FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
“Now father and child have met at last,
Met—as they never had met before;
Between them the spectre of the past
Stands—a barrier for evermore.”
Pleased, pained and perplexed at once, Alma stood transfixed where
Elverton had left her.
She had seen her father! her father, whose sudden flight, mysterious
wanderings, and unknown fate, had been the great subject of wonder,
speculation and conjecture to her own self, to the family and to the
community.
She had seen her father, actually seen him in the flesh, and spoken with
him face to face! There in that spot he had stood before her,
intercepting the last rays of the setting sun as it sank below the
horizon. They had not embraced, or kissed, or even taken each other’s
hands—they had met as souls may meet on the confines of another world.
And now he was gone like a vanished spirit.
She had met her father, and though the shock of that meeting, with its
conflicting emotions of great surprise, deep joy, and bitter
disappointment, had impressed her senses as forcibly as any actual event
could possibly impress any human being, yet now the whole affair seemed
to her so like a dream that she almost doubted its reality.
The meeting so sudden and unexpected; the interview so short and
unsatisfactory; the consequences so uncertain and alarming; these
subjects engrossed her thoughts, absorbed her senses, and riveted her to
the spot, so that she did not move until the brushwood near her broke
sharply beneath the tread of the intruder whose distant appearance had
driven away her father.
Then she started as from sleep, looked up, and flushed with joy, for she
thought the new comer would be Norham Montrose.
Alack! he was only old Davy Denny, the head-gardener, returning from one
of his occasional inspections of the woods.
The old man cast a curious, anxious, sorrowful glance at his young lady
as he touched his hat in passing her.
Alma blushed at meeting that glance, which said, as plainly as eyes
could speak:
“Please, Miss Elverton, it is too late for you to be out walking alone
in the woods, and if I only dared to speak, I’d up and tell you so.”
And the old servant went slowly, sadly, and reluctantly up towards the
mansion-house.
Alma felt no disposition to follow his footsteps, but turned and
wandered still farther down the slope of the hill into the narrow valley
below, where the woods were thickest.
She had nearly reached the foot of the hill, when the figure of a man
suddenly crossed her path.
Looking up with a start, she recognized Hollis Elverton.
“My father! back!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, Alma, back; I have not been far from you since we parted. I left
you intending to return to my present retreat. But from the covert of
the trees that concealed me I saw old David Denny pass, and saw you,
instead of going home, as I expected you to do, and as you should have
done, child, turn and ramble down the hill. I then took a shorter path
to meet you here, to complete the interview that was interrupted, and
under the shadow of the coming night see you safe within the lawn of
your own dwelling,” said Hollis Elverton gravely.
“Oh, my dear father! how glad I am that I did not go home. Oh, if you
knew how happy it makes me to see you again, even after this short
interval, you would indeed love me a little,” said his daughter,
fervently.
“Peace, girl, peace! No more of that, if you would ever look upon my
face again! I have sought you, Alma, with a purpose. Sit down, while I
unfold it to you. Sit down, I say, since you cannot stand,” said Mr.
Elverton, pointing to the trunk of a felled tree that lay across their
path, and upon which Alma immediately sank.
Mr. Elverton stood at a short distance, with his arms folded, leaning
against an oak.
“You know something of this wholesale poisoning at Allworth Abbey?” he
began.
“Oh, yes, sir,” answered Alma, shuddering.
“How much do you know?”
“As much as has been made public through the coroner’s inquest.”
“And that—is nothing—worse than nothing, since it is a tissue of false
deductions! What opinion have you formed from the facts elicited by the
coroner’s inquest?”
“Sir, I can not form any.”
“What do you think of the guilt or innocence of the accused girl, Eudora
Leaton?”
“Oh, sir, I dare not think of that at all, the subject is so painful to
me—”
“You think her guilty then?”
“I would to Heaven that I could believe her innocent, for I loved her.
Oh, my father, she always looked kindly toward me, and in my loneliness
I loved her,” said Alma, in a broken voice.
“Believe her innocent, then, for she is so,” said Hollis Elverton, with
solemn earnestness.
