THE FEARFUL SECRET.
“Our actions travel and are veiled; and yet
We sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of one
When out of sight its march hath well nigh gone,
An unveiled thing which we can ne’er forget!
All sins it gathers up into its course,
As they do grow with it, and its force,
One day with busy speed that thing shall come,
Recoiling on the heart that was its home.”
It was late in the afternoon when Alma Elverton, returning from the
prison, reached Edenlawn.
Not daring to present herself unsummoned before her stern mother, she
went direct to her own chamber, threw off her bonnet and mantle, and
then rang for her attendant.
Old Madelon, in her hight French _bonne’s_ cap made her appearance.
“Will you go to my mamma, Madelon, and tell her that I have returned
from my ride, and ask her to say whether I shall come to her?” said
Alma.
“I vill go, Meess Elverton, but miladie is—is more—vat sall I say?” said
the _bonne_, hesitating.
“Disturbed, sorrowful?” suggested Alma.
“No, _severe_. Miladie is more severe to-day as ever. I no like to go to
her, but I vill go.”
“Do, good Madelon; she will be pleased to hear that I have returned,”
said Alma, gently.
“I know not, Meess Alma, I know not,” said old Madelon, shaking her head
as she left the room.
Alma, full of anxiety upon many subjects, threw herself into an
arm-chair to await the coming of the _bonne_.
Nearly an hour passed before the return of Madelon, who entered, saying:
“You must pardon me for staying so long time, Meess Alma; but it was no
mine fault, miladie vas keep me.”
“And has she sent for me at last?”
“No, no, Meess Alma; she say you mus’ dine, and then come to her, and no
before.”
Alma made a gesture of impatience. It was now late; time was flying
fast. The hour at which she had promised to meet her unhappy father was
quickly approaching, and, fraught with danger, as it might be, she was
resolved to keep her appointment.
“I am not hungry; I do not wish to dine at all. Why cannot I go to my
mother at once?”
“Miladie’s commands—Meess Alma must rest, and must eat, and then come.”
“But if I am neither tired nor hungry. Can I not go to mamma now?”
“No, miladie is engaged. Miladie writes letters. She will see Meess Alma
later. She will send when she wants her child.”
“Go on then, Madelon, I can go through the form of dinner, at least,”
said Alma, looking anxiously at her watch.
It was five o’clock, and she had promised to meet her father at six.
There was an hour left. There might yet be time to keep her appointment.
She hoped to dispatch her meal, hurry through her interview with her
mother, and then hasten to the wood.
She followed old Madelon down into the dining-room, where a delicate
little repast had been prepared for her. She ate a piece of chicken and
a jelly, and was picking a bunch of grapes when the lady’s bell rang for
Madelon, who hastened to answer it, but soon returned with a message
summoning Alma to her mother’s apartments.
Alma immediately hurried thither. She found the beautiful, majestic,
pale-faced lady seated in the luxurious chair beside the elegant table
in the midst of the gloom and glow of that crimson and golden room. That
still woman was the picture of which the boudoir was but the back ground
and frame.
As her daughter entered, the lady lifted her languid eyes from the book
she was reading, and silently motioned Alma to take the chair on the
other side of the table.
The young girl obeyed, and waited for her mother to speak. But the
lady’s large eyes had again fallen upon her book, and in a few moments
she seemed to have forgotten the presence of her daughter.
Alma stole a glance at her watch. It was half-past five. Her heart
throbbed with anxiety. She ventured to break the silence by saying:
“I did your errand faithfully and successfully, dear mother.”
“I will speak to you about that presently, Alma,” said the lady, turning
a leaf of her book, and relapsing into silence.
