DOUBTS AND FEARS.
There was a new servant in Mrs. Townsend Oakley’s household; a
large-featured, energetic person, whom the housekeeper had engaged in
town as a chambermaid. This woman was busy in the west room, when
Catharine entered Mrs. Oakley’s parlor, and though occupied, she kept a
vigilant watch on all that was passing between the two young women. She
saw Catharine draw the boy toward her, and remarked the look of
agitation which could not be misunderstood, on discovering the cross
upon his temple. The distance prevented her hearing any words, but as
she fixed her scrutiny upon the various faces of that little group, a
gleam of sharp intelligence shot from her eyes, she softly laid down her
duster, and keeping out of sight in the movement, crept stealthily
behind the half-open door.
Now she could hear their voices, low and troubled, but still distinct to
her keen ear.
“She is right, my mother is right,” said Mrs. Oakley, wringing her
delicate hands in an abandon of grief. “How dare he? How could he enter
my house? How could I—oh! weak, weak wretch that I am!”
“Of whom do you speak?” said Catharine, pale as death, and shivering
till her teeth chattered.
“Of De Marke,—of that boy’s father!”
“And what of him?” The voice in which this question was asked had grown
so husky, that the listener could scarcely hear it.
“Listen to me,” was the answer. “I have no human being, except yourself,
from whom it is possible for me to seek advice: and my position is a
terrible one. You are not like a stranger to me, I can trust you.”
“Yes, you may trust me,” said Catharine, in a low, firm voice, “I will
deal honestly by you.”
“Look at this boy. Is he not beautiful? His eyes, his mouth, his every
movement, can anything be more frank?”
“He is lovely. No angel could be more innocent.”
“And yet that boy’s father, his own father, remember! with a brow as
open, an eye as frank, a lip always smiling, that boy’s father is—oh! my
God that I should live to say it—is a traitor—a—a—”
The poor lady broke off, closing the last words in bitter sobs. Her
clasped hands unlocked, and she buried her face in them, trembling from
head to foot, and weeping bitterly.
“You may wrong him,” said Catharine, faintly.
“No, it is all too clear,” answered Mrs. Oakley, shaking her head
mournfully; “his mother was poor Oakley’s sister. You saw her, she
called herself by his name; it was Oakley, not De Marke, that she called
herself; are you sure of that? Oh! it would be something to believe that
he married her.”
Catharine stood by a sofa. She sunk slowly down among the cushions,
breathless and aghast.
“You are certain that she did not call herself by his name. Oh! try and
remember.”
“No, no, I never heard her claim that name,” fell in cold, measured
words from Catharine Lacy, as she sat there stunned and immovable, as if
suddenly frozen into stillness.
“Still he might have been married to her. It is possible,” said the
widow, with all a woman’s generous faith in the man she loves, rising up
afresh in her heart.
“No!” answered Catharine, with the same cold measurement of words. “It
is impossible. He could not have been her husband.”
“Why, how do you know? How came you with a knowledge of him or his?”
cried the widow, with a pang of jealous suspicion in her voice.
“Remember, lady, I have spent many, many months in public institutions!”
answered Catharine.
“I know—I did not think. Forgive me, I am almost mad. Besides, you do
not seem like that, so kind, so sweet and lady-like.”
“You have made me your friend,—I feel for you. This is a fearful
discovery. But tell me, how can I help you?”
“Tell me all you know of this poor child’s mother. It may wound me to
death, but I shall feel so restless till the worst is confirmed; then
perhaps God will give me strength. Tell me all!”
“I have, lady. She came to the hospital only a week or two before her
death.”
“And you saw her then?”
“Yes; I can never, never forget her poor, mournful face, never, never.”
Catharine bowed her head, and a shiver ran through her frame, while two
or three tears forced themselves through the hands, which she pressed
over her eyes.
“Tell me more of her.”
“There is nothing to tell. She seldom spoke, seldom lifted her great,
mournful eyes from the floor. I heard her once call the names I have
mentioned; but I think she was very ill then, and did not know what she
was saying.”
“Was it when she was dying?”
“I don’t know. I remember seeing her dead, and carried out in her
coffin; but that is all. Indeed, indeed, I can tell you no more.”
Catharine’s voice grew sharp with the struggle of her anguish. These
questions tortured her.
Mrs. Oakley was terrified by the pale contractions of that face. Never
had she witnessed anguish so terrific and so still.
“And De Marke could leave her to die without a word—could do this, and
with the guilt on his soul come here with protest—no, no, not with
protestations—crafty and careful, he looked love, but never talked of
it. I cannot point out a single word of affection, and yet there was
love in every look, every tone of his voice. Oh! I cannot think of it
with patience.”
“And you know that this man loves you?” asked Catharine, a little
hoarser than before.