“Oh, my dear father! Is this really true? Is my poor Eudora innocent?
Oh, prove that her soul is guiltless of this great crime, and I shall
not break my heart—no—not even if she dies for it!” cried Alma, starting
up, seizing his hand, and gazing eagerly into his face.
It was the first time their hands had met; and Hollis Elverton
shudderingly shook off her grasp, as he answered:
“Yes, it is true.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“As sure of it as I can be of anything on earth.”
“How do you know it? What do you know of it?”
“I know that Eudora Leaton is innocent, and I know who is guilty.”
“Oh, my father! can you prove this? will you prove this?”
“Ah! Alma, moral certainty is not legal evidence! I repeat, I know
Eudora Leaton to be innocent, and I know who is guilty; but I have no
means as yet to prove the guilt of the one or the innocence of the
other. But, Alma, you are the well-wisher of the accused girl?”
“Oh, yes; oh, yes.”
“And you will take my word for her innocence?”
“Oh, yes! it is easy to have faith in what we wish to believe.”
“Then you must become my agent in doing all that may be done for this
most innocent, injured, and unhappy girl.”
“Willingly, my father.”
“Listen, then:—Although Eudora Leaton is heiress to one of the largest
estates in this county, yet, being a minor, and a ward in chancery, I
doubt she is without ready money to retain proper counsel for her
defence; and her only friend, her affianced husband, Mr. Malcolm
Montrose, is, I fear, as poor as herself, having nothing but a small
income from his Highland place. And it is highly desirable that she
should have the very best counsel to be procured for money; for it is
said that the Attorney-General himself will come from London to conduct
this very important case. Therefore, Alma, as I have a vital interest in
the acquittal of this innocent girl, and the conviction, if possible, of
the guilty person, I must entrust you with this money. Take it, and find
means to-morrow to place it either in the hands of Malcolm Montrose, or
in those of Eudora Leaton; and say to either with whom you may leave it,
that it is furnished by a friend who believes in her innocence, and that
it is intended to be devoted to her defence,” said Hollis Elverton,
placing bank-notes for a very large amount in Alma’s hands.
“I will take it to Miss Leaton herself, dear father; I can do so very
well, as no one ever inquires how I spend my days.”
“Poor girl! so much greater the need that you should learn to govern
yourself, since there is none to govern you. But do my errand to Eudora
Leaton. Tell her to keep up her spirits, hope for the best, and trust in
God! Tell her that she has her own consciousness of innocence to support
her, one unknown friend working for her, and a just Providence watching
over her!”
“I will faithfully deliver your message, my father.”
“But not as coming from me! Remember, girl, you are never to breathe my
name, or hint my existence to anyone whomsoever! All the world but you
believe me dead; leave them in that illusion.”
“Dear father, pardon me, but the illusion is yours. The world does not
believe you dead. There was a report of your death, and an annonymous
letter reached us from St. Petersburg announcing the supposed fact; but
after the most careful investigation, my mother came to the conclusion
that it was some one else of the same or a similar name, and——.”
“She was happier for the hope that it might be true, however, as I
intended that she should be,” said Hollis Elverton, gravely.
Alma did not reply to this strange observation. She could not bear to
acknowledge that her mother had been happier for this hope.
“But the _ruse_ did not fully succeed, since it did not convince her of
my decease; since the death of H. Elverton, the American stranger, who
died at St. Petersburg did not pass quite current with her for mine.
Nevertheless, she is the better for the hope that, after all, it may be
mine. Leave her to the enjoyment of that saving hope, which must
strengthen every year until it becomes a certainty?”
“Oh, my father,” said Alma, bowing her burning face upon her hands,
while the tears stole through her fingers, “these cruel words pierce my
heart like daggers. You say you loved each other as man and woman seldom
love, and that you severed without a fault on either side. Oh, why then,
even if you must be parted, why should you wish her to believe you
dead—and why should she be happier in that belief? Would _you_ be
happier if she were dead?”
“I should; for it would be well, Alma.”
“And if I, also, were dead?”
“It would be better, still, Alma!”
“And if you were?”
“Best of all!”
