THE FATAL DEED.
I am undone; there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me.
The hind that would be mated by the lion,
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty though a plague
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brow, his hawking eyes, his curls
In our heart's table; heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor.
--_Shakspere_.
Hannah Worth walked home, laden like a beast of burden, with an enormous
bag of hanked yarn on her back. She entered her hut, dropped the burden
on the floor, and stopped to take breath.
"I think they might have sent a negro man to bring that for you,
Hannah," said Nora, pausing in her spinning.
"As if they would do that!" panted Hannah.
Not a word was said upon the subject of Herman Brudenell's morning
visit. Hannah forebore to allude to it from pity; Nora from modesty.
Hannah sat down to rest, and Nora got up to prepare their simple
afternoon meal. For these sisters, like many poor women, took but two
meals a day.
The evening passed much as usual; but the next morning, as the sisters
were at work, Hannah putting the warp for Mrs. Brudenell's new web of
cloth in the loom, and Nora spinning, the elder noticed that the younger
often paused in her work and glanced uneasily from the window. Ah, too
well Hannah understood the meaning of those involuntary glances. Nora
was "watching for the steps that came not back again!"
Hannah felt sorry for her sister; but she said to herself:
"Never mind, she will be all right in a few days. She will forget him."
This did not happen so, however. As day followed day, and Herman
Brudenell failed to appear, Nora Worth grew more uneasy, expectant, and
anxious. Ah! who can estimate the real heart-sickness of "hope
deferred!" Every morning she said to herself: "He will surely come
to-day !" Every day each sense of hearing and of seeing was on the qui
vive to catch the first sound or the first sight of his approach. Every
night she went to bed to weep in silent sorrow.
All other sorrows may be shared and lightened by sympathy except that of
a young girl's disappointment in love. With that no one intermeddles
with impunity. To notice it is to distress her; to speak of it is to
insult her; even her sister must in silence respect it; as the expiring
dove folds her wing over her mortal wound, so does the maiden jealously
conceal her grief and die. Days grew into weeks, and Herman did not
come. And still Nora watched and listened as she spun--every nerve
strained to its utmost tension in vigilance and expectancy. Human
nature--especially a girl's nature--cannot bear such a trial for any
long time together. Nora's health began to fail; first she lost her
spirits, and then her appetite, and finally her sleep. She grew pale,
thin, and nervous.
Hannah's heart ached for her sister.
"This will never do," she said; "suspense is killing her. I must end
it."
So one morning while they were at work as usual, and Nora's hand was
pausing on her spindle, and her eyes were fixed upon the narrow path
leading through the Forest Valley, Hannah spoke:
"It will not do, dear; he is not coming! he will never come again; and
since he cannot be anything to you, he ought not to come!"
"Oh, Hannah, I know it; but it is killing me!"
These words were surprised from the poor girl; for the very next instant
her waxen cheeks, brow, neck, and very ears kindled up into fiery
blushes, and hiding her face in her hands she sank down in her chair
overwhelmed.
Hannah watched, and then went to her, and began to caress her, saying:
"Nora, Nora, dear; Nora, love; Nora, my own darling, look up!"
"Don't speak to me; I am glad he does not come; never mention his name
to me again, Hannah," said the stricken girl, in a low, peremptory
whisper.
Hannah felt that this order must be obeyed, and so she went back to her
loom and worked on in silence.
After a few minutes Nora arose and resumed her spinning, and for some
time the wheel whirled briskly and merrily around. But towards the
middle of the day it began to turn slowly and still more slowly.
At length it stopped entirely, and the spinner said:
"Hannah, I feel very tired; would you mind if I should lay down a little
while?"
"No, certainly not, my darling. Are you poorly, Nora?"
"No, I am quite well, only tired," replied the girl, as she threw
herself upon the bed.