Alma fell into thought. She had private anxieties enough of her own to
engage her mind. She was extremely desirous to keep her appointment with
her unhappy father. She was extremely fearful, also, of a rencounter
between her father and her betrothed. She therefore felt the urgent
necessity of being herself early on the ground to meet the first comer,
whether that should be her father or her betrothed. If it should be the
former, she would draw him quickly off in some other direction to avoid
a meeting with Captain Montrose. If the latter, she would merely greet
him and dismiss him, to shun a rencounter with Mr. Elverton. All these
plans were fraught with danger, but they were the best that she could
improvise for the exigency. Meanwhile, how quickly the precious minutes
flew while she sat waiting her mother’s leisure.
The elegant little ormolu clock on the chimney-piece struck six.
Alma started and looked up. The hour had come.
“Mamma, I wish to take an evening walk. If you will permit me, I will
go, and return when you have leisure to attend to me,” said the young
girl, desperately.
“Are you so impatient, Alma? Well, then, I will hear you now,” said the
lady, closing her book and laying it down.
“No, mamma, I am not impatient. Indeed, I should prefer taking my usual
walk first, and then come to you again,” replied the young girl, while a
deep blush suffused her cheeks.
“You have had a long drive—enough of fresh air and exercise for one day.
You may forego your walk; nay, you _must_ do so.”
Alma’s color went and came rapidly.
The lady continued:
“I have finished my book, and am quite ready to attend you; so now tell
me, how did you find your friend?”
This turned the current of Alma’s thoughts, and she answered:
“Fearfully changed, mamma—so thin, so pale, so care-worn, you would
never have known her.”
“She accepted the loan without reluctance?” asked the lady.
“No, mamma, there was much hesitation; but I used the arguments with
which you had provided me, and I assured her that those who sent her the
money had a personal interest in her acquittal that made it quite right
they should bear their share in the cost of her defence.”
“You were right; but how did she meet this explanation?”
“With the confiding faith of a grateful child—only anxious to know the
names of her benefactors, that she might mention them in her prayers.”
“Why do you say _benefactors_, when there was but _me_?” inquired the
lady.
“Mamma, when we speak of anyone in the third person, without wishing
even to divulge their sex, we say ‘they,’ because we have no third
person singular of the common gender. And because I used the pronoun
‘they,’ she fancied there was more than one, and spoke of her
benefactors,” answered Alma, blushing deeply at the necessary
reservation.
“Well, but you did not give the name?”
“No, mamma.”
“Did she speak of her approaching trial? Is she frightened? Has she
hopes? Speak; tell me more about her.”
In reply to this adjuration, Alma related in detail the full account of
her visit to Eudora. And while Alma described the anguish to which the
poor imprisoned girl was a prey, the lady, long past shedding tears of
sympathy, could only drop her head upon her hands, and groan as one
suffering under some heavy burthen of remorse.
As Alma, forgetting her own embarrassment in the deep sorrows of Eudora,
was still engaged in describing the prison interview, the clock struck
seven.
She started, clasped her hands, and gazed appealingly towards her
mother.
“Well, it is too late now, Alma, to keep your appointment. Even if
Captain Montrose has waited a whole hour over his time, it is not likely
that he will wait half an hour longer, which is the length of time it
would take you to reach the trysting-ground,” said the lady, coldly.
“Mamma!” exclaimed the dismayed girl, distressed at this discovery of
her interview with her lover, and frightened lest that discovery should
have also extended to her meeting with her father. Upon this latter
point, however, the next words of Mrs. Elverton reassured her.
“Yes, poor child, I know all about it; you went to the wood yesterday to
meet Norham Montrose.”
“But, mamma—”
“Nay, poor girl, I do not blame you for the past, but I give you leave
to blame _me_, both for the past and the future, if ever you meet your
lover again.”
“Oh, mamma!” sobbed Alma, drawing near, and sinking at her mother’s
feet.
But Mrs. Elverton, with a shudder of repulsion, rolled her chair back,
and said:
“Alma, resume your seat. Keep as far from me as you can, keep so as to
remain in ear-shot only, while I speak to you.”
Tremblingly Alma arose and receded to her chair, where she sat with
pallid cheeks, clasped hands, and wistful eyes still fixed upon the
stern, white face of that strange mother.