“Oh, this is fearful! I remember, too, overhearing it said that, when in
childhood, I was ill, and in great danger, my mother’s mournful face was
lighted up as by a wild hope; but that when I recovered and got well, it
sank back to its habitual look of dull despair! Oh, this is dreadful!
Why is it that the life of each one of us is a curse to the others, or
that the death of either would be a blessing to the rest?” cried Alma,
wildly.
“Because a living sorrow is far harder to bear than a dead one! because
we are each of us a living sorrow to the others?” said Hollis Elverton,
gloomily.
“Oh! this is terrible! But why is it best that we _all_ should die—I in
my youth, you and her in your prime of life, prematurely as though we
were not fit to cumber the earth?”
“Because we _are not_ fit to cumber the earth—the dust should hide us!”
cried Hollis Elverton, with such a sudden change of voice and manner,
such a savage energy of tone and gesture, such a fierce gathering of the
brows, glare of the eyes, and writhing of the lips, that his daughter,
looking up at him, suddenly shrieked aloud, and covered her face with
her hands, for she feared she was in the presence of a madman, if not
even in the power of a demoniac.
“Alma,” he continued, sternly and pitilessly, in despite of her
condition, “this horrifies you; yet, though the words should kill you, I
repeat them—it is better that we should die, and return to dust!”
“He wishes indeed to kill me when he uses such awful words,” thought the
shuddering girl, as she shrank more and more into herself, and cowered
nearer and nearer to the ground.
“Alma, there is a misfortune so unnatural that it has been forever
nameless in all languages; so degrading that it infects with a worse
than moral leprosy all connected with it; so fatal, that nothing but the
death of the victim can cure it; nothing but the resolution of the body
into its original elements, and its resurrection in another form of
being, and into another sphere of life can regenerate it! Alma, such a
dire misfortune was mine, and hers, and yours!”
“Oh, this is horrible—most horrible! But what is it, then? Give the
fatality some name,” cried Alma, distractedly.
“I told you it was nameless, but not cureless; for death is the certain
remedy. Therefore, die, Alma, die!”
“Father, I am called a Christian, though most unworthy of the name; and
nothing on earth would induce me to cast away my Maker’s gift of life.”
“Nor do I mean that, either! For though hoping, longing, praying for our
deaths, I would not lay sacrilegious hands on my life, hers, or yours;
for murder and suicide are crimes of the deepest dye, and I would not
burden my soul with even a venial sin; yet, Alma, die if you can!”
“Oh, Heaven! I do not know what you mean, my father.”
“Why, this. If ever you are ill again, do not call in a physician, do
not take medicine, do not use any means to keep off the death that may
come to you naturally, easily, kindly, as an angel of mercy. Promise me
this.”
“No, my father, I cannot. For not only does my conscience forbid me to
destroy my own life, but it commands me to do all I can to preserve it;
and I would no more be guilty of negative than of positive suicide,”
said Alma, firmly, though mournfully.
“Then life, worse than death, must be on your head! You are warned! But
remember, you who prize this earthly life so highly, do not deprive your
mother of the comfort she finds in the supposition of my death by the
remotest hint of my existence,” reiterated Hollis Elverton, earnestly.
“Father, you have my promise, and you may rely upon it. But, sir, there
is one of whom neither you nor I have yet spoken, one whom we should
both consider—one, indeed, who is much to be pitied in his widowed,
childless and desolate old age. I mean your aged parent, my grandfather,
Lord Elverton. Surely he at least would rejoice to hear that his only
son still lives! and if necessary, he would keep your counsel as
faithfully as I shall. Will you not communicate with him and comfort his
aged heart with the news of your continued life?”
“NEVER!” broke forth Hollis Elverton, in a fury, that again frightened
his gentle daughter almost into a swoon. “I have no father; I know
nothing of your grandfather! and never, in this world, in Hades, or in
Heaven, will I see, speak to, or acknowledge Lord Elverton again! Never!
so save me, Heaven, in my utmost strait!”
“Oh, sir, he is your father! do not speak of him so bitterly!” faltered
Alma.
