A CLOUDED HONEYMOON
“We went down to Liverpool and sailed for America, to commence our new
life on your Maryland plantation.
“But, oh, Abel! with a burden of sorrow and remorse on my heart and
conscience which has oppressed and darkened all my days.
“In the first winter of our marriage news came to us of my father’s
death, and we mourned him deeply, as you know. Added to grief for his
loss was anxiety for the fate of the child he had promised to adopt and
educate. No news came to me of my boy. I knew not even if the quarterly
payments had been kept up. When we went to Baltimore, however, to buy my
mourning outfit, I took the opportunity to send a bill of exchange for a
hundred pounds to Mary Chester on account, and asked her to send me news
of the boy, and to direct her letter to Bryantown, to which place I
intended to go, and I did go at intervals, in hope to find a letter, but
none ever came.
“In the spring I received a terrible shock. Report came that a schooner
had been wrecked on the shore, and that but one life had been saved—the
life of a child who had been washed up on the sands and found there
living.
“This child I heard was at the house of Miss Bayard, who was taking care
of him.
“I went—as everybody went—from curiosity to see the little waif.
“There happened to be no visitor at the house when I entered Miss
Bayard’s parlor. She was talkative, as usual, and told me all about the
wreck and rescue as it is known to you and to all that community. And
she took me into the bedroom adjoining the parlor to look upon the
sleeping boy.
“There he lay upon the clean patchwork quilt, crosswise upon the bed,
his flaxen head upon the snowy pillow, a gray woolen shawl spread over
him.
“I approached and stooped to look at his face.
“Heaven of heavens!
“Think—think what I must have felt on recognizing my own child!
“Surprise, delight, wonder, terror—all shook me in turns as I gazed.
“‘Eh, ma’am! I don’t wonder it gives you a turn! It did me, I tell you!’
the good woman whispered, as she stood beside me.
“In a tumult of emotion I withdrew from the room. I was afraid the child
might open his eyes and see me, and I knew as surely as I had recognized
him would the little one remember me, and call me by my name as soon as
he should set eyes upon me.
“I was afraid to stay any longer, or to ask any more questions, lest I
should in some manner betray myself. I took leave of Miss Bayard, and
left the house.
“The rescued child was the talk of the county for the whole season.
Every one wondered and speculated as to the boy’s birth and social
position, but no one could decide upon it, for there was no mark on the
nightdress in which the little one had been found.
“In a few days I heard that you, my beloved and honored husband—you, of
all men—had taken upon yourself the cost of the child’s maintenance and
education; that you had engaged to pay Miss Bayard a liberal quarterly
allowance for her care of the boy, and to send him to school, as soon as
he should be old enough to go.
“Then, when I heard this, my better angel urged me to confide in you—to
confess the truth and throw myself upon your mercy—the mercy of the
truest, noblest, tenderest heart that ever beat!
“But I dared not do it. The longer I had kept my secret from you the
harder it was to tell. I feared that you would ask me why I had not told
you this before our marriage. I feared that you might even part with me.
And the longer I had lived with you, the more I loved you, the harder
was the thought of parting from you. I could not risk the loss, even
though to retain your love seemed almost a theft.
“I did not tell you, nor did I show any sympathy in your care of the
friendless child. I did not go near my boy, lest he should recognize and
innocently betray me.
“So weeks passed into months, and months passed into years. Children
came to us, and drew our hearts even more closely together, if that were
possible, than they had been before; but though I loved our little girls
as fondly as ever a mother did, yet I loved them no more than I loved
the dear boy whom I dared not acknowledge, or even look upon.
“It was not until Roland was at school, and time and change of fashion
in clothing and hair-dressing had made such alteration in my appearance
that I judged it safe to do so, I first saw my son face to face, and
shook hands with him. How he stared at me! his mind evidently startled
and perplexed by the phantom of a remembrance he could not fix or
define.
“After that I saw him often, and was able to befriend him; but I was
often troubled by the look of perplexity in the boy’s eyes when they met
mine. After a while, however, this shade of memory faded quite away.
“Years passed, and the old sorrow also seemed to have gone like some
morning cloud of spring, leaving scarcely a trace behind.
