A HERITAGE OF SHAME.
We will not linger over the sad details of the ceremonies attending
Mrs. Allandale's burial. Suffice it to say that on Tuesday afternoon
her remains were borne away to Greenwood, and laid to rest, in the
family lot, beside those gone before, after which Edith returned to
her desolate abode more wretched than it is possible to describe.
She had made up her mind, however, that she could not remain there any
longer--that she must find a place for herself in a different
locality and among a different class of people. This she knew she
could do, since she had the promise of permanent work and now had only
herself to care for.
The change, too, must be made upon the following day, as Mr. Bryant
would expect her at his office on Thursday morning.
There was much to be done, many things to be packed for removal, while
what she did not care to retain must be disposed of; and, eager to
forget her grief and loneliness--for she knew she would be ill if she
sat tamely down and allowed herself to think--she began at once, upon
her return from the cemetery, to get ready to leave the cheerless home
where she had suffered so much.
She decided, first of all, to pack all wearing apparel; and, on going
to her closet to begin her work, the first thing her eyes fell upon
was the casket of letters, which her mother had requested her to bring
to her just before she died.
The sight of this unnerved her again, and, with a moan of pain, she
sank upon her knees and bowed her head upon it.
But the fountain of her tears had been so exhausted that she could not
weep; and, finally becoming somewhat composed, she took the beautiful
box out into the room and sat down near a light to examine its
contents.
"Mamma evidently wanted these letters destroyed," she murmured, as she
threw back the cover. "I will do as she wished, but I will first look
them over, to be sure there is nothing of value among them."
She set about her task at once and found that they were mostly
missives from intimate friends, with quite a number written by herself
to her mother, while she was away at boarding-school.
All these she burned after glancing casually at them. Nothing then
remained in the box but a small package of six or eight time-yellowed
epistles bound together with a blue ribbon.
"What peculiar writing!" Edith observed, as she separated one from
the others and examined the superscription upon the envelope. "Why, it
is postmarked Rome, Italy, away back in 18--, and addressed to mamma
in London! That must have been when she was on her wedding tour!"
Her curiosity was aroused, and, drawing the closely-written sheet from
its inclosure, she began to read it.
It was also dated from Rome, and the girl was soon deeply immersed in
a story of intense and romantic interest.
She readily understood that the letter had been written by a dear
friend of Mrs. Allandale's youth--one who had been both school and
roommate, and who unreservedly confided all her secrets and
experiences to her bosom companion. And yet, it was strange, Edith
thought, that she had never heard her mother speak of this friend.
It seemed that there had been quite an interval in their
correspondence, for the writer spoke of the surprise which her friend
would experience upon receiving a letter from her from that locality,
when she had probably believed her to be in her own home, living the
quiet life of a dutiful daughter.
Then it spoke of an "ideal love" that "had come to beautify her life;"
of a noble and wealthy artist who had won her heart, but who, for some
unaccountable reason, had not been acceptable to her parents, and they
had sternly rejected his proposal for her hand.
Next came the _denouement_, which told that the girl had eloped with
her lover and flown with him to Italy.
"I suppose it was not the right thing to do, darling," the missive
ran; "but papa, you know, is a very austere, relentless man, and when
he has once made up his mind, there is no hope of ever turning him; so
I have taken my fate into my own hands--or, rather, I have given it
into the keeping of my dear one, and we are so happy, Edith darling,
and lead an ideal life in this quaint old city of the seven hills, at
whose feet runs, like a thread of gold, the yellow Tiber. My husband
is everything to me--so noble, so kind, so generous; it is so very
strange that papa could not like him--that is the only drop of
bitterness in my overflowing cup of happiness."
There was much more of the same tenor, from which it is not necessary
to quote; and, after reading the letter through, Edith took up
another, interested to know how the pretty love-story of her mother's
friend would terminate. The second one, written a month later, was
more subdued, but not less tender, although the young girl thought she
detected a vein of sadness running through it.
The next two or three mentioned the fact that the writer was left much
alone, her "dear one" being obliged to be away a great deal of the
time, upon sketching expeditions, etc.
After an interval of three months another letter spoke in the fondest
manner of the "dear little stranger," that had come to bless and cheer
her loneliness--"lonely, dear Edith, because my husband's art
monopolizes his time, while he is often absent from home a week at a
time in connection with it, and I do not know what I should do, in
this strange country away from all my friends, if it were not for my
precious baby girl whom I have named for you, as I promised, in memory
of those happy days which we spent together at Vassar."
"Then mamma's friend had a daughter, who was also named Edith," mused
our fair heroine, breaking in upon her perusal of the letter. "I
wonder if she is living, and where? Those letters tell me nothing,
give no last name by which to identify either the writer or her
husband."
She turned back to the epistle, and read on:
"She is such a comfort to me," it ran, "and gives me an object in
life--something besides myself and my trou"--these last three words
were crossed out--"to think about. When will you come to Rome, dear
Edith? Your last letter was dated from St. Petersburgh. I am very
anxious that you should see your little namesake, and make me that
long-promised visit."