“Girl! I told you a few moments since that there were misfortunes so
monstrous as to be nameless; so shameful as to be contagious; so fatal
as to be cureless except by death! and now I add to that, there are sins
so great as to burst asunder all ties of kindred, destroy all the
sympathies of humanity, and invalidate all obligations of duty! Ask me
no more questions, for I find that you are willing the very spirit from
my bosom! but answer me this: since the fatal night that drove me from
my home forever, has that old man ever ventured to cross the threshold
of Edenlawn?”
“But once, my father; but once, as I truly believe. I have never seen
him there, but I heard that, within a few weeks after your flight and my
birth, he came to Edenlawn late one afternoon, and was closeted with my
mother in the library for an hour, at the end of which he came out, and
without taking any refreshment—”
“Ha! a morsel swallowed in that house must have choked him!” interrupted
Elverton.
“Or even looking at his poor little grand-daughter—”
“The sight of her must have blasted him, as that of the Medusa’s head
was said to blast those who dared to look upon it,” again burst forth
Elverton.
“He hastened from the house, which he has never entered since.”
“For he had better walk on red-hot plough-shares than tread the
paving-stones of those halls!” exclaimed Elverton, fiercely.
Then, after a few minutes’ silence, he inquired:
“What have you heard of him since?”
“Nothing, my father, except this significant fact, that, within one
fortnight after his fatal visit, his nut-brown hair turned as white as
snow!”
“No doubt, no doubt, but will his scarlet sin ever be so white?—can time
or sorrow or repentance bleach that?” muttered Elverton, speaking rather
to himself than to his daughter.
Alma did not at once reply; a feeling of deep humiliation kept her
silent for awhile, and then a sense of religious duty urged her at last
to say:
“I know not of what sin you speak, my father: but this I have—Scripture
warrant for believing that, though the sin be ‘as scarlet,’ it may be
made, by repentance, as ‘white as snow.’”
“Let him settle it with Heaven then, as he must ere very long! but as
for _me_—let me never see his face again! Come, child, our interview is
over. Arise and walk on; I will follow you until I see you in sight of
the north gate, and then leave you,” said Hollis Elverton, stepping
aside to give her the path and then going after her.
They went up the narrow wooded path in silence. When they reached the
top of the hill, and came in sight of the north gate, Mr. Elverton
paused, and said:
“I need go no further; hurry home; but meet me here an hour earlier than
this to-morrow evening. Good-night.”
“Good-night, my father,” said Alma, extending her hands imploringly
towards him.
But he shook his head, waved his hand, plunged into the wood, and was
soon lost to her view.
She looked wistfully after him for a little while, and then turned
slowly, and with downcast eyes, to walk towards the house.
The full moon was shining broadly on her path, when suddenly its light
was intercepted.
Alma raised her eyes to see the tall, dark figure of Captain Montrose
standing before her, with folded arms, frowning brows, and scornful
lips.
We have observed before this that Norham Montrose, in mould of form and
cast of features, was the very counterpart of his elder brother, but in
every other respect he was as different from him as the night from the
day. Malcolm, it may be remembered, was as fair as a Dane, with light
hair, blue eyes, and a sanguine complexion; he was also frank, generous,
and confiding. Norham, on the contrary, was as dark as a Spaniard, with
raven-black hair and burning black eyes; he was, besides, reserved,
jealous, and suspicious.
Alma, conscious of these darker traits in his character, fearing their
effects upon himself and her, yet loving him despite of danger, shivered
with the presentiment of coming evil when she saw him standing before
her so silent, still, and stern.
“Norham,” she faltered faintly.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Elverton; I hope I have not prematurely
interrupted a pleasant _tête-a-tête_,” he replied, sarcastically, his
black eyes flashing and his proud lip curling.
Alma understood all now. He had seen her father walking with her in the
wood, and had mistaken Hollis Elverton for a favored suitor. And Alma,
bound by her promise, dared not explain the circumstance, and under such
conditions could not hope to reassure her jealous lover. A consciousness
of her false position bowed her fair head upon her bosom, dyed her
delicate cheek with blushes, and invested her whole manner with the
appearance of conscious guilt. Her heart sank within her bosom, and she
could not reply.