Perhaps Hannah had made a fatal mistake in saying to her sister, "He
will never come again," and so depriving her of the last frail plank of
hope, and letting her sink in the waves of despair. Perhaps, after all,
suspense is not the worst of all things to bear; for in suspense there
is hope, and in hope, life! Certain it is that a prop seemed withdrawn
from Nora, and from this day she rapidly sunk. She would not take to her
bed. Every morning she would insist upon rising and dressing, though
daily the effort was more difficult. Every day she would go to her wheel
and spin slowly and feebly, until by fatigue she was obliged to stop and
throw herself upon the bed. To all Hannah's anxious questions she
answered:
"I am very well! indeed there is nothing ails me; only I am so tired!"
One day about this time Reuben Gray called to see Hannah. Reuben was one
of the most discreet of lovers, never venturing to visit his beloved
more than once in each month.
"Look at Nora!" said Hannah, in a heart-broken tone, as she pointed to
her sister, who was sitting at her wheel, not spinning, but gazing from
the window down the narrow footpath, and apparently lost in mournful
reverie.
"I'll go and fetch a medical man," said Reuben, and he left the hut for
that purpose.
But distances from house to house in that sparsely settled neighborhood
were great, and doctors were few and could not be had the moment they
were called for. So it was not until the next day that Doctor Potts, the
round-bodied little medical attendant of the neighborhood, made his
appearance at the hut.
He was welcomed by Hannah, who introduced him to her sister.
Nora received his visit with a great deal of nervous irritability,
declaring that nothing at all ailed her, only that she was tired.
"Tired," repeated the doctor, as he felt her pulse and watched her
countenance. "Yes, tired of living! a serious fatigue this, Hannah. Her
malady is more on the mind than the body! You must try to rouse her,
take her into company, keep her amused. If you were able to travel, I
should recommend change of scene; but of course that is out of the
question. However, give her this, according to the directions. I will
call in again to see her in a few days." And so saying, the doctor left
a bottle of medicine and took his departure.
That day the doctor had to make a professional visit of inspection to
the negro quarters at Brudenell Hall; so he mounted his fat little white
cob and trotted down the hill in the direction of the valley.
When he arrived at Brudenell Hall he was met by Mrs. Brudenell, who said
to him:
"Dr. Potts, I wish before you leave, you would see my son. I am
seriously anxious about his health. He objected to my sending for you;
but now that you are here on a visit to the quarters, perhaps his
objections may give way."
"Very well, madam; but since he does not wish to be attended, perhaps he
had better not know that my visit is to him; I will just make you a call
as usual."
"Join us at lunch, doctor, and you can observe him at your leisure."
"Thank you, madam. What seems the matter with Mr. Brudenell?"
"A general failure without any particular disease. If it were not that I
know better, I would say that something lay heavily upon his mind."
"Humph! a second case of that kind to-day! Well, madam, I will join you
at two o'clock," said the doctor, as he trotted off towards the negro
quarters.
Punctually at the hour the doctor presented himself at the luncheon
table of Mrs. Brudenell. There were present Mrs. Brudenell, her two
daughters, her son, and a tall, dark, distinguished looking man, whom
the lady named as Colonel Mervin.
The conversation, enlivened by a bottle of fine champagne, flowed
briskly and cheerfully around the table. But through all the doctor
watched Herman Brudenell. He was indeed changed. He looked ill, yet he
ate, drank, laughed, and talked with the best there. But when his eye
met that of the doctor fixed upon him, it flashed with a threatening
glance that seemed to repel scrutiny.
The doctor, to turn the attention of the lady from her son, said:
"I was at the hut on the hill to-day. One of those poor girls, the
youngest, Nora, I think they call her, is in a bad way. She seems to me
to be sinking into a decline." As he said this he happened to glance at
Herman Brudenell. That gentleman's eyes were fixed upon his with a gaze
of wild alarm, but they sank as soon as noticed.
