THE AVENGER.
Still lingers something of the spell
That bound her to the traitor’s bosom;
Still mid the vengeful fires of hell
Some flowers of old affection blossom.—_Whittier._
Notwithstanding all the discretion of friends, and the proper caution of
the magistrate, the scandal of this arrest and examination speedily took
wing and flew through the astonished city.
Lady Adelaide and daughter kept close in their apartments, and refused
to receive visitors.
Mr. Deville went out as usual; but it was only to hear such observations
and such questions as:
“_That is the man!_”
“Which of the two ladies is the true wife?”
Lionne, keeping the terms of her engagement to play two nights in each
week, continued her wonderful impersonations. And people who had once
gone solely to see the celebrated tragedienne, now went to look at the
strange woman who had brought such a startling charge against Mr.
Deville. But her most enthusiastic admirers could not deny that her
performance was less brilliant than formerly. Her face never changed
from its deathly pallor; her voice seldom rose from its sepulchral
hollowness; only in the most tragic portions of her tragic role did she
do her own genius justice; and then only because she was—not the actor,
but the real sufferer.
“She is blasting Deville and killing herself,” was the mental
observation of Colonel Bingham, who, being among the most ardent of her
admirers, was every night in his box.
Affairs were in this stage of progress when, one day, as the wretched
Lionne sat alone in her apartment at the hotel, the door was opened by
her own attendant, and a card placed in her hand. Languidly she raised
it to her eyes, and read, lightly written in pencil, the name of—
“_Kate Kyte._”
Kate Kyte! that name should have brought back to her memory visions of
her youth, of the forest, of the wild freedom of her early life, of love
and grief, of sin and suffering.
The name, indeed, recalled all these, but yet feebly, and without
visible demonstration.
“Admit the lady,” said Lionne to her maid.
And the next instant Kate Kyte entered the room. So little changed by
time was she, that Lionne must have recognized her anywhere at sight.
There was the same slight, elegant figure, the same thin, but dark,
bright, warm face, lighted up by the same sparkling black eyes,
over-arched by the slender, flexible brows, and shaded by the same
clustering black curls. She was habited in a close, dark-green,
walking-pelisse, and wore a black beaver hat and plume.
Kate Kyte, in the enthusiasm of her nature, held out both her hands and
made a spring towards Lionne, but paused suddenly, as that lady, pale,
cold, and still, stood up to receive her.
“Miss Kyte, I am very glad to see you after all these years,” said
Lionne, holding out one hand.
“Not _Miss_ Kyte, dear madam, but Mrs. Edwards. I am married, Lionne,
and on my bridal tour,” replied Kate, cordially, sitting down in the
chair that Lionne silently placed for her.
The latter raised the card and looked at it again.
“Oh, I wrote ‘Kate Kyte,’ because I thought you would not recognize a
Mrs. Edwards among your acquaintances,” smiled Kate, in answer to that
act.
“Well, Mrs. Edwards, I wish you a continuance of your present happiness.
So you are recently married?” inquired Lionne.
“Yes. I will tell you all about it. We were married, as I said, and then
my husband, instead of taking me home with him—think of it! placed me at
a boarding-school to finish my education! A few weeks since he took me
away, and this is our bridal tour. We got here yesterday, heard of the
celebrated Mrs. Norl, went to see her last night, and I recognized
_you_. This morning I come to see you.”
“I thank you; but, Kate, there are other old friends of yours at present
in this house.”
“Indeed! who are they?”
“Mr. and Lady Adelaide Deville!”
“—And my child! for she must be with them!”
“_Your child!_”
“Yes, my child; or at least my adopted child! my little forest
foundling!—have they not a beautiful little dark-eyed elf with them?”
“Yes! they have! _who is she?_”
“A foundling of the forest, as I tell you! Oh! such an interesting
case!”
“_Oh, tell me!_” said Lionne, breathing hard.
“Certainly,” said Kate, settling herself more comfortably in her chair:
“You see, it was on the fifteenth of August, 1758, that my brothers, in
returning from a western hunting-trip, reached the banks of the Singing
Stream——”
“—_The Singing Stream! the fifteenth of August! oh, heaven!_” breathed
Lionne.
“—It was near nightfall, and they were pacing along between the foot of
the Indian Spear Ridge and the edge of the Singing Stream, when they
were attracted by the wail of an infant. The dogs at the same time
pointed the mouth of a cavern——”
“—_Oh, Lord! My Lord!_”
“What’s the matter?”
“_Oh! go on! go on!_”
“They called off the dogs and entered the cave, where they found a
young, white infant, no doubt stolen from some poor massacred settler’s
family, by the Indians. Well, they took the poor, perishing babe in
their own charge and brought it to me! I washed and fed and dry-nursed
the little waif, for a day or two, and then gave it to Lady Adelaide
Deville——”
“Oh, woman! woman! woman! that has caused all the sins and sufferings of
my life.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Had that hapless child a strange mark upon its breast?”
“Yes! a crimson hand! why?”