He looked at her for a moment in scorn and anger—the fierce scorn and
anger of wounded love and jealousy, and then saying—“I will no longer
intrude upon your privacy, Miss Elverton; good evening,” he lifted his
hat, turned upon his heel, and strode away.
“Stay, stay, Norham; do not leave me in a fatal error!” cried Alma,
breaking the spell that had bound her faculties, and springing forward.
He paused and looked wistfully towards her for a moment, then strode
back to her side, and answered, still very haughtily:
“I beg your pardon, Miss Elverton, if I have wronged you even in my
thoughts, but our mutual relations assuredly warrant me in feeling some
surprise and displeasure at finding you in these woods, walking with a
strange man as you have so often walked with me, and certainly justify
me in demanding some explanation of so strange a proceeding on your
part.”
“And because I have been so indiscreet as to wander here with you, do
you really suppose that I could be so faultless as to walk here with
another?” said Alma, in a mournful voice.
“I have assuredly very good reason to think so,” replied Norham,
sarcastically.
“Yes, it is true; by coming here to meet you I have given you good
reason for thinking me capable of any degree of indiscretion,” said
Alma, with sorrowful self-humiliation.
“Miss Elverton, I meant not that, as you know very well; I meant not to
reproach you with your innocent rambles with me, your betrothed husband,
who would die rather than offer you any offence. ‘The good reason’ which
I have for thinking that you favor others is the evidence of my own
senses. I _saw_ you, Miss Elverton, walking here in close conversation
with a stranger; and your answer appears to me very like a mere evasion
of the explanation I must still demand,” he said, haughtily, keeping his
stern eyes fixed upon her face with the look of a man having authority
to arraign her conduct.
What explanation could poor Alma give? How could she answer his doubts?
How soothe his jealousy? She dropped her clasped hands, and moaned with
distress.
“I wait your answer, Miss Elverton.”
Alma wrung her hands and remained silent.
“When I was about to withdraw from your presence you recalled me; if not
to volunteer the explanation that I seek, will you be kind enough to say
for what other purpose?”
“Oh, Norham, be patient! do not misconceive me! I called you back to say
to you that—that—”
“Well?”
“I came to the woods this afternoon in the hope of seeing you and
speaking with you after so long an absence.”
“And met instead the lover that consoled you during my absence; but of
whom perhaps you are tired now—that was very awkward while you were
expecting to see me. Pray, Miss Elverton, have you given him also the
promise of your hand as soon as you shall be of age and free to bestow
it?” sneered the man.
“Oh, Norham! Norham! do not be so unjust to me! The person that I met
this afternoon is no lover of mine; quite, quite the contrary! He is one
who never could, under any possible circumstances, become one.”
“And yet you were in very close confabulation when I first observed you.
It really looked to me like an interview between very intimate friends.”
“And yet, indeed, I never set eyes on that person in all my life
before.”
“You never set eyes on him before?” repeated Norham Montrose, in
astonishment.
“On my word, on my honor, on my _soul_, no!” replied Alma, with vehement
earnestness.
“Who was he then?” inquired Norham Montrose, as the dark scowl of
jealousy vanished from his brow.
Alma hesitated, reflected a moment, and then answered:
“He was an elderly gentleman, not familiar with this part of the
country, I believe.”
“What was his name?”
“I did not ask his name, of course; and neither do I think that he told
me; nay, indeed, I am sure that he did not.”
“Or if he did, you have forgotten it, perhaps. But what was he, then?”
“I did not ask him that question either, nor did he volunteer the
information.”
“But from your own observation, what did you make of him?”
“An elderly gentleman, who seemed to be recently arrived in this
neighborhood.”
“And that was all?”
Alma bowed.
“Some tourist come to the North for the summer months, and rambling over
these hills in search of the picturesque,” concluded Norham, in a tone
of complete satisfaction.
Alma dropped her head, blushed deeply, and burst into tears of shame.
She had not spoken one word of falsehood, and yet her truthful replies
had been so carefully worded as to deceive her lover, and Alma could not
endure the thought of deception.
