A DOMESTIC STORM.
“Mother,” said Mrs. Townsend Oakley, lifting her eyes gently from the
needle-work with which she was employed, “why was it that you took so
strong a dislike to the De Markes?”
Mrs. Judson lifted her eyes to the face of her daughter, and kept them
upon it so long that a burning crimson spread over the fair cheeks and
forehead.
“Why did I dislike the family, daughter? Because the woman who called
herself the head was in every respect unworthy.”
“But the son, mother, surely he was a gentleman.”
“He was a villain?” answered Mrs. Judson, with a degree of sternness
that made her daughter start, and brought a deluge of fiery blood to her
face.
“How? Why, mother, I never heard a word against him in my life before!”
“Probably not; but had you searched deep enough, acts, rather than
opinions, would have settled the truth of what I say. Your husband’s
sister died in a charity hospital. He it was who sent her there.”
“Mother, mother!”
The poor young woman gasped for breath. She could no longer syllable the
words that rose to her lips, but with a faint struggle fell back
insensible in her chair.
Mrs. Judson arose with a heavy frown, and bent over her child. All of
human feeling that she possessed was centred in her, and this sudden
indisposition terrified her more from its cause than in itself. With
trepidation she wheeled the easy-chair close to an open window and
sprinkled the pale face with water. The effect was rapid. After a moment
the white eyelids began to tremble, and the young widow fell into a fit
of bitter weeping.
“My child—my child, what is this?” exclaimed Mrs. Judson, in a voice
that betrayed the struggle of affright, tenderness, and severity going
on in her bosom.
“Nothing, mother. You were so abrupt in telling me of poor Louisa: even
now I do not understand it. I knew that Catharine Lacy, my own cousin,
was in a hospital, and perhaps died there; but Louisa, indeed I can
hardly believe it.”
“It was the truth, though.”
“But, mother, Townsend always thought she died at your house.”
“How was I to tell him otherwise? He would always have censured me for
leaving her with the servants,—he would never have believed that a
creature so young could have outwitted us all, and concealed herself,
even in the greatest extremities, up to the very day of her death. She
was dead, and I informed him of the fact. The particulars would have
aggravated his grief.”
“And how did you learn these particulars, mother?” asked the widow, with
a degree of self-control that kept her face white as snow.
“I saw her myself, in the hospital.”
“You saw her? She told you this with her own lips?”
“She was dead and in her coffin.”
“But you saw her and took her away then?”
“I saw and recognized her; she was buried from my house, and with that
funeral the shameful secret died.”
“Poor, poor girl; how Townsend did love her!” sobbed the widow. “It
would have broken his heart.”
“So I thought,” said the mother, smoothing the folds of her dress with
feelings of deep self-satisfaction; “it was far better to keep him in
ignorance. But for your mention of that young reprobate, I should not
have distressed you or myself by speaking of it.”
Mrs. Oakley shrunk back with a shudder as De Marke was thus alluded to,
but gathering up courage, proceeded with the subject.
“But what proofs have you that _he_ was to blame, mother?”
“It was conclusive. He it was that deluded her away from my protection,
he told me so himself.”
“But,” said the widow, looking suddenly up, while a gleam of light
kindled the tears that filled her eyes, “he may have been married to
her!”
“Yes,” answered the mother sharply, “and he may have been to Catharine
Lacy at the same time.”
Mrs. Judson drew a small embroidered portfolio from her pocket, and
springing the gold clasp, took from among other documents a copy of the
letter which Jane Kelly had found in the prayer-book, and which so long
after had reached Louis De Marke.
Mrs. Oakley reached forth her hand with an effort, and nerved herself to
read the letter through. Her face grew paler and paler as she proceeded;
the tears crowded to her eyes, and spite of all her efforts, the letter
quivered like a dry leaf in her grasp. At last she looked sadly up at
her mother.
“And did they both die with _his_ name upon their lips?”