“A blood-red hand! Look here!” and tearing open the body of her dress,
she displayed upon the snow of her own bosom a small, clenched and
bloody hand!
A cry of dismay broke from the lips of Kate.
“It is a hereditary mark!”
“—And the child!” exclaimed Kate, in breathless anxiety.
“Is _my_ child so long and bitterly mourned as dead—the child I left, on
that very day, in that very cavern whence your brothers stole her!”
“Good heaven!”
“And she, you say, is with Lady Adelaide Deville! Oh, I have seen her!
seen her but once! yet my heart recognized her! She is mine! I will have
her! Come quickly! attend me to the chambers of Lady Adelaide Deville!”
And rising impetuously, Lionne hurried from the room.
Amazed, terrified and expectant, Kate followed her excited companion.
They traversed several passages, and at length reached a door which
Lionne pushed open, bidding her companion follow her in.
They entered and found themselves in an elegantly-appointed private
parlor, in the presence of Lady Adelaide Deville and her small family.
Lady Adelaide and her daughter were engaged in needle-work. And Donald
Lorne was employed in reading to them aloud.
“Lionne! Kate! Oh! what a surprise! Oh, Kate! I am so glad to see you!
Sit down both! Donald, hand chairs!” said Lady Adelaide, rising.
Kate flew past and clasped the hands of her old friend.
Lionne walked straight up to Perdita, and placing her hand upon the
child’s head, looked wistfully in her dark eyes with an expression that
seemed to ask—
“‘_Lovest thou me?_’”
“_Oh! I do! I do!_” was the answer of those fond eyes.
“Lady Adelaide Deville, I once claimed this child by instinct! I now
claim her by ascertained right! She is mine!”
“Alas! Lionne! how know _you_ this?” inquired the distressed lady.
“Here is my witness,” said Lionne, placing her hand upon the shoulder of
Kate. “And now, Lady Adelaide Deville, I have to ask you one question:
Did you know or suspect the relationship of this child to me, at the
time that you refused to give her up?”
“Lionne, I did _not_ know; but I strongly suspected it, and I was
seeking facts either to dissipate or confirm my suspicions before daring
to give her to you! But I have much to say to you that should be heard
by you alone. Kate, my dear, will you do me the favor to withdraw with
Donald and Perdita to the next room while I talk with my cousin?”
With a forced smile and eyes full of anxiety, Kate, in company of the
young people, passed into the inner chamber, and Adelaide and Lionne
were left alone.
“Countess of Glen Lennark, listen to me,” said Lady Adelaide. “In the
first place let me assure you that however cruelly it may wring my heart
to part with a child so long considered as my own, and however anxious I
may be as to that child’s future, I can make no delay or difficulty in
yielding my claim to your superior right to Perdita. I shall give her to
you and trust in God for her welfare.”
“Since you have no other alternative,” sarcastically observed Lionne.
“Since I have no other alternative,” meekly admitted Lady Adelaide.
“But listen further, Lionne! You are about to strike a mortal blow to my
happiness—to me who never willingly harmed you! Hear me!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Lionne.
“No! never! Hear me, Lionne! for years before I ever heard your name—ay,
from the years of childhood, I was taught to consider myself not only
the destined but the really-wedded wife of Orville Deville, and to love
and honor him as my husband. I bore his name, I ruled his house. Yet, in
the very blossom of my happiness, when you appeared and claimed the
heart and the hand and the name of him whom I had so long looked upon as
my husband, when you gave me what I supposed to be proofs of your claim,
I, who knew myself a maiden, though miscalled a wife; I, who dearly
loved my destined husband, silently gave up to you all my long-held
rights to my name, my home, my fortune, and my husband, and one stormy
winter night went out alone in the cold, bleak world to die!”
“Yet suffered yourself to be pursued, overtaken, and brought back to all
the bliss you had pretended to leave.”
“I was a minor, in the power of my guardian—a wife, at the disposal of
my husband—a poor invalid, at the mercy of all! I was thus, against my
will, brought back to my home! But, Lionne, I never in reality became
the wife of Orville Deville, until months after I had read in the papers
the false notice of _your_ death. Nor then did I consent until a
minister of God enjoined it upon me as a Christian duty, and my dying
friend, his mother, besought me to do so as the only thing that would,
in her last hours, give her peace. Then it was that I became, in _fact_,
what I had long been in name—the wife of Orville Deville!”
“Doubtless, fair saint, you sought every rational, moral, and religious
argument to reconcile you to that destiny!” sneered Lionne, “but tell me
of my child! my child!”
“It was but a few months before the death of Lady Elizabeth, and the
consummation of my marriage with Mr. Deville, and while, indeed, he was
absent in the south, that that child was consigned to my care by Kate
Kyte, who told me at the same time the history of its discovery. At that
time I had no suspicion of the real parentage of the babe. It was at
Glen Lennark, when Perdita was two years old, that I saw a portrait of
yourself at that age—the portrait might have been that of Perdita
herself! Then it was I recollected that upon that dreadful evening when
you first burst in upon me, you had told me that you expected to become
a mother. I compared the date of your supposed death with the date of
the child’s discovery, and then for the first time a suspicion of her
real birth flashed upon my mind. After development came to support that
suspicion, which was, however, never fully confirmed until this
evening!”