Norham Montrose mistook the cause of her emotion, and quick to repent as
he had been to offend, he looked at her sweet suffering face for a
moment, then approached, and dropped gently on his knee before her, and
taking her hand, murmured:
“Dear Alma, I cannot bend too low to sue for your forgiveness; I have
wronged and offended you by my mad jealousy. I have been unjust,
unmanly. I am deeply grieved and mortified to think of it now. Alma,
will you pardon me?”
“Dear Norham, I have nothing to pardon in you; but much, very much to
thank and love you for. Please rise,” she answered, in a gentle voice,
as she closed her hand upon his, and tried to lift him up.
“I have been rude and violent to you, my gentle one.”
“Only for a few moments, while for months and months you have been kind
and loving.”
“But I have wounded your delicacy, wrung your heart!”
“Well, when I have received so much good from you, shall I not receive a
little necessary evil too? Can I have the rose of Love without its
inevitable thorn of Jealousy? Pray rise.”
“Gentlest of all gentle girls, I do indeed believe that it would be
easier to wound than offend you, and far easier to wrong than to
estrange your heart,” said Norham, rising to his feet, and pressing her
hand to his lips.
“It would indeed be most difficult for you to offend me, and quite
impossible to estrange me. For even if you were to cease to love me—”
She paused, and a deep blush overspread her face.
“My own heart must first cease to beat—nay, my own soul to exist, ere I
cease to love you, Alma; for my love seems the most immortal element in
my immortality! Do you not believe me?” said Norham, fervently.
“Yes, I do. And trust in me also, Norham; nor for _my_ sake, for, as I
said before, I am willing to take the pain with the joy, but for your
own, dear Norham, for it must be so distressing to suspect one that you
love. And oh, Norham! consider how little cause you have to doubt me. I
am not as other young ladies who have many friends and relatives to love
them. I have but you only in the wide, wide world! Did I ever tell you
before, Norham, that I never in my life received a caress, a word, or a
glance of affection from any human creature until I met you? My very
soul seemed perishing in its solitude, when your sympathy and affection
came to me as the dew and the sunshine to a fading flower. You loved me
and won my love! You gave me new life! Oh, is it likely, is it even
possible, that my heart should ever swerve in its allegiance to its
life-giver?”
“I will never doubt you again! I was a wretch to have doubted you then!
Dear one, I have been so occupied with my own selfish jealousy, that I
have not even inquired—how have you been during the months of my long
absence?”
“Just as always. Life passes with me in such monotony, that the changes
of the weather are all that I know.”
“While others, your nearest neighbors, have experienced such fearful
vicissitudes of fortune that their daily lives have passed more like the
successive acts in some dark tragedy, than scenes in a real existence!
My uncle’s family at Allworth Abbey! Oh, heaven, Alma! what a fatality
was there! The whole family swept from the face of the earth in a few
short months!”
“Alas, yes; Oh, Norham, you must know how deeply I sympathize with you
in this great sorrow! I should have said so before, but your own
personal trouble engaged all my attention.”
“My abominable jealousy, you should say; but let that pass. Alma, I was
not as intimate as my brother Malcolm was with my uncle’s family; and if
they had all gone off in a natural way, by a visitation of Providence,
as it is called, I should not have grieved more for them than men
usually grieve for uncles, aunts and cousins. But to think that they
should have been destroyed by a fiend in the shape of a girl—” said
Norham, shuddering.
“Ah! to whom do you refer?” inquired Alma.
“To whom, but to that serpent whom they warmed at their hearth-stone
until she had life enough to sting them to death! To whom but to that
Indian cobra, Eudora Leaton? Eudora Leaton, a name destined to become
notorious with those of Borgia, Brinvilliers and Lafarge!”
“You feel certain of her guilt, then?”
“Certain? Yes! Would it were not so! would that there were a rational
doubt of it! For if there were I should dare to hope that, though the
old House should become extinct, it need not die in blood and shame!”
said Norham Montrose, bitterly.