“It is the usual infatuation,” answered Mrs. Judson, bitterly, but
evading the direct question.
“But the child, poor Louisa’s child, what became of that?”
Spite of her self-command, Mrs. Judson shrunk from the question. She had
never inquired regarding this child, and a sensation of shame crept over
her as she admitted the fact.
“Then you do not know if it is dead or living?” inquired Mrs. Oakley, in
a low, grave voice, which fell upon the proud woman’s ear like a rebuke,
which she was instantly ready to resent.
“Did you expect me to drag proofs of our own disgrace before the world,
Mrs. Townsend Oakley?”
The widow arose, her cheeks flushed and her lips quivering.
“I will search for this child. If it is alive, God will permit me to
make atonement,” she said, gently.
That instant little Edward entered the room. The curls were blown back
from his broad forehead, and his eyes sparkled; he had caught a great
painted butterfly, and held it up in triumph. The attitude, the curve of
his bright lips, the whole face, struck both these women with one
thought, and their eyes met. A sudden and dark frown swept over the face
of Mrs. Judson, while the daughter grew still and white, as if all the
blood in her veins had turned to snow.
“You need not search far,” said Mrs. Judson, pointing her finger at the
child, “he came from the institution.”
Mrs. Oakley slowly approached the boy. Her hands trembled violently as
she put back his hair, and a spasm of pain shot through her as the boy
sprang up, and locking his arms over her neck, attempted to surprise her
with his eager kisses.
“Who made you cry, mamma?—who made you cry?”
“No one, darling,” said the widow, struggling against the recoil of her
own heart, but forced, as it were, to unclasp his little hands.
The boy drew back, and his bright lips began to quiver.
“I have lost the butterfly,” he sobbed, regretfully, following the
gossamer wings, as they floated away, with his eyes; “and now my own
mamma don’t care about my kisses!”
“She does—she does!” cried the widow, sinking to her knees, and winding
her arms around the child. “The better, all the better, if these dear
eyes are his. Ah, I knew! I knew that there was some sweet mystery in a
love that no mother ever felt more purely for her own child. Oh, it is
everything to know that his life fills my arms, that I have fed and
cherished it so long!”
“Woman, what is this?” cried Mrs. Judson, stalking across the floor and
laying her hand heavily on her daughter’s shoulder; “are you raving mad?
Is it a De Marke you speak of?”
“Yes, mother,” said the widow, rising to her feet, but with the child’s
hand in hers. “It is of a De Marke that I speak; appearances may be
against him, but I will not believe him so wicked till the proofs are
beyond contradiction. Louisa may be dead; Catharine Lacy may be dead;
but though their last acts and their last words accuse him, I will not
believe them. Something of trouble and sorrow there may be, but nothing
that should bring contempt upon an honorable man!”
Mrs. Judson stood motionless, towering upright like a pillar of marble.
Her voice was concentrated and hoarse; she made no gestures, but her
eyes absolutely burned with indignation.
“And you know this De Marke?”
“Yes, mother, I know him!”
“Have seen him since your husband’s death, perhaps?”
“Yes, mother, often!”
“Here in this house, no doubt, where the widow came to bury her griefs?”
Here the proud woman’s wrath blazed forth. Her hand was clenched; her
foot was half lifted from the floor, as if to spurn the widow and child
from her presence.
“Here, I say, here you may have received him, in a house consecrated to
tears, under the roof which shelters your mother!” she continued,
lifting her hoarse voice.
The young widow stood pale and firm before all this wrath; and the
pretty child clung to her eagerly, following each motion of the haughty
woman with his brave, bright eyes.
“It is true,” she said, “I have seen him here.”
“And you encourage him?”
“Mother, I love him!”
The words were spoken unfalteringly, but with that gentle dignity that
always accompanies truthful courage. The mother looked at her in white
wrath. Her hand was slowly uplifted, her lips moved without uttering a
sound, and with this mute malediction she left the room, and, in a few
moments, the house.