"Poor creatures! that class of people scarcely ever get enough to eat or
drink, and thus so many of them die of decline brought on from
insufficiency of nourishment. I will send a bag of flour up to the hut
to-morrow," said Mrs. Brudenell complacently.
Soon after they all arose from the table.
The little doctor offered his arm to Mrs. Brudenell, and as they walked
to the drawing-room he found an opportunity of saying to her:
"It is, I think, as you surmised. There is something on his mind. Try to
find out what it is. That is my advice. It is of no use to tease him
with medical attendance."
When they reached the drawing room they found the boy with the mail bag
waiting for his mistress. She quickly unlocked and distributed its
contents.
"Letters for everybody except myself! But here is a late copy of the
'London Times' with which I can amuse myself while you look over your
epistles, ladies and gentlemen," said Mrs. Brudenell, as she settled
herself to the perusal of her paper. She skipped the leader, read the
court circular, and was deep in the column of casualties, when she
suddenly cried out:
"Good Heaven, Herman! what a catastrophe!"
"What is it, mother?"
"A collision on the London and Brighton Railway, and ever so many killed
or wounded, and--Gracious goodness!"
"What, mother?"
"Among those instantly killed are the Marquis and Marchioness of
Brambleton and the Countess of Hurstmonceux!"
"No!" cried the young man, rushing across the room, snatching the paper
from his mother's hand, and with starting eyes fixed upon the paragraph
that she hastily pointed out, seeming to devour the words.
A few days after this Nora Worth sat propped up in an easy-chair by the
open window that commanded the view of the Forest Valley and of the
opposite hill crowned with the splendid mansion of Brudenell Hall.
But Nora was not looking upon this view; at least except upon a very
small part of it--namely, the little narrow footpath that led down her
own hill and was lost in the shade of the valley. The doctor's
prescriptions had done Nora no good; how should they? Could he, more
than others, "minister to a mind diseased"? In a word, she had now grown
so weak that the spinning was entirely set aside, and she passed her
days propped up in the easy-chair beside the window, through which she
could watch that little path, which was now indeed so disused, so
neglected and grass grown, as to be almost obliterated.
Suddenly, while Nora's eyes were fixed abstractedly upon this path, she
uttered a great cry and started to her feet.
Hannah stopped the clatter of her shuttle to see what was the matter.
Nora was leaning from the window, gazing breathlessly down the path.
"What is it, Nora, my dear? Don't lean so far out; you will fall! What
is it?"
"Oh, Hannah, he is coming! he is coming!"
"Who is coming, my darling? I see no one!" said the elder sister,
straining her eyes down the path.
"But I feel him coming! He is coming fast! He will be in sight
presently! There! what did I tell you? There he is!"
And truly at that moment Herman Brudenell advanced from the thicket and
walked rapidly up the path towards the hut.
Nora sank back in her seat, overcome, almost fainting.
Another moment and Herman Brudenell was in the room, clasping her form,
and sobbing:
"Nora! Nora, my beloved! my beautiful! you have been ill and I knew it
not! dying, and I knew it not! Oh! oh! oh!"
"Yes, but I am well, now that you are here!" gasped the girl, as she
thrilled and trembled with returning life. But the moment this
confession had been surprised from her she blushed fiery red to the very
tips of her ears and hid her face in the pillows of her chair.
"My darling girl! My own blessed girl! do not turn your face away! look
at me with your sweet eyes! See, I am here at your side, telling you how
deep my own sorrow had been at the separation from you, and how much
deeper at the thought that you also have suffered! Look at me! Smile on
me! Speak to me, beloved! I am your own!"
These and many other wild, tender, pleading words of love he breathed in
the ear of the listening, blushing, happy girl; both quite heedless of
the presence of Hannah, who stood petrified with consternation.
At length, however, by the time Herman had seated himself beside Nora,
Hannah recovered her presence of mind and power of motion; and she went
to him and said:
"Mr. Brudenell! Is this well? Could you not leave her in peace?"
