THE MARQUIS.
But the events of the night are not over. As soon as I had seen
mademoiselle comfortably ensconced in my old room up stairs, I returned
to the sitting room, where the marquis still lingered. He was standing
in the window when I entered, and turned with quite a bright face to
greet me. But that brightness soon vanished as he met my glance, and it
was with something like dismay that he commented upon my paleness, and
asked if I were ill.
I told him I was ill at ease; that events of a most serious nature were
transpiring in the house; that he was concerned in them heavily,
grievously; that I could not rest till I had taken him into my
confidence, and shown him upon what a precipice he was standing.
He evidently considered me demented, but as he looked at me longer, and
noted my steady and unflinching gaze, he gradually turned pale, and
uttered, in irrepressible anxiety, the one word--"Honora!"
"Miss Urquhart is well," I began, "and is as ignorant as yourself of the
shadows that hover over her. She is all innocence and truth, sir. Honor,
candor and purity dwell in her heart, and happiness in her eyes. Yet is
that happiness threatened by the worst calamity that can befall a
sensitive human being, and if you hold her in esteem--"
"_Ma foi!_" he broke in, with violent impetuosity. "I do not esteem her;
I love her. What are these dreadful secrets? How is her happiness
threatened? Tell me without hesitation, for I have entreated her to be
my wife, and she--"
"She thinks it is a parent's whim, alone, which keeps her from
responding fully to your wishes," I finished. "But madame's objections
have deeper ground than that. Miserable woman as she is, she has some
idea of honor left. She knew her daughter could not safely marry into a
high and noble family, and so--"
"What is this you say?" came again in the quick and hurried tones of
despair. "Mrs. Urquhart--"
"Wait," I broke in. "You call her Mrs. Urquhart, but she has no claim to
that title. She and Edwin Urquhart have never been married."
He recoiled sharply, with a gesture of complete disbelief.
"How do you know?" he demanded. "They are strangers to you. I have known
them in their own home. All the world credits their marriage, and--"
"All the world does not know what transpired in this house sixteen years
ago, when Edwin Urquhart stopped here with his bride on his way to
France."
He stared, seemed shaken, but presently hastened to remark:
"Ah, madame, you acknowledge that she is his wife. You said bride. One
does not call a woman by that name without acknowledging a marriage
service."
"The woman he brought here was his bride. Edwin Urquhart is no common
criminal, Marquis de la Roche-Guyon."
It was hard to make him understand. It was hard to undermine his trust,
step by step, inch by inch, till he found no hope, no shred of doubt to
cling to. But it had to be done. If only to avert worse calamities and
more heart-rending scenes, he must know at once, and before he took
another step in relation to Miss Urquhart, just what her position was,
and to what shame and suffering he was subjecting himself by accepting
her love and pledging his own.
The task was not done till I had shown him this diary of mine, and
related all that had just occurred in the room below. Then, indeed, he
seemed to comprehend his position, and completely crushed and
horror-stricken, subsided into a dreadful silence before me, the lines
of years coming into his face as I watched him, till he became scarcely
recognizable for the lordly and light-hearted cavalier whose dreams of
love I had so fearfully interrupted some half hour or so before. From
this lethargy of despair I did not seek to rouse him. I knew when he had
anything to say he would speak, and till he had faced the situation and
had made up his mind to his duty, I could wait his decision with perfect
confidence in his fine nature and nice sense of honor.
You may, therefore, imagine my feelings when, after a long delay--an
hour at least--he suddenly remarked:
"We have been a proud family. From time immemorial we have held
ourselves aloof from whatever could be thought to stain our honor or
impeach our good name. I cannot drag the unfathomable disgrace of all
these crimes into a record so pure as that of the Roche-Guyon race.
Though I had wished to bestow upon my wife a name and position of which
she could be proud, I must content myself with merely giving her the
comfort of a true heart and such support as can be provided by a loving
but unaccustomed hand."
"Marquis--" I commenced.
But he cut my words short with a firm and determined gesture.
"My name is Louis de Fontaine," he explained. "Henceforth my cousin will
be known as the marquis. It is the least I can do for the old French
honor."
'Twas so simply, so determinedly done that I stood aghast as much at the
serenity of his manner as the act which required such depth of sacrifice
from one of his traditions and rearing.
"Then you continue to consider yourself the suitor of Miss Urquhart," I
stammered. "You will marry her, though her parents may be called upon to
perish upon the scaffold in an ignominy as great as ever befell two
guilty mortals?"
The answer came brokenly, but with unwavering strength:
"Did you not say that she was innocent? Is she to be crushed beneath the
guilt of her parents? Am I to take the last prop from one so soon to be
bereft of all the supports upon which she has leaned from infancy? If I
cling to her, she may live through her horror and shame; but should I
fail her--great heavens! would we not have another life to answer for
before God? Besides," he added, with the simplicity which marked his
whole bearing, "I love her. I could not do otherwise if I would."
To this final word I could make no rejoinder. With a reverence unmingled
with the taint of compassion, I took my departure, and being anxious by
this time to know how my young charge was bearing her seclusion, I went
to the room where I had left her, and softly opened the door.