“Alma,” said the lady, coldly, “I do not mean to deal in mysteries. I
learned this morning from the old gardener, Denny—who begged an
interview with me for the purpose of making a communication which he
deemed it his duty to make—that you had an interview with Captain
Montrose in the woods behind the house last evening. At least he met you
loitering there, and a few minutes later met Captain Montrose going
towards you. He inferred that there was an interview and an appointment.
Alma, was the old man right?”
“Mamma,” said Alma, seeking to hide her fiery blushes with both hands.
“Yes, he told you the truth; but oh, mamma, hear my defence—”
“Not now—not until I have done speaking. I dismissed the old man, with
thanks for his fidelity, and with an injunction to silence, which I am
sure that he will observe for your sake; for be assured, Alma, that such
interviews seriously compromise the fair fame of a young girl.”
“Mamma! Oh! let me explain—” again interrupted Alma, who seemed unable
to bear for an instant the implied reproach in her mother’s words.
“Not yet; not yet, Alma; hear me out. After thinking over the old man’s
story, I came to the conclusion that the interview of yesterday might
have been accidental—”
“It was, indeed, partly so, mamma.”
“And that it might or might not have resulted in an appointment for this
evening. I did not wish to accuse you wrongfully, so I resolved to
detain you in this room and observe your manner. And, Alma, your own
restlessness and anxiety have revealed to me that you _had_ made such an
appointment with Captain Montrose this evening. Is it not so?”
“Yes, mamma, yes; but hear me and forgive me.”
“Presently—presently; but let me tell you first that the days of romance
and poetry, of troubadours and knights, and damsels-errant have passed
ages and ages ago. You cannot bring romance into your real life, except
at the cost of your fair fame. And I would not have a single evanescent
cloud pass before that which should be as bright as a clear summer
day—for it is the only bright thing in your life, Alma!”
“And my fair fame shall continue bright, mamma! Oh! trust me and believe
it!” said Alma, earnestly.
“Not if these interviews are repeated,” replied the lady, coldly.
“Mamma, an angel might have been present at our meetings without offence
to its heavenly nature,” insisted Alma, fervently.
“And yet not even an angel’s testimony would be taken for that.”
“Oh, mamma!”
“Nay, I do not doubt your word, girl, nor blame you much; but I do very
severely censure the conduct of Captain Montrose, who, as a man of the
world, knew well how seriously he compromised you,” said Mrs. Elverton,
sternly.
“Mamma! mamma! he is not to be censured!” exclaimed Alma, warmly.
“Not for persuading an inexperienced young girl, of high rank, to give
him interviews in the woods? What do you mean?”
“Mamma, hear me! Captain Montrose wished nothing better than your
sanction to pay his addresses openly to your daughter. He wrote to you
and wrote to my grandfather, earnestly entreating such sanction; and his
overtures were rejected by both!”
“And properly so!”
“And why, mamma? Oh! why? He is certainly a gentleman of ancient family
of unblemished character, and of good position! Why were his proposals
so curtly rejected? At least, dear mamma, you owe it to me to give a
reason!” pleaded Alma.
“It should be a reason sufficient to satisfy you, Alma, that neither
Lord Elverton nor myself chose to favor his addresses.”
“But it is not, mamma! My beating heart cannot be answered so!” said
Alma, earnestly.
“Then I have no other answer to give you, Miss Elverton!” said the lady,
freezingly.
“Oh, mother, mother, do not speak to me so coldly; if you knew how sad
my life is you would not do it! But, mother, let me talk to you a little
of Norham,” prayed Alma.
“In my youth, and in my country, young ladies never talked of their
lovers, but blushed when others named them. I know not, however, but
that a few years of time and a few miles of space may alter customs,”
said Mrs. Elverton, ironically.
“I know not, mamma; but if anywhere young women blush to hear their
lovers named, it must be because they are happy in their loves; for if
it were otherwise it seems to me that their cheeks would pale, not
redden.”