“Then why not entertain that hope! There is nothing but circumstantial
evidence against Eudora Leaton, and such evidence is proverbially
fallacious.”
“It cannot be in this case. The evidence is complete, conclusive,
convicting! No one can doubt that the issue of her trial will be
condemnation to death. And all that I have left to hope is, that the
last Leaton of Allworth will have the grace to die by her own hand in
the prison, rather than become a spectacle to the gaping crowd.”
“But, Norham, _I_ do not think that she is guilty, and I pray and hope
and trust that she may be proved innocent, as from my soul I believe her
to be!”
“That is because you cannot conceive iniquity like hers, as Heaven
forbid you should, sweet saint! And now, dear Alma, you must leave me,
and go home immediately. In my selfish love, I have wronged you in
keeping you out so late. And now, to atone for that injury, I must tell
you something that, in your innocence, you would never find out
yourself—something that will effectually arm you against me—”
“Then do not tell me at all! For if it is anything innocence could not
of itself discover, be sure it is not worth discovering. And as to its
arming me against you, dear Norham, I cannot consider you an enemy, and
therefore do not wish to be armed.”
“Yet, nevertheless, I will arm you with this knowledge of the world,
which you may use, abuse, or neglect at your pleasure. Listen, then,
dear Alma. Even these meetings that you accord me are so heterodox to
all conventionality, that were they known they would seriously
compromise your good name, and nothing, Alma, but our full sincerity of
purpose to marry, as soon as you shall become of age, could justify
these interviews. But, Alma, not even our betrothal will warrant you in
remaining out here with me after sunset. Alma, I tell you this, that
your own mother should have told you, because, dear one, I would not
take the very least advantage of your inexperience. Therefore, dear
Alma, never in future yield even to my persuasions to detain you out
here after sunset. Thus, you see, while my better spirit is in the
ascendant, I would warn you, arm you even against myself!”
“You are the soul of honor! If I had not known it before, I should know
it now! Good-night,” said Alma, in a low voice.
“One more caution in parting, love! It is not usual, or even safe, for
young ladies to talk with strangers whom they may casually meet in their
walks. Therefore, Alma, I must pray you that the scene of this afternoon
may never be repeated, and entreat you to promise me never again to fall
into conversation with any stranger whom you may meet in your rambles.”
Norham Montrose paused and waited for her answer.
Alma hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
“I promise you, Norham, never to hold conversation with any one in my
walks except yourself, or some blood relation of my own, or some servant
of our family. I think that my promise covers the whole ground!”
“It does, it does, dear Alma. Good-night. Meet me here to-morrow
afternoon, somewhat earlier than this—two hours earlier—at about six
o’clock. Until then, good-bye, dearest Alma.”
And before she could reply, or object to the hour named, he raised her
hand to his lips, bowed, and disappeared in the depths of the woods.
She remained for an instant transfixed with consternation at the thought
that he had unconsciously appointed for their next interview the very
spot and the very hour at which she had promised to meet her father.
Her first impulse was to fly after Norham, call him back, and name
another afternoon, but the fear of again arousing his jealous suspicions
restrained her. A little reflection also convinced her that, though she
might defer the meeting, she could not prevent Norham from haunting the
wood to be near her. How to deliver herself from this dilemma, how to
escape from the dangers that threatened her, Alma understood not.
If she rendered herself at the appointed time and place she would find
herself confronted with her father and her lover.
If she broke her appointment and remained at home, Hollis Elverton and
Norham Montrose, coming thither at the same time to seek her, would be
confronted with each other.
What, in any case, would be the result Alma feared to think.
Full of distress and perplexity, she turned her steps homeward.
She entered the house just as the hall-clock was striking eight.
“Mees Alma, I been seeking for you all over ze house. Miladie, your
movver, desire you come to her direct,” said old Madelon, meeting Miss
Elverton at the foot of the great staircase.
“My mother! my mother sent for me! Are you very sure of this, Madelon?”
inquired Alma, in great surprise, for she had never in her life before
been summoned to her mother’s presence.
“Vat sood make me no sure? Miladie tell me, ‘Madelon, send Mees Elverton
to me soon as she come in from her valk in de garden,’” said the old
woman.
