ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE WEDDING.
The revelations, in the last chapter, were a source of new-born peace to
Catharine. She felt at home, for the first time in her life. A few words
had knitted her forever to those good old people, who had been so long
her friends. Grandfather—grandmother—his, and consequently hers. She
repeated this in the depths of her heart a thousand times; she would
sit, for minutes together, regarding them with looks of unutterable
tenderness. Her heart would leap at the sound of their voices, and when
they spoke to her more confidingly than heretofore, for in the fulness
of their confidence this was natural, her eyes would fill with gentle
thankfulness.
Still, she told them nothing, but asked for a little time, only a
little; and then her heart should be laid open as theirs had been.
And the old people were content. For they saw that the revelation they
had made opened new springs of affection in the young woman’s bosom;
that her former care of Elsie became devotion now; that a new power of
love followed every look and word, which the poor demented one uttered.
Still, these pure souls did not entirely read that young heart; they
could not hear the words, “his mother,” which always trembled, unspoken,
on her lips, when she looked at Elsie. They could not understand the
tender light, that forever brooded in her eyes, nor feel the thrill that
ran through her nerves, at the touch of their caressing hands, or the
glances of Elsie’s midnight eyes. It was enough for her that their blood
ran through his veins; that Elsie, poor insane Elsie, was his own
mother.
These thoughts and feelings were uppermost for some days. Catharine
would not reflect that the man, whose unknown relatives were so dear to
her, had abandoned her to poverty and death; that he had never inquired
about her fate at the hospital, or if so, had avoided seeking her out.
She would not remember that this man was, even now, about to unite
himself to another, whom he had vainly loved before, taking compassion
on her perhaps too evident affection. Above all, her pure soul revolted
at the thought that another of his victims had perished by her own couch
of pain, and that his child was left to wander alone, into any shelter
that Providence might provide for the orphan.
But the heart cannot always silence a clear understanding. After a time,
Catharine began to feel that a poison still lay in the cup of peace, so
unexpectedly presented to her. Again her step grew slow, and her eyes
sad. The love with which she regarded the household was full of yearning
pain. She had lost all power to unite her thoughts of George De Marke
with these good old people. He was all a De Marke, the son of that
domestic traitor, the evil of his nature was an inheritance. That man
had nothing in common with the Fords; the blood might be in his veins;
but it was poisoned, every drop, by that of the De Markes.
Catharine rejoiced that Mrs. Oakley had been informed, regarding the
falsehood of De Marke, without her agency. It seemed to her impossible
to speak of his faults to any one. His treason to herself was so deeply
buried in the depths of her heart, that it would be death to drag the
secret forth, even to prevent further wrong. She thanked God again and
again, that this terrible duty had been spared her. The very thoughts of
appearing as his accuser, filled her with dismay.
But she avoided Mrs. Oakley. A feeling of vague pain, half jealousy,
half compassion, kept her away from the cottage. More than this, she
shrunk from looking at the child again. His child and not hers. Poor,
poor Catharine! In every way how wickedly she had been wronged, how
cruelly bereaved! No wonder she shrunk from looking on the handsome
widow, his beloved, and the beautiful boy, his son. Her husband, yes! he
was her husband, though she might never have the power to prove it.
Thus Catharine avoided the cottage and the sea-shore, and her walks all
turned to an opposite direction. She shrunk even from looking toward the
house. Thus weeks went on, and the two families never met. The widow was
too happy for any thought of her neighbors, and after seeking Catharine
in her usual haunts awhile, always in vain, she went up to her mother’s
house in town; for her wedding-day had been privately fixed, and there
were papers to sign and bridal garments to order.
One day, a servant-woman from Mrs. Oakley’s house came abruptly up to
where Catharine was standing, and told her this, in a blunt, rude way,
that brought a sudden cry from the poor girl, thus taken by surprise.
The woman looked at her keenly, and a strange smile broke over her face,
as she heard this cry. “I thought so,” she muttered, turning away
abruptly, as she had advanced, “I knew it, now we’ll see.”
Catharine followed her. “When, when does this take place?” she said,
pale and wild, like one who had suddenly received sentence of death.
“To-night. A crowd of guests came with them in a steamer hired expressly
for the wedding-party. Mrs. Townsend Oakley sent particular word that
you were to be invited to meet them. Of course you will come?”
Catharine parted her pale lips to speak, but could not utter a word.
“She wishes you to stand bridesmaid, and be at the cottage when they
arrive. As her best friend, she hopes you will receive them, and see
that the servants make no blunders.”
“Me, me!” burst from Catharine’s lips, in a cry of such agony, that the
woman stepped back with a startled look, which soon passed away,
however, and that gleam of singular intelligence again resumed its
place. “Me her bridesmaid!”
“You will certainly come. The mistress depends upon it,” she said,
without appearing to heed the cry.
“I cannot. Oh, my God! I cannot do it. This is too much—too much! I
shall drop dead under torture!”
A look of rude compassion came to the woman’s face. She drew close to
Catharine, and touched her on the arm.
“You must be there, or the thing will go on!”
“What thing, woman?”
“The marriage of my mistress, Mrs. Townsend Oakley, with another woman’s
husband—that is the thing!”