“And yours should blanch to marble, girl, at the name of love or
marriage!” said the lady, in a low, stern, sad voice.
Her words escaped the ears of Alma, who, leaning forward, clasping her
hands, and fixing her eyes earnestly upon the pale face of her mother,
said:
“Mamma, mamma, _will_ you let me speak to you from my heart this once?”
The lady did not reply, and her daughter continued:
“Oh, let me speak to you freely, my mother! To whom can I speak, if not
to you? Oh, hear me!—for who will hear me if not you? Whom have I in the
world but you? And, mother, who have you in the world but me? Between
what two in the universe should there be confidence if not between
us?—so separated as we seem from all the earth, so isolated, so lonely?
Mother, may I speak to you, at least for once, from my heart?”
“Speak on, Alma; I hear you!”
“Mamma, I wish to account for these few, very few, and mostly chance
meetings with Norham in the woods. And to do so I must commence at the
commencement, and speak of the utter—utter loneliness of my life—the
loneliness like living death that has been my lot from the moment of my
birth, I think, to the present hour.”
“One would naturally suppose that a condition which had commenced with
your birth, Alma, and continued to the present time—since you could have
known no other—must have become a second nature.”
“One would think so, perhaps: and yet again, perhaps, such a second
nature, formed by unnatural circumstances, could not be so forced upon
the first original nature created by God. You may take the chrysalis,
and shut it under an inverted glass, and so long as it remains a
chrysalis it will be happy in its way; but when it developes into a
butterfly, and spreads its wings, must it not pine, and suffocate, and
die for want of space, and exercise, and air?”
“What mean you, Alma?”
“Mamma, when I was a child, I was happy dressing my dolls and playing
with my pets; when I was a school-girl I was contented pursuing my
studies and talking with my governess; but all these things have passed
away with childhood and girlhood. I am a woman now, with all a woman’s
craving for human society, sympathy, and affection. Oh, if I speak
plainly, I cannot help it! I feel every hour in the day, and every
minute in the hour, that there is something fearfully wrong _here_ and
_here_!” said Alma, placing her hand upon her head and heart. “And,
mamma, believe me, that I feel, if this dreadful hunger of the heart and
mind is not satisfied, idiotcy or death must be the result. Mamma, I was
happier during the hour that I passed with poor Eudora in her
prison-cell, than I have ever been in all the years that I have passed
in this splendid living tomb. And why, mamma—why? Only because in that
wretched prison-cell I was at least _en rapport_ with another human
creature!”
“Alma, come to the point—what is it you wish me to do?”
“Mamma bear with me a little while. I was about to say that it was this
utter, utter loneliness of life and heart, that laid me so open to the
advances of almost any person, man, woman, or child, who might have
crossed my path—for the starving will eat husks rather than perish; but
Providence sent across my path a noble-minded man, my equal in birth,
intellect, and position. He esteemed me, and won my esteem. He asked the
sanction of my parents to his addresses, and his overtures were rejected
by them. He loved me, and so he haunted the neighborhood of my home only
to be near me. From childhood I have been accustomed to walk in those
woods where he often accidentally met me. Yesterday I walked as usual in
those woods. I will not deceive you, mamma, or say that I did not
secretly hope he might be walking there also. He was; and we met. We had
not spoken together for a very long time, and it was then so late in the
evening that our interview was necessarily very short. And so we agreed
to meet again this afternoon—to meet as betrothed lovers, who are to
marry as soon as they both obtain their majority; for, mamma, there must
come a time, when, if I live, I shall be free, by the laws of God and
man, to give my hand where my heart has long been given—and I have
promised, when that time shall come, to be the wife of Norham Montrose,
and, mamma, I mean to keep my promise! There, mamma, I have told you
all.”
It was impossible that that white-faced woman could have become whiter,
but now a livid grayness crept over her features that also seemed to
harden into stone. It was in a low, level, ominous monotone that she
repeated:
“You have told me all—now what is it you wish me to do?”
