LAKE ISLAND AND CASTLE.
That dear old home!
Something of old ancestral pride it keeps,
Though fallen from its early power and vastness;
The sunlight seems to her eyes brighter there
Than wheresoever else!—_Fanny Kemble._
The voyagers landed and took quarters for the day and night at the
Queen’s Head, Fleet street.
Early the next morning they took the first coach for Edinboro’, where
they arrived in due time, and whence they took a chaise to the post town
nearest the bourne of their journey, Glen Lennark. At the small hostel,
they found a carriage from the castle awaiting them. They entered it and
drove slowly through a wild and rocky country, beautiful, now, in the
rich luxuriance of summer. It was near sunset when they passed through a
gorge and came upon the borders of a small, clear lake, set like a
crystal gem in a circle of mountains diversified with snow-white rocks
and clumps of dark-green firs, the whole of which was deeply reflected
in the mirror of the water. In the midst of this lake was a tiny islet,
a solid rock, from which arose the gray and hoary walls of Glen Lennark
castle, an ancient feudal tower and keep, now showing marks of many
centuries of storms, of war and weather bravely withstood. The waters of
the little lake that surrounded this islet, had served in barbarous
times as the castle moat; and a relic of the middle ages, an ancient
drawbridge, whose chains and pulleys had long fallen into disuse,
connected the isle with the road down which the travelling carriage had
rolled. They crossed this drawbridge and entered through a high arched
gateway the court-yard, and crossed to the main entrance of the
castle-hall, which stood directly opposite. Here they were met by a
servant out of livery, who conducted them into a modernized reception
room, and with a low obeisance, went to announce their arrival to his
master.
Left alone together, Mr. Deville and Lady Adelaide looked around
themselves and then at each other. Their eyes met, and smiled.
“Do you remember the last time we were in this room, Adelaide?”
“I do, indeed.”
It was the room in which they had been married, at the death-bed of the
old lord.
They had no opportunity for further conversation, for the door opened
and their host entered—a tall, distinguished looking man, whose
snow-white locks contrasted finely with his deep mourning-suit of full
black velvet.
“I am very happy to welcome you, my niece and nephew, to Glen Lennark,”
he said, courteously advancing and offering Adelaide and Orville each a
hand.
Both arose to receive this greeting. But when Mr. Deville looked up—in
spite of the changed circumstances, the altered dress, the prematurely
aged face and whitened hair—he recognized in the Earl of Glen Lennark,
his old host of the forest-lodge, the father of the lost Lionne.
“Mr. Delaforêt!” burst in stupefaction and despair from his pallid lips;
for in the same moment that he made his discovery, he knew that he
himself had made his aged uncle childless.
“Mr. Delaforêt no longer; but your uncle,—Glen Lennark, who, even in the
wilds of America, recognized in his chance visitor, his sister’s son,
and who would then and there, in exile and poverty, have made himself
known to his nephew, but for prudential considerations,” said the Earl,
courteously waving to his young relatives to resume their seats, while
he set them the example.
Adelaide gazed in silent surprise from one to the other.
“_Oh_, that you had trusted me with your secret! oh, that you had told
me who you were! or that I had had wit to discover our relationship!”
groaned Orville, in the pangs of revived and augmented remorse.
“To what purpose? what could my fiery young relative have done for his
poor exiled uncle?—he would, no doubt, have tried to move heaven and
earth to restore the banished old man to his country; but at that time
would have succeeded only in getting himself into trouble,” said the
Earl, entirely misconceiving the cause of his nephew’s emotion.
Orville, for his part, was almost overwhelmed. In vain he struggled to
banish the image of the lost Lionne and the visitations of remorse. He
could not conquer, he could only partially conceal his emotion.
Adelaide also had learned in this conversation that the poor victim of
her husband’s deceit had been _his_ own, _her_ own cousin, the only
remaining child of their uncle and host, the aged man who had
unconsciously invited to his house the destroyer of his daughter. Should
they—_could_ they dare to accept his hospitality and remain his guests?