“Suspecting that child to be mine, and knowing me for your mortal foe,
you have yet performed a mother’s faithful and affectionate duty towards
her?”
“So judge me heaven! yes!”
“_At the time that you lost your own babe, did you suspect this?_”
“Assuredly.”
“And believing as you must have believed, that _I_ had abducted _your_
infant, you continued to be good to mine?”
“Certainly, Lionne.”
“Although your heart was well-nigh breaking.”
“Why not!—was it poor little Perdita’s fault?”
“Did you believe that I had destroyed your child?”
“No! oh no! Nor looking in your face, can I believe it now! If I could,
do you think that I could sit here talking with you?—no! it is true we
found portions of her little clothing washed up by the waves! Insanity,
accident might have caused her death, but, though I grieved most
bitterly, I never suspected you of so horrible a crime!”
“Nor need you have done so! I made no war upon infancy!”
“Well, well, the babe is in heaven this many a year! Let us talk of
something else!” said Lady Adelaide, who shrank from coupling the
thought of her angel-child with this dark woman of the earth, and who
was, besides, anxious to influence her hearer upon another subject.
“Go on,” said Lionne.
“It is not to praise my poor, erring self that I have sought to recall
to your mind the fact that I have ever sought to serve you, and never
attempted to injure you, or even to avenge my own injuries. And I ask
you now, Lionne, for the sake of one who never harmed you and always
sought to benefit you—and for the sake of _her_, the daughter that I
have saved and reared, and now restore to you—for the sake of both, who
must, if you are obdurate, suffer with Orville Deville, I beseech you
withdraw your prosecution! Do not seek to cover him and his with
unmerited infamy! Lionne! you will hear me!”
“I cannot! I am sworn to avenge! Were it to save my own life, reason, or
honor, I cannot withdraw from this that I have sworn to perform!”
exclaimed Lionne, with a wild sternness.
“Countess of Glen Lennark, there is more sin in keeping than in breaking
an evil vow! It was wrong to make it! it would be wicked to keep it! Oh!
Lionne! be magnanimous! it were more worthy of your power and position.”
“_Too late! too late!_” spoke the deep, bell-like tones of the actress;
“for even if I would, I could not! I am bound over by heavy sureties to
appear at court against this man!”
A dread silence fell between them, which was broken at length by Lady
Adelaide, murmuring in mournful tones—
“The future life is called the life of retribution—yet in that life God
pardons the repentant sinner! but here, in this world, where man rules,
sin is sure, sooner or later, to be punished! Alas! alas! woe to the
sinner! woe also to the self-constituted avenger!”
“I know it! I accept it!” tolled the deep, bell-like tones—“My fate will
be that of Samson! I shall be crushed with the ruin that I pull down
upon the heads of my enemies—I came to claim my daughter. Call her to me
and I will go!”
“Lionne, you shall have the child to-morrow! Take the word of one who
never spoke an untruth, and who now gives you her promise.”
“But—why not to-day?”
“Because I cannot properly take so important a step without the
knowledge and consent of my husband.”
“Should he make difficulties?”
“He will not! He will be just. Reassure yourself!”
“Lady Adelaide, I rely upon your word. Do not dare to disappoint me!”
“Madam, refrain from threats. Remember that, in carrying on this
prosecution you do your worst. There is nothing remaining in your power
with which you can further wring my heart,” said Lady Adelaide, with
gentle dignity.
“_Ah! is there not?_ You know nothing! I have yet a screw in reserve,
which I should be unwilling to turn upon you, lady; for, believe me, the
cry that it would force from your bosom would be your death-shriek!”
said Lionne.
“Terrible woman! who shall deliver me from you!” shuddered Adelaide.
“Yourself, lady. Keep your promise with me, and for _yourself_ you have
nothing more to fear.” And so saying, Lionne left the room.
For a few moments Lady Adelaide remained with her face buried in her
hands, in silent thought or prayer. Then remembering Kate, whom she had
sent with the young people into the next room, she went to the door and
recalled them.
They entered: Kate looking anxious, Perdita and Donald amazed.
“Do not say a word upon what we have discovered to Perdita as yet; the
change in her prospects must be made known to her by myself and her
father in private,” whispered Lady Adelaide to her visitor. Kate nodded
intelligently. And Lady Adelaide, to avoid entering upon the subject of
Mrs. Norl’s visit, rang for refreshments, and changed the conversation.
After a slight luncheon, Kate took her leave and withdrew to her own
apartments, fully determined to await the issue of Mr. Deville’s trial.
That evening, in private, so much of Perdita’s history as was inevitable
for her to know was communicated to the young girl.
The next morning, she was given up to the guardianship of her mother.
With floods of tears, Perdita took leave of her adopted parents, and the
next hour threw herself, with impassioned abandonment, into the arms of
her mother.