“Oh, mamma, pity me, take me to your heart, give me your confidence,
make me happy—it will take but a little to do that! Recall Norham
Montrose; give him your sanction to visit me here in your house—here
under your eye!” prayed Alma, with clasped hands and beseeching eyes.
“I am glad that you have spoken so plainly, girl, for now I can answer
you; and you must take that answer to be as final and immutable as
though the words were sealed by the most solemn and binding oaths. And
my answer is this—that you must never see Captain Montrose again!”
“Oh, mamma, mamma, tell me at least why you object to him. Is it his
birth, his position, or his character?” exclaimed Alma, earnestly.
“It is neither. His birth, position, and character might fairly entitle
him to wed any young lady in the land.”
“Is there, then, any family feud between his House and mine, such as
sometimes divide——”
“Lovers?—a Montague and Capulet folly? No! His family and yours have
always been the best friends. In short, Alma, neither Lord Elverton nor
myself, nor any of our friends have the least personal objection
whatever either to Captain Montrose himself or to any of his family. I
can assure you of that, if it can give you any satisfaction.”
“Oh, it does—it does, mamma! God bless you for that tribute to Norham’s
worth! Oh, mamma, you have told me what the objection is _not_—oh, tell
me what it _is_! I might find a way—”
“Alma,” interrupted the lady, in a deep, low, stern voice, “many months
ago I warned you that love and marriage were not for you; many months
ago I warned you, if you would escape the heaviest curse that could hurl
a soul to perdition, to avoid the friendship of woman, and the love of
man—DID I not?”
“Yes, you did—you did! but _why_, WHY, my mother?” demanded Alma, with
her hands still tightly clasped and extended, and her eyes still fixed
upon the face of her mother.
“Alma,” commenced the lady, in a voice of almost awful solemnity, “if I
might be permitted to do so, I would willingly spare you the anguish of
hearing the words that I must speak; but destiny is stronger than I
am—stronger than all are!”
“Say on, my mother. Oh, say on! If there is anything I ought to know,
let me hear it—never mind the pain!” prayed Alma, with her clasped
hands.
“But, oh! must it be my tongue that tells you at last, Alma, that your
parents’ marriage proved the most awful calamity that could have crushed
any two human beings! That your birth was a curse to Hollis Elverton—a
curse to me, and deeper still, a curse to you! That _your_ love lighting
upon any human being would be the darkest misfortune that could fall
upon them! That _your_ marriage with any man would be the direst
catastrophe that could blight him—”
Her dreadful words were interrupted by a wild, half-suppressed shriek
from Alma, who buried her face in her open hands for a moment, and then
raising her head, cried:
“Mother, I must be marble!—yes, marble! I cannot be flesh and blood as
others, or your words would kill me!”
“And you are not flesh and blood as others! but something set apart,
accursed, that must not join heart or hand with any other human being!”
“But why, _why_, WHY, my mother? that is what I wish to know, what I
_ought_ to know, what I _will_ know! for when you pronounce a sentence
that may consign me at eighteen years of age to the long-living death of
an existence without love, without friendship, without sympathy, without
communion with my kind, I ought, I _must_, I WILL know the reason
_why_!” cried Alma, with wild and startling energy.
“Poor wretch!” muttered the lady, with something like pity vibrating in
the cold monotone of her voice, and disturbing the strong rigidity of
her features—“poor wretch! you rush blindly upon your fate just as I
did! Aye, your very words were once mine! Alma, when, eighteen years
ago, Hollis Elverton rushed into my presence, and, in frenzied despair,
told me that we must part then, there, and forever, I, too, in the
extremity of my anguish and terror, demanded and wrung from him the
_why_—the WHY that doomed me to that living death of widowhood.”
“And he told you. My father kept no secret from the wife of his bosom,”
said the young girl.