And in the future—could Orville venture to wear the title and estates
gained by the death of Lionne—of Lionne, destroyed by his own act?—oh,
never, never, thought Adelaide within herself: and pale and silent from
these distressing reflections, she scarcely dared to raise her eyes
either to her husband or her uncle.
“My fair niece looks very weary after her journey! Courage, my dear,
supper will be served in a few moments; after which, Mrs. Posset will
show you your apartment. Orville, do you remember the suppers in my
forest-house, prepared by the hands of my poor Lionne?”
Ay, he did remember! though he had scarcely voice to say so.
“She died very suddenly,” said the earl. And then, in a faltering voice,
he related all he knew or supposed of the loss of Lionne.
Each word was a dagger to the hearts of Orville Deville and his wife.
The Earl not understanding the cause of their extreme emotion, and
attributing it all to their excess of generous sympathy, said—
“Do not grieve for me, young people. I—am equal to my burthen, and I try
to think that—‘All is for the best.’”
Very soon after supper, Lady Adelaide, acknowledging fatigue, retired to
her apartment, where at a late hour she was joined by Mr. Deville. He
looked pale and troubled, and well she knew the cause of his distress,
though the subject of Lionne was by mutual, silent consent, avoided
between them.
Yet now Adelaide could not refrain from asking:
“Shall we remain here as long as we had intended, Mr. Deville?”
“Assuredly not; we shall remain no longer than I can find a plausible
excuse for departing,” he answered.
“Is such an excuse necessary?” inquired the truthful young creature.
“Certainly, Lady Adelaide. You would not have me offend our uncle.”
A silent sigh was her only comment and so the short conference ended.
The next day a number of the county nobility and gentry were received at
dinner to meet Mr. Deville, whom the Earl of Glen Lennark presented as
his nearest kinsman and his heir.
This dinner was followed by reciprocal invitations from the guests which
the uncle and nephew felt obliged to accept, and thus a fortnight was
spent in a round of dinner parties. Of course, Lady Adelaide was
frequently of the company; though she often preferred to stay at Glen
Lennark, and amuse herself with her adopted child, who, by the way, had
found great favor in the eyes of their host. He felt a strange
attraction towards the infant; he would have her brought in every day
with the dessert; he called her “Lady Adelaide’s whim;” and said that he
hoped that when an heir should be born to them, the poor “whim” might
not be utterly thrust aside.
“Oh, no,” said Lady Adelaide, “I should so distrust myself. I should so
fear to slight my little waif, that I do believe I should be more
attentive to her than to one of my own.”
“At least, if ever, when surrounded by your children, you grow tired of
Perdita, send her to me,” said the Earl.
“You have taken a strange fancy to my little gipsy,” said Adelaide,
smiling.
“Well, yes; shall I tell you the reason?—_She is the very image of what
my poor Leonora was at her age!_ It is one of those strange,
unaccountable likenesses that we sometimes see in life! and that it is
not only my fancy I will prove. Come with me into the adjoining
cabinet,” said the Earl, rising from the table and giving his arm to his
niece, and leading her into an apartment in the south turret.
It was a small, octagon-shaped room, richly carpeted, and furnished with
cushioned seats running around the walls. It was lighted by one tall
gothic window, of stained glass, that occupied one of the eight sides of
the octagon immediately opposite the door by which they entered, and
which filled another side; the remaining six, three on each hand, were
hung with the portraits of the Earl, his late wife, and their four
children.
“This is a sacred room to me; I call it my ‘family-circle,’” said his
lordship; as he conducted his niece into this sanctuary, and led her
straight up to the portrait of a child on the space at the right hand of
the window.