“Very well, Madelon; I will go to my mother directly,” replied Alma, as,
lost in astonishment, she hurried up the stairs towards those private
apartments into which she had never in her life been admitted, and where
she had never dared to intrude.
She paused before the door, and knocked softly.
The deep, rich, vibrating voice of the lady bade her enter.
Alma opened the door, crossed the enchanted threshold, and stood within
the heretofore prohibited apartments.
The room in which she found herself was one of the most lofty and
spacious in the mansion. It was the front one of a magnificent suite of
apartments, that had been splendidly fitted up for the first reception
of Mrs. Elverton as a bride. It was situated directly over the
drawing-room, and had a large bay window that commanded a view of the
terraced lawn and the beautiful lake. But that window was now closed,
and the room was lighted up for the night. It was sumptuously furnished.
A Turkey carpet of the most brilliant colors covered the floor. The
chiffoniers, stands, tables, chairs, and even all the frames and
woodwork were of rosewood and gold, giving the _tout ensemble_ a
peculiarly rich effect. The coverings of the chairs, footstools and
sofas were all of crimson satin and gold.
The curtains at the windows were also of crimson satin and gold, with
inner hangings of fine lace. The walls were lined with splendid mirrors,
reaching from ceiling to floor, and multiplying a hundred-fold the
scenery of the room. The whole was brilliantly lighted up by a
chandelier that hung from the centre of the ceiling.
In the midst of all this glitter of light and glow of color, in a
luxurious chair, beside an elegant table, sat a lady, who, under any
circumstances, or from any spectator, must at once have riveted the
closest attention.
She was apparently about thirty-five years of age, of tall,
justly-proportioned, stately figure, around which flowed the rich folds
of a crimson velvet robe. Her features were of the purest classic type.
Her complexion was deadly pale, in contrast with her large, dark eyes,
jet-black eyebrows, and raven-black hair, that lay in heavy shining
bands upon her marble cheeks.
“Come hither, Alma,” she said, in that rich, deep, luscious voice which
ever thrilled the bosom of all who heard it.
Alma approached and stood before her mother. Her heart beat fast; she
eagerly hoped for some demonstration of affection on the part of the
lady. Vain hope!
Mrs. Elverton took from the table beside her a sealed packet, and
holding it in her hand while she spoke, she said:
“Alma, I have sent for you to entrust you with a secret mission, to
which I think you will be faithful.”
“Oh, mamma, how happy you make me by trusting me! Oh, yes, I would be
faithful unto death in any matter you should confide in me!” said Alma
fervently.
“Enough. I believe you. To come to the point. I have just heard that
that unhappy girl has been re-arrested and committed to prison. I have
the strongest reasons for believing her to be innocent, though in great
peril. These, my private reasons, it is not necessary to divulge, since
they would have no weight with judge or jury. But I have the deepest
interest in the acquittal of that girl, and in the discovery, if
possible, of the real criminal. I fear that though a wealthy heiress,
Eudora Leaton is without available funds to engage the best counsel,
which is always very expensive. Therefore, Alma, I wish you, to-morrow
morning, to take the close carriage, drive over to the prison, and place
this packet in Eudora Leaton’s hands. Tell her it is to be used in her
defence, and is sent by one who has as deep a stake in her trial as she
has herself. But do not tell her from whom it came. Do you understand
me?” said the lady, placing the package in the hands of her daughter.
“Yes mamma, and I will faithfully do your errand.”
“Go, then.”
“Mamma, will you not embrace me for this once in our lives?” pleaded
Alma, holding out her arms.
“Go! go! go! go, girl, and leave me. Is this the advantage you would
take of the very first visit I permit you to my presence?” exclaimed the
lady, excitedly.
“Mamma, pardon me, I go; good-night,” said Alma, resignedly, as she
withdrew from the splendid misery of her mother’s private apartments.
She retired to her own chamber, full of wonder that her parents should
be unconsciously so unanimous in their anxiety for Eudora Leaton’s
acquittal, and that she should be the confidant of this unsuspected
unanimity.