Catharine looked at the woman in affright.
“What! what do you know?”
“I know that much, at any rate.”
“How—where—when? In the name of heaven, what are you?”
“Mrs. Townsend Oakley’s servant,—nothing else.”
“But you said something that seems wild. How do you know—”
“That Mr. De Marke is a married man—is that what you ask?”
“Yes, that is what I ask!” answered Catharine, in a strained, husky
voice.
“How do you know it?” said the woman.
“Me—me—how do I know it. God help me—how do I know it. I—”
“You see that I do know it, and that I know you, Catharine Lacy.”
Catharine staggered back, warding the woman off with her hands, as she
drew closer to her.
“That name, why do you call me by that name? I do not bear it. I will
not hear it—I tell you, woman, it is not my name.”
“Right,” answered the woman, smiling shrewdly, “it is not your name.”
“Well then, if it is not my name, why torment me with it? What does Mrs.
Oakley want of me? I am not her friend. No one is my friend. I am alone,
quite, quite, alone!”
“I am your friend.”
“You, and tell me news like this?”
“You wish to prevent this wedding.”
“No, no; I wish nothing, I hope nothing. I have a hard duty that will
torture me, that is all.”
“But you _must_ prevent it.”
“I must. Yes, I have known that all along. But how? Great heaven! direct
me how.”
“Tell them he has a wife already.”
“A wife. What wife?”
“Catharine Lacy, the name which is not yours.”
“What do you say, woman? How is it you would have me act?”
“Go down to the cottage, meet them as they desire, and when the
clergyman calls upon those who know of a just cause, or impediment,—I
believe that’s the way it runs,—step forward, and stand face to face
with Catharine Lacy’s husband, and tell him that she lives.”
Catharine wrung her hands distractedly. “I cannot, I should drop dead at
their feet. How can I do this without proof?”
“Is not your presence proof?”
“No! I am changed. Even if they have ever known me, I could not prove an
identity.”
“Still you are his wife.”
“I did not say it.”
“Besides this—to help them on—they can prove that Catharine Lacy is dead
by the hospital books. I know that well enough, though you may not,”
said the woman, with a confidential air; “but what then?”
“It would be sufficient proof against anything I could say, if that be
true.”
“But he would know you. True enough, your hair is a shade darker, you
look taller and larger, your whole person is changed; but you have the
old smile, and the same eyes. I knew you, why should not he?”
“Oh, do not ask—he will not wish it.”
“And you will see him marry another. This may be refinement, ma’am; but
to my thinking, it’s taking part in the wickedness.”
Catharine shrunk within herself, and her features grew pinched with
sudden anguish. For a long time she remained silent, gazing wildly on
the woman. At last her pale lips parted.
“True, true. O my God, my God, guide me—guide me!” She sunk upon a
fragment of rock, as these words broke forth, and buried her face in the
drapery of her shawl.
The woman stood over her, and said, “You see it must be done.”
Catharine moaned faintly.
“Or a great crime will lie at your door.”
Again Catharine moaned.
“This man deserves it all.”
A shudder ran through Catharine’s frame; but she did not look up.
“You will be sure and come,” persisted the woman.
“Yes,” said Catharine, looking up, “it must be. God knows, if it were
not to prevent sin, I would never remind him of all he wishes to forget.
I would live and die alone, rather than intrude my wrongs upon his
happiness. But he leaves me no choice.”
“You are resolute?” questioned the woman.
“Yes; the thing may kill me, but I will come. Still I warn you, woman,
it will be to meet unbelief and disgrace. I have no proof to offer, and
have outlived my own identity.”
The woman made an irresolute movement; plunged a hand into her pocket,
and took it out again empty. Then, casting another glance at the
trembling creature before her, she gave a more deliberate plunge, and
drew forth an old pocket-book, from which she extracted, first a diamond
ear-ring, which she clasped in the palm of one hand with two fingers,
while she searched among some soiled papers with the other. At last she
drew forth a scrap of paper, which she carefully unfolded and read.
Catharine watched these movements with a look of wistful curiosity. The
strange woman had won a sort of authority over her, and for the time she
was almost helpless.
“You are determined to do the right thing, and put a stop to this
marriage,” she said, holding the paper irresolutely.
“I must,” said Catharine. “It will ruin me, and ruin him; but that is
better than a great sin. They will not believe me; but I will speak.”
“They shall believe you!” answered the woman peremptorily, “ask him if
he dares dispute that?”
Catharine took the paper, which Jane Kelly held out, and glanced at it;
but her head grew giddy, and the letters floated like traceries of mist
before her eyes. She only knew that it was a certificate of her own
marriage with George De Marke. Her hands began to tremble violently: she
burst into a passion of tears.
“Your courage will not fail,” said Jane, “I may be sure of that.”
“My duty cannot fail; I must do it,” answered Catharine, sadly.
“Then I will go home. Remember, they will arrive at sunset. After that,
you must not count on any time as safe.”
“I know, I know,” murmured Catharine, gazing wistfully upon the
certificate in her hand, “there can be no wavering, no doubt now: in
this paper, God has unfolded my duty.”
She looked around. The woman had disappeared. Catharine was alone with
her God.