There was scarcely a word in this letter referring to her husband,
except those three crossed-out words; but it overflowed with praises
and love of her beautiful child, although it was evident that the
young wife was far from experiencing the conjugal happiness that had
permeated her previous missives.
There was only one more letter in the package, and Edith's face was
very grave and sympathetic as she drew it from its envelope.
"I am sure that her husband proved to be negligent of and unkind to
her," she murmured, "and that she repented her rashness in leaving her
home and friends. Oh, I wonder why girls will be so foolish and
headstrong as to go directly contrary to the advice of those who love
them best, and run away with men of whom they know comparatively
nothing!"
With a sigh of regret for the unfortunate wife, of whom she had been
reading, she unfolded the letter in her hands and began to read,
little dreaming what strange things she was to learn from it.
"Oh, Edith darling," it began, "how can I tell you?--how can I write
of the terrible calamity that has overtaken me? My heart is broken--my
life is ruined, and all because I would not heed those who loved me,
and who, I now realize, were my best and kindest counselors. I could
bear it for myself, perhaps--I could feel that it was but a just
judgment upon me for my obstinacy and unfilial conduct, and so drag
out my weary existence in submission to the inevitable; but when I
think of my innocent babe--my lovely Edith--your namesake! oh! I would
never have had her christened thus, I could not have insulted you so,
had I known! I feel almost inclined to doubt the justice and love of
God--if, indeed, there is a God."
The letter here looked as if the writer must have been overcome with
her wretchedness, and wept tears of bitter despair, for it was badly
blurred and defaced.
But Edith, her face now absolutely colorless, read eagerly on.
"I cannot bear it and live," the writer resumed, "and so--I am going
to--die. Edith, my husband--no, my betrayer, I ought rather to
say--has deserted me! He has gone to Florence with a beautiful
Italian countess, who is also very rich, and is living with her there
in her elegant palace, just outside the city. He has long been
attentive to her, but I never dreamed how far matters had gone until
yesterday, when I came upon them, unawares, in Everard's studio, and
heard him tell her how he loved her--that 'I was not his wife, only
his ----' I cannot write the vile word that makes my flesh creep with
horror. Then I learned of his base conduct to me, whom, as he
expressed it, he 'had cleverly deceived, and coaxed to run away with
him to while away his solitude during his sojourn in a strange
country.' It is a wonder that I did not drop dead where I stood--slain
by the dreadful truth; but the wicked lovers did not dream of being
overheard, and so I listened to the whole of their vile plot and then
stole away to try and decide upon a course of action. When Everard
came home, I charged him with his perfidy. Then--pity me, Edith--he
boldly told me that he was weary of me; that he would pay me a
handsome sum of money and I might take my child and go back to my
parents! Oh! I cannot go into details, or tell you what I have
suffered--no one will ever know that but God! Why, oh, why does He
permit such evil to exist? He does not--there is no God! there is no
God!"
There was a huge blot here, as if the pen had fallen from the fingers
that had dared to deny the existence of Deity; then the missive was
resumed in a different tone, as if a long interval of thought had
intervened.
"Edith, I am calmer now, and I am going to ask a great favor of you.
You are happily married, you have a noble husband and abundant means,
and you know we once pledged ourselves to befriend each other, if
either should ever find herself in trouble. Presuming upon that
pledge, I am going to ask if you will take my darling, my poor
innocent little waif, bring her up as your own, and never let her know
anything about the stain that rests upon her birth? She is pure; she
is not to blame for the sins of her parents, and I cannot bear the
thought of her growing up to learn of her heritage of shame, as she
would be sure to do if I should live and rear her as my child. Your
last letter tells me that you will be in Rome in less than a
fortnight. I cannot meet you--I can never again meet any one whom I
have known; and so, Edith--I am going to die. I give my child to
you--I believe you will not refuse my last request--and you will find
her, with the woman who nursed me when she was born, at No. 2 Via del
Vecchia. The woman has my instructions--she believes that I am only
going away on a little trip with my husband; but you will show her
this letter, and prove to her that you have authority to take the
child away. When you go home, you will take her with you, as your own,
and no one need ever know that she is not your own. Do not ever reveal
the truth to her; let her grow up happy and care-free, like other
girls who are of honorable birth; and if the dead can watch over and
shield the living, you and yours shall be so shielded and watched over
by your lost but still loving. BELLE."
"She was my mother! I am that child of shame!" came hoarsely from
Edith's bloodless lips as she finished reading that dreadful letter.
Then the paper slipped from her nerveless fingers, her head dropped
unconsciously upon the table before her, and she knew nothing more
until, long afterward, when she awoke from her swoon to find her lamp
gone out and the room growing cold, while her heart felt as if it had
been paralyzed in her bosom.