“It was on that visit to Niagara Falls, now nearly seven years ago, when
I met in the parlor of the hotel the one man I dreaded more than all men
or all devils—Angus Anglesea!
“I saw my danger as soon as our eyes met. I knew that for the old
repulse I had given him at Geneva he would now take his revenge. Yet I
tried to look him down, but I could not. You were by my side. I was
obliged to present him to you. You had heard of Angus Anglesea from my
father and from my brother, and had heard nothing but praise of the man
from them. You gave him a warm welcome. You pressed him to come down and
visit us at Mondreer.
“Afterward, to you alone I protested against this visit with as much
energy as I dared to use; for I could not explain to you why he ought
not be our guest. But you thought me somewhat capricious, and declared
that you could not withdraw an invitation once given.
“Then I appealed to him, to any little remnant of pride, honor or
delicacy that might remain somewhere in his depraved nature, not to
accept your invitation—not to enter a house which his presence would
desecrate.
“He laughed in my face! He told me that he had already accepted the
invitation, and that he meant to make the visit.
“You know what followed. He came down with us to Mondreer. He cast his
eyes upon our dear daughter, Odalite, and on her fortune—not only on her
American fortune, but on her English prospects.
“Ah! my poor Odalite! She was engaged to be married to her faithful
lover, Leonidas Force, who was expected home on the Christmas of that
year; and she was as true as truth to her love; she was not for a moment
‘fascinated by the admiration of the brilliant stranger,’ as people
said. She sacrificed herself to save me; and in saving me, to save you
and her sisters.
“Do you know what that snake who had entered our paradise threatened to
do if he were not bought off by the hand and fortune and prospects of
our daughter Odalite? He threatened to publish my secret to the whole
world!
“Ah! how I mourned then that I had not told you the sad story before
accepting your offer of marriage, and left you free to withdraw or to
renew that offer.
“It was too late then! Every year that I had kept the story from you
made it harder and more humiliating to tell. And he threatened to
tell—not you—that would have been terrible enough—but to tell
everybody!—to tell the story in the barrooms of the country inns, at the
gentlemen’s wine parties and oyster suppers—and everywhere! He would
leave our house, take up his lodgings at the Calvert, and spread the
venom over the whole community. That would have been fatal! Abel, this
story, as he would have told it, must have driven us all in dishonor
from the neighborhood. I think it would have killed you. You are strong
and brave, and could have borne much—everything but dishonor! That would
have killed you! I know it would have driven me mad, and it would have
blighted the lives of our children.
“I was nearly insane, even then. Some women in such a position would
have committed suicide; but, apart from its sinfulness, it would have
been ineffectual in my case, as, if I had died, he would still have
blackmailed Odalite. Some other women in my position would have killed
Anglesea. I knew that; and I knew that if ever man deserved death at a
woman’s hands, he did at mine; but I was not even tempted so ruthlessly
to break the sacred laws of God. Nay, let me say here, that weak, blind
and foolish as I have been, I have not only tried to keep, but I have
kept those laws from my youth up.
“What is it, then, that I have confessed to you? Not a sin, not a fault,
but a secret that I have kept from you because I had not strength enough
to tell you, or light enough to know you, or wisdom enough to confide in
your wisdom. It was no sin of mine that my marriage was a deception
practiced upon me; but it was a great wrong to you to keep the secret of
that marriage.
“You know now the secret of my life—why I consented to sacrifice Odalite
to that man, from whom she was saved as by a miracle.
“Is it a mockery to ask you to pardon this lifelong secret, Abel? I know
that you will pardon as freely as God pardons.
“But when you have seen these lines you may never afterward see me.
Heaven knows.
* * * * *
“I have written the foregoing confession to put it away, lest death take
me unaware, leaving me no time to tell the true story as I only can tell
it.
“WASHINGTON, April 18, 18—.
“The time has come. I have learned some facts. The villain who spoiled
my life, and would have spoiled my daughter’s life, was not Angus
Anglesea, my brother’s dearest friend, college mate, and fellow-officer,
but an impostor bearing his likeness and wearing his name, and now
waiting trial as a pirate and a slaver, and having for his mate and
fellow-prisoner one whom you have known and cared for as Roland Bayard,
but who is really Roland Glennon, my son.’
“No! I cannot meet you! When you have read these lines you will see me
no more.”