Adelaide started and grew deadly pale. It seemed to be Perdita her very
self whom she saw on the canvas before her! There was the little, lithe,
willowy form; the little, elegant head; the jet black hair, rippling in
thousands of tiny, glittering ringlets down about the broad forehead and
crimson cheeks, and falling upon the ivory shoulders; there were the
same large, fierce, intensely black eyes, with their long, fringe-like,
black lashes; there was the same delicate, aquiline nose; short, curled
upper lip, fierce and fine; and the full, voluptuous, lower lip, and
rounded chin. And more striking than all this, there was the same little
haughty air of carrying the small, queenly baby-head, the same trick of
elevating the eyebrows, and protruding the under lip; the same careless
way of carrying the arms; the same——oh! Lady Adelaide sickened at the
thought—the suspicion that arose in her mind!
“It is a wonderful likeness, considering that the original of this
portrait was a noble infant, born in this castle seventeen years ago;
and that the babe, whom it so strangely resembles, was a peasant child,
perhaps a half-breed, found in the wilds of America only a year since!—a
very wonderful likeness!” said the Earl, gravely.
Lady Adelaide could not answer.
“You understand now why it is that I have formed so sudden and strong an
attachment to your little protégé.”
Adelaide nodded; she could do no more; the power of speech seemed denied
her.
“You are as much moved as though you considered this
resemblance—uncanny—as we Scots say,” remarked the Earl.
“It seems—supernatural!” gasped Adelaide, and, without looking at
another portrait, she turned to leave the turret-cabinet.
The Earl gave her his arm and led her to the door of the drawing-room,
where, with a bow, he left her, to return to the dinner-table to Mr.
Deville and the wine.
Lady Adelaide, pale, dizzy and trembling with the dreadful suspicion on
her mind, went as fast as her failing limbs would carry her, to her own
room, and locked herself within its privacy.
“Oh, should this child that I protect be really the child of Lionne,
and, of—of—oh, no, my Lord, it is not so! it cannot be so! this is an
accidental likeness, as my uncle thinks! The unborn child of Lionne must
have perished with its wretched mother! and _she_ ‘died and gave no
sign!’ it could not have been otherwise, for the Earl gave us every
particular of her death and burial; he did not know her wrongs, and he
does not even suspect but that he laid a virgin daughter in the grave. I
am sure of it! and yet, and yet, I know that had Lionne lived she would
have been a mother; and that the age of this unknown foundling of the
wilderness, that bears such a wonderful resemblance to her, corresponds
to what would have been the age of her child, had she had one! I must
investigate this.”
Thus Adelaide mused, until she was interrupted by the entrance of Keziah
with the infant subject of her perplexed thoughts.
Then she took the babe from the arms of the nurse saying—
“You may leave her with me, Keziah. I can take care of her for an hour.”
When left alone with her little charge, Lady Adelaide sat the child upon
her lap, and gazed long and wistfully into her great, fierce, black
eyes.
“Ah, little one, you know no more of your own sad story than do I! If
that lisping, silvery tongue could speak, it could tell me nothing of
your origin! but, oh, if those great, bright eyes could give back again
to me the images painted upon their retina before I ever saw you—what
scenes they might reveal!” said the lady as she gazed upon the wondering
child.
Little Perdita, impatient of the sober face of her foster mother, began
to dance and laugh and lisp, and use all her infant arts to wile the
lady into play; and failing of this, she twisted herself out of her fond
nurse’s arms and took the responsibility of amusing herself upon the
floor, until the return of Keziah.
That night, Mr. Deville having gone out to a gentleman’s party in the
neighborhood, Lady Adelaide found herself and the Earl alone in the
drawing-room.
The dampness of the evening rendered the small, bright wood-fire that
burned in the fireplace very acceptable.
And the young lady and the old peer drew their chairs up close to the
hearth.
Adelaide’s work-table, standing between them, served as a rest for the
old man’s elbow.
Adelaide availed herself of the opportunity, and requested her uncle, if
the recital would not be too painful to him, to relate to her all the
particulars of her cousin Leonora’s last illness and death.
With a deep sigh the Earl commenced and faithfully related every
circumstance of that tragedy, so far as they were known to himself.