“He told me. Alma, there are things that kill the soul in the body and
turn the body into stone! He told me—he whispered one dreadful word in
my ear that struck me down at his feet as a thunderbolt strikes a statue
to the ground! When I recovered my consciousness he was gone, and I knew
that he could not, ought not, must not ever return!”
“And yet he loved you, my mother?” whispered Alma, in the half hushed
tone of awe.
“Yes,” muttered the lady.
“And yet you loved him?”
“Yes.”
“And your marriage was happy up to that fatal evening?”
“Perfectly happy.”
“And yet—and yet——”
“And yet we parted—yes, as ships at sea that meet and strike in the fog
and fly asunder—wrecks doomed to go down to destruction! So we married,
and so we severed.”
“Was it right?”
“It was right.”
“Oh, mother, what made it right? What could make it right that you and
my father, who loved each other so devotedly, who were so worthy of each
other, too, and whose marriage was so happy in itself, and so highly
approved by all, should separate so suddenly—so utterly and
everlastingly.”
The lady did not reply, but turned away her face to avoid the searching
eyes of her daughter.
“Oh, Heaven!” cried Alma, “there could have been but one reason—some
previous engagement, or bond, or, or——”
She could not bring herself to utter the other word, but dropped her
face in her hands, while her bosom rose and fell with those convulsive,
tearless sobs that seem to “press the life from out young hearts.”
“I know what you would say, Alma; but you are mistaken, poor, unhappy
girl! There was no previous engagement, bond or love, far less marriage,
either on Hollis Elverton’s side or mine, with any third person whose
existence could invalidate our marriage. Hollis Elverton was a bachelor
and I a girl when we married, nor had either of us ever loved until we
met and loved each other. No, Alma, it was no previous marriage that
burst ours asunder,” said the lady, as some memory of unusually
exquisite pain convulsed her statue-like form.
“Then, in the name of heaven, earth and hades, _what_ was it?” exclaimed
Alma, with starting vehemence.
“I have told you enough—enough to decide your fate. I must not tell you
more!”
“Yes, and without any reason assigned, you have pronounced a sentence of
excommunication and outlawry against me; a sentence that cuts me off
from the comforts of religion and the intercourse of society; a sentence
that dooms me to a fate worse, infinitely worse than death. But, mother,
without a reason that shall convince my own judgment, and satisfy my own
conscience, I cannot, and ought not, to accept that sentence or submit
to that fate!” said Alma, with gentle firmness.
“Rash girl, what do you mean by that?”
“I mean, mamma, that, though I may obey your hard commands while I am a
minor, even though obedience may destroy my life or reason, as it may,
but when I am free, mamma, as every one ought to be at some period of
their life, I must redeem my plighted troth by bestowing my hand upon
that Norham Montrose to whom even you acknowledge that you have no
personal objection whatever. This is all I mean, mamma.”
“But in the interval you will meet him and converse with him often?”
“No, mother, I will not seek to see him; I will even try to avoid him.”
“But if he should throw himself in your way, or happen to meet you and
speak to you, you would answer him—you would converse with him?”
“I wish I could promise you that I would not, mamma; but oh, I could not
keep such a promise, believe me I could not,” said Alma, convulsed with
sobs.
“I do believe you; and that belief forces me at length to speak that
word—that word which must sever you at once and forever from him and
from all others—that word which may sink into your heart and corrode
your life until you are as bloodless as I am; or, that may kill you at
once—strike you down dead before me! Be it so; better you should die
than live to marry,” said the lady, rising and approaching her daughter,
while the grayness of death again overspread her pallid face.
Alma, with a dreadful sickness of the heart, waited to hear some fatal
communication.
Mrs. Elverton bent down and whispered in her ear.
Alma sprang to her feet, gazed with dilated eyes and blanched cheeks in
bewildering despair upon her mother’s face, as though unable to receive
at once the full horror of her words, and then drew her hands wildly to
her head, reeled forward and fell senseless to the floor.