“Loves me? I never had a doubt of it till now—nay, I do not yet doubt
it. He may be reckless, wicked, utterly unprincipled, but I _know_ he
loves me; and oh! shame, shame, shame, I love him.”
“You love him, knowing all this,” said Catharine, standing up.
“It is my shame, and will be my misery forever and ever,” answered the
widow, covering her face with both hands, while the hot crimson swept
over her neck and forehead, like a fiery brand.
“And would you marry him?” The voice, in which this was uttered, fell so
cutting upon her ear, that the widow dropped her hands, looking suddenly
up.
“Marry him? no! To act is within my own control—to feel is, alas! what I
cannot help.”
That moment, the little boy came across the room, his bright eyes full
of tears. Holding up both hands, he strove to throw them around Mrs.
Oakley’s neck. She drew back with a repulsive motion of her hand. His
arms dropped, the rosy lips quivered, and sitting down upon the floor,
he began to sob as if his heart were breaking.
Both the women stood looking at him in pale silence. Suddenly their eyes
filled, a simultaneous sob broke from their bosoms, and they sunk to the
floor together, wreathing their arms around him and covering his face
and brow with kisses.
“He isn’t to blame, you know,” pleaded the widow. But Catharine had
dropped her face upon her knees, and only answered with a keen shiver,
as if she were in pain. Thus she remained some minutes, evidently struck
with a pang of great suffering.
“Are you ill?” inquired Mrs. Oakley, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“Yes, I believe I am ill,” answered Catharine, standing up. “I will go
home now.”
“Not now. It is cruel, I know; but one word more. That letter mentioned
another person, Catharine Lacy—did you know anything of her?”
“Catharine Lacy, who should know anything of her? Is she not dead?”
“Yes, I know there is a record of her death at the hospital; but I
should be so grateful for some further knowledge of her. You will not
wonder at this when I tell you that she was my own cousin.”
“Your cousin, lady; and yet permitted to die there?”
“It was not my fault, oh! believe it. I never even heard of her
destitution.”
“But your mother?”
“Hush! It is not for me to arraign my mother!”
“True, true.”
“Tell me, I beseech you, something about this poor girl. It was another
mournful death for which that man must one day answer.”
“I can tell you nothing of Catharine Lacy. Her history is written out,
they tell me, in the hospital books.”
“I am sorry that you know so little regarding her,” said the widow,
disappointed. “We loved each other as children; but I was always away at
school, or somewhere, after that; and we never saw each other. Poor,
poor Catharine, she was an angel-child.”
“You loved her, then?”
“Loved her? She was dearer than a sister to me. I would give anything,
suffer anything to know that she was alive, or had died happy.” The
widow’s eyes were full of tears, and a thousand regretful feelings
trembled in her voice. “Oh! if you know anything about her, do tell me.”
Catharine took the hand, held out to her, with a pathetic gesture, and
kissed it, saying,—
“God bless you!”
The next moment she was gone. The widow and child saw her glide through
the French window into the veranda, and disappear like a shadow, as she
had entered the room.
Left to her solitude, Mrs. Oakley gave way to all the tumult of her
feelings again. The certainty of her lover’s treason had been cruelly
confirmed, and the thoughts of his enormous turpitude pressed back upon
her with double force. The presence of that pretty, tearful child was
for a time irksome; and in the storm of her grief she escaped from his
touching attempts to comfort her, and fled to her own room.
After Catharine was gone, the new servant came out from her concealment
and went up to little Edward, who sat crying upon the floor. She stooped
over him, lifted the hair from his temple, and examined the cruciform
mark with keen scrutiny. Then she returned slowly to her work, muttering
uneasily between the flourishes of her duster.
“Catharine, Catharine—the name is Catharine, that’s certain; as for the
surname being different, that amounts to nothing—don’t I know how easy
it is to change names? Why, haven’t I half a dozen to pick and choose
from myself? There is something in the face and the bend of the head
that I could tell among a thousand. Now I just as much believe she’s the
woman, and that’s the very child, as I sit here; as for him, why the
thing’s certain, but the other isn’t so easily settled.”
Muttering these words, she sat down, folded her hands over the duster,
and continued her ruminations. “Then there was the story of that queer
old woman coming to the Island, and the crazy woman up yonder following
her into the very water; this has something to do with the matter, I
dare say. De Marke? oh! ha? that is the man who comes courting the
widow. _Her_ son! Now I have it. _She_ was the old woman with the
comical bonnet, that was driven into the sea,—of course, of course,
wasn’t she lame, hadn’t she been hurt someway when I found her in bed
half starved to death. But what has she to do with that crazy woman,
with the fiery black eyes?—I’ll ravel it out, you may believe me; I’ll
ravel it out; child, old woman, and all, they’re mixed up in the same
heap. Never fear, I’ll be at the bottom of it yet.”