"No, I could not leave her! Yes, it is well, Hannah! The burden I spoke
of is unexpectedly lifted from my life! I am a restored man. And I have
come here to-day to ask Nora, in your presence, and with your consent,
to be my wife!"
"And with your mother's consent, Mr. Brudenell?"
"Hannah, that was unkind of you to throw a damper upon my joy. And look
at me, I have not been in such robust health myself since you drove me
away!"
As he said this, Nora's hand, which he held, closed convulsively on his,
and she murmured under her breath:
"Have you been ill? You are not pale!"
"No, love, I was only sad at our long separation; now you see I am
flushed with joy; for now I shall see you every day!" he replied,
lifting her hand to his lips.
Hannah was dreadfully disturbed. She was delighted to see life, and
light, and color flowing back to her sister's face; but she was dismayed
at the very cause of this--the presence of Herman Brudenell. The
instincts of her affections and the sense of her duties were at war in
her bosom. The latter as yet was in the ascendency. It was under its
influence she spoke again.
"But, Mr. Brudenell, your mother?"
"Hannah! Hannah! don't be disagreeable! You are too young to play duenna
yet!" he said gayly.
"I do not know what you mean by duenna, Mr. Brudenell, but I know what
is due to your mother," replied the elder sister gravely.
"Mother, mother, mother; how tiresome you are, Hannah, everlastingly
repeating the same word over and over again! You shall not make us
miserable. We intend to be happy, now, Nora and myself. Do we not,
dearest?" he added, changing the testy tone in which he had spoken to
the elder sister for one of the deepest tenderness as he turned and
addressed the younger.
"Yes, but, your mother," murmured Nora very softly and timidly.
"You too! Decidedly that word is infectious, like yawning! Well, my
dears, since you will bring it on the tapis, let us discuss and dismiss
it. My mother is a very fine woman, Hannah; but she is unreasonable,
Nora. She is attached to what she calls her 'order,' my dears, and never
would consent to my marriage with any other than a lady of rank and
wealth."
"Then you must give up Nora, Mr. Brudenell," said Hannah gravely.
"Yes, indeed," assented poor Nora, under her breath, and turning pale.
"May the Lord give me up if I do!" cried the young man impetuously.
"You will never defy your mother," said Hannah.
"Oh, no! oh, no! I should be frightened to death," gasped Nora,
trembling between weakness and fear.
"No, I will never defy my mother; there are other ways of doing things;
I must marry Nora, and we must keep the affair quiet for a time."
"I do not understand you," said Hannah coldly.
"Nora does, though! Do you not, my darling?" exclaimed Herman
triumphantly.
And the blushing but joyous face of Nora answered him.
"You say you will not defy your mother. Do you mean then to deceive her,
Mr. Brudenell?" inquired the elder sister severely.
"Hannah, don't be abusive! This is just the whole matter, in brief. I am
twenty-one, master of myself and my estate. I could marry Nora at any
time, openly, without my mother's consent. But that would give her great
pain. It would not kill her, nor make her ill, but it would wound her in
her tenderest points--her love of her son, and her love of rank; it
would produce an open rupture between us. She would never forgive me,
nor acknowledge my wife."
"Then why do you speak at all of marrying Nora?" interrupted Hannah
angrily.
Herman turned and looked at Nora. That mute look was his only answer,
and it was eloquent; it said plainly what his lips forbore to speak: "I
have won her love, and I ought to marry her; for if I do not, she will
die."
Then he continued as if Hannah had not interrupted him:
"I wish to get on as easily as I can between these conflicting
difficulties. I will not wrong Nora, and I will not grieve my mother.
The only way to avoid doing either will be for me to marry my darling
privately, and keep the affair a secret until a fitting opportunity
offers to publish it."
"A secret marriage! Mr. Brudenell! is that what you propose to my
sister?"
"Why not, Hannah?"