Adelaide listened, on the alert to detect any suspicious feature. But,
when the sorrowful story was ended, she was obliged to confess to
herself that there was not the slightest reason for supposing that
Lionne had become a mother before she died, but _every_ reason for
believing the contrary.
Still she was deeply troubled. For many causes she hoped that her
husband might shorten their visit and return immediately to America. And
she resolved, as soon as she reached home, to visit the neighborhood of
Singing Stream, and make inquiries on the spot concerning the family of
“Mr. Delaforêt.”
She retired early to her room; but, being unable to sleep, she put on
her dressing-gown, and threw herself into an easy chair, to await the
coming of her husband.
It was very late when Mr. Deville came in from the supper.
“Up yet, Adelaide?” he asked, with a yawn.
“Yes—I cannot sleep, Mr. Deville. Oh, when shall we leave this house?”
“Why—are you not comfortable?”
“As comfortable as the kindest of hosts can make me; but—I thought that
you _also_ were anxious to leave?”
“So I was, and so I am; but to _leave_ is not so easy a feat as you
suppose! We came with the understanding between our uncle and ourselves
that we should stay a year. And when I spoke to him of shortening our
visit, pleading unexpected business as my excuse, he looked so annoyed,
so incredulous, and opposed our going with so much earnestness of
emotion, that I find I cannot distress him by hurrying off. I have
caused him trouble enough, heaven knows, and I will occasion him no more
that I can avoid! So, painful as it is to my feelings to remain, I must
stay out the proposed period of our visit,” said Mr. Deville, most
likely deceiving his own soul as to his motives.
Lady Adelaide made no comment.
“You do not approve this resolution, I suppose!” said her husband.
“Excuse me—the decision does not rest with me,” she gently replied.
“Nevertheless I should like to know your opinion, Adelaide,” he
persisted, with the unconfessed desire of forcing her to agree with him.
“Indeed, I would rather not express one, knowing full well that my
individual judgment would not, perhaps should not, influence the
question.”
“Is that a complaint, madam?”
“Indeed, no.”
“Then I insist upon hearing your sentiments in respect to our staying
here!” he said, in a tone so peremptory, as to admit of no refusal from
his wife.
“Well, then,” said Adelaide, gently, “I think, under the circumstances,
that it would be scarcely honorable in us to accept for a whole year the
hospitality of poor Lionne’s bereaved father.”
The face of Orville Deville flushed purple with anger. He was offended,
as she foresaw that he would be.
“Lady Adelaide, your words are insulting!” he said, in the deep, low,
steady tones of suppressed but concentrated and intense rage. And
rising, he went into the adjoining room and threw himself upon the
lounge, where he passed the remainder of that night, and many nights
thereafter.
Remorse, when it is not refined into repentance towards God, only
hardens the heart and sours the temper. Any allusion to Lionne, the
subject of _his_ remorse, always exasperated the anger of Orville
Deville, who, being a pure Saxon, was of course a natural despot, and
would have laid the absolute law of his lordly will, not only upon his
wife’s words and actions, but even upon her very _thoughts_. And thus
against her will, he would drag forth her opinions, only to sit in harsh
judgment upon them, whenever they did not happen to flatter or to please
him.
Could Adelaide have blinded her own judgment as easily as she could
yield her will, she might have been happier where “ignorance” would have
been “bliss.” But, though her intellect could not be deceived, nor her
conscience dulled—though daily, as he hardened his heart, and conformed
his soul in selfishness, she wept over his decline of moral strength—yet
her affections had been too long and closely bound up in him to fall
away now. She loved him as devotedly as ever, the only difference being,
that she loved him in fear and sorrow, instead of in pride and joy.
For days Orville Deville maintained a cold and distant demeanor towards
his wife. He was evidently waiting for some sign of submission on her
part. And the gentle Adelaide would readily have asked forgiveness, only
that in this case self-crimination would have been a falsehood, and a
betrayal of principle.
How long this estrangement would have continued is not known, for an
event occurred that necessarily forced the estranged parties into
confidential relations.