walked up and down the room,
excited and restless.
“It is strange, if your wife is living,” said George, at last, “that no
traces of her can be found. Have you searched since we talked of this
before?”
“Everywhere, and in vain. This is the misery of my position!” answered
Louis, passionately. “If she could be found, a sense of duty would give
me strength; I could struggle against this fascination; but with this
dull blank of uncertainty before me, I have no power to wrestle with
myself.”
“We are both in a terrible position,” said George, “but we must act as
honest men, and trust God for the rest. You are right, Louis. Leave this
country at once. Let me continue the search for Louisa. If I find her,
we will join you in any country you may wish. If all search proves vain,
she is doubtless dead.”
“Yes, I will go. Oh! George, but for you I should never have found
strength to leave her, and encounter the desert of existence before me.
Yes, I will go!”
The resolution was uttered with a gesture of dull despair; and he added,
“I _must_ go, or more evil will come of this!”
“It is best,” answered George, pressing a hand to his forehead, as if to
still some pain there. “But that I can serve you better here, we would
go together. All places are alike to me now!”
Louis sat down by his brother. Tears stood in his fine eyes, and dusky
shadows settled beneath them.
“You will see her, George, see her in all her serene loveliness; you
will sit by her side, talk with her—talk of me—of my weakness. She is
gentle, and will not think my love for her a crime. You will tell her
that I have been married—married to her husband’s sister, who may be
alive, or who may be in her grave—I know that you will deal with my name
in brotherly kindness. But do not let her despise me; tell her how much
it cost me to abandon everything for a hard duty. Deal kindly with me,
brother, for my heart is almost breaking!”
George threw his arms around his brother, and drew him close to the
honest heart so full of compassion for his troubles.
“Take courage, Louis. All will end well. I will not rest till this
mystery is solved. In a few months I will find your wife, or bring you
proofs of her death.”
“And must I go at once?” said Louis, looking wistfully into his
brother’s face. “Why must I leave my native land? The very air she
breathes is precious to me.”
George smiled compassionately.
“It is far better, Louis, that you should be away. How could you be
content without seeing her?”
“True, true. I will go! Everything is packed. A few hours, and the
steamer sails. In that time we shall be separated, perhaps for years,
brother.”
“No, no, I will join you.”
“You have a weary search first. I have tried it.”
“Not as I shall, with coolness and decision. You were too much
interested. Trust me.”
“I do, in all things.”
“And you will go to-night.”
“Yes, to-night,” was the mournful answer.
“Have you taken leave of Madame?”
“No; when I called at her room, a few days since, she was gone.
Somewhere in the country the people below stairs told me, and might not
be back for months.”
“It is strange,” said George; “her life, I find, has become utterly
degraded. The den which she inhabits is the most poverty-stricken place
I ever saw. She seemed greatly annoyed at seeing me, and refused all
conversation. The most that I could obtain from her was complaints of
your undutifulness and prodigality.”
“Don’t talk of her, George. She is my mother, and I can only say with
Hamlet, ‘Would it were not so!’ but you will see her, and explain my
sudden departure in the best way possible.”
“Yes, I will see her. Not only for that, but because I believe she is in
some way involved in this mystery regarding the young creatures so
fatally connected with us.”
“She denies it positively.”
“This may be true in all else. But I know that her persecution drove
Catharine to the hospital.”
“I do not doubt it. But she never knew Louisa. Besides, I do not think
she would deliberately wound me—her own son.”
“We will not urge the question further,” answered George, suppressing
the indignation that arose in his heart against his enemy. “She is a
woman, and your mother.”
“True, true, so let us talk more directly of ourselves, for we have but
an hour.”