"Secret marriages are terrible things!"
"Disappointed affections, broken hearts, early graves, are more
terrible."
"Fudge!" was the word that rose to Hannah's lips, as she looked at the
young man; but when she turned to her sister she felt that his words
might be true.
"Besides, Hannah," he continued, "this will not be a secret marriage.
You cannot call that a secret which will be known to four persons--the
parson, you, Nora, and myself. I shall not even bind you or Nora to keep
the secret longer than you think it her interest to declare it. She
shall have the marriage certificate in her own keeping, and every legal
protection and defense; so that even if I should die suddenly--"
Nora gasped for breath.
--"she would be able to claim and establish her rights and position in
the world. Hannah, you must see that I mean to act honestly and
honorably," said the young man, in an earnest tone.
"I see that you do; but, Mr. Brudenell, it appears to me that the fatal
weakness of which you have already spoken to me--the 'propensity to
please'--is again leading you into error. You wish to save Nora, and you
wish to spare your mother; and to do both these things, you are
sacrificing--"
"What, Hannah?"
"Well--fair, plain, open, straight-forward, upright dealing, such as
should always exist between man and woman."
"Hannah, you are unjust to me! Am I not fair, plain, open,
straight-forward, upright, and all the rest of it in my dealing with
you?"
"With us, yes; but--"
"With my mother it is necessary to be cautious. It is true that she has
no right to oppose my marriage with Nora; but yet she would oppose it,
even to death! Therefore, to save trouble and secure peace, I would
marry my dear Nora quietly. Mystery, Hannah, is not necessarily guilt;
it is often wisdom and mercy. Do not object to a little harmless
mystery, that is besides to secure peace! Come, Hannah, what say you?"
"How long must this marriage, should it take place, be kept a secret?"
inquired Hannah uneasily.
"Not one hour longer than you and Nora think it necessary that it should
be declared! Still, I should beg your forbearance as long as possible.
Come, Hannah, your answer!"
"I must have time to reflect. I fear I should be doing very wrong to
consent to this marriage, and yet--and yet--. But I must take a night to
think of it! To-morrow, Mr. Brudenell, I will give you an answer!"
With this reply the young man was obliged to be contented. Soon after he
arose and took his leave.
When he was quite out of hearing Nora arose and threw herself into her
sister's arms, crying:
"Oh, Hannah, consent! consent! I cannot live without him!"
The elder sister caressed the younger tenderly; told her of all the
dangers of a secret marriage; of all the miseries of an ill-sorted one;
and implored her to dismiss her wealthy lover, and struggle with her
misplaced love.
Nora replied only with tears and sobs, and vain repetitions of the
words:
"I cannot live without him, Hannah! I cannot live without him!"
Alas, for weakness, willfulness, and passion! They, and not wise
counsels, gained the day. Nora would not give up her lover; would not
struggle with her love; but would have her own way.
At length, in yielding a reluctant acquiesence, Hannah said:
"I would never countenance this--never, Nora! but for one reason; it is
that I know, whether I consent or not, you two, weak and willful and
passionate as you are, will rush into this imprudent marriage all the
same! And I think for your sake it had better take place with my
sanction, and in my presence, than otherwise."
Nora clasped her sister's neck and covered her face with kisses.
"He means well by us, dear Hannah--indeed he does, bless him! So do not
look so grave because we are going to be happy."
Had Herman felt sure of his answer the next day? It really seemed so;
for when he made his appearance at the cottage in the morning he brought
the marriage license in his pocket and a peripatetic minister in his
company.
And before the astonished sisters had time to recover their
self-possession Herman Brudenell's will had carried his purpose, and the
marriage ceremony was performed. The minister then wrote out the
certificate, which was signed by himself, and witnessed by Hannah, and
handed it to the bride.
"Now, dearest Nora," whispered the triumphant bridegroom, "I am happy,
and you are safe!"
But--were either of them really safe or happy?