LOST, OR SAVED?
Some three hours after Gerald's departure from the house, Emilia was
summoned into the presence of Mrs. Seaton. When she received the
message she was preparing for bed; it was night, and a heavy rain was
falling.
"I have sent for you," said Mrs. Seaton, gazing at the young girl with
pitiless eyes, "for the purpose of putting an immediate end to a
disgraceful state of affairs. On the day I consented to take you upon
trial, I informed you that I could give you no wages until I was
satisfied that you would suit me. Is that correct?"
"You said," replied Emilia, "that you could give me none for the first
month, and that, if we suited each other, you would arrange terms
afterward."
"You have been here nearly seven weeks, and no terms have been
arranged."
"That is true, madam."
"The fact being that we do not suit each other."
"I fear it is so."
"In which case--the basis of any terms whatever being suitability--no
wages are due to you up to this date. Legally you are entitled to
nothing."
"You know best, madam."
"I have allowed you to remain in my house in the hope that certain
doubts I entertained would be dispelled. I regret to say they are not
dispelled. However, I shall not charge you for your board and
lodging."
Emilia bowed her head. Utterly inexperienced as she was, she had not
the least doubt that Mrs. Seaton was putting the case fairly, and that
she could really be called upon to pay for the food and shelter she
had received.
"Ordinarily," continued Mrs. Seaton, "one would expect gratitude for
such kindness. I do not. Be kind enough to sign this paper."
Upon the table lay a written document which, with Emilia's signature
to it, would free Mrs. Seaton from any possible liability. In the last
sentence of the artfully-worded release, Emilia acknowledged that she
left Mrs. Seaton's house and service of her own accord. The young girl
took the pen which Mrs. Seaton held out to her, and was about to sign
when the elder lady said,
"I wish you to read and understand what you are signing. I shall not
put it in your power to say that I took advantage of your youth and
inexperience--for that is the way you would put it, I expect."
Emilia's eyes were blurred with tears, and although she took the paper
in her trembling hands, she could not read what was written thereon.
"It is perfectly correct, is it not?" asked Mrs. Seaton.
"Yes, madam," replied Emilia, faintly, glad of the opportunity of
hiding her distress of mind, "if you say it is."
"Of course. You will observe that it places you in an unexpectedly
favorable position. Leaving my service of your own accord will make it
easier for you to obtain another situation, if such should be your
desire. Wait a moment. I should like your signature to be witnessed."
She rang the bell, and a maid appeared, a new servant who had arrived
only that evening.
"I rang for you, Jane, to witness Miss Braham's signature to this
paper. You can write?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am."
"Miss Braham has read the document, and perfectly understands its
terms. That is the truth, is it not, Miss Braham?"
"Yes, madam," said the helpless girl.
"You hear, Jane? Now, Miss Braham, you can sign it if you wish."
Emilia wrote her name, and Jane wrote hers as witness, proud of the
confidence reposed in her. Then Mrs. Seaton gave the new servant some
whispered instructions, and she left the room.
Had Emilia's agitation allowed her, she could not have failed to
notice that while Jane was in the room Mrs. Seaton's voice was kind
and considerate, in striking contrast to the tone in which she spoke
when they were alone.
"And now, Miss Braham," said Mrs. Seaton, folding up the paper and
pocketing it with an air of triumph, "you will leave my house at
once."
"At once, madam!" exclaimed the bewildered girl.
"This instant. I will not allow you to remain in it another hour. As
the mother of a family I have a duty to perform. Your presence here is
a contamination."
"I will not answer your insults, madam," faltered Emilia, "but it is
night and rain is falling----"
"That is not my affair. You are well known, and can easily find
lodgement with some of your friends----"
"I have none. You surely cannot be so cruel as to drive me away at
such an hour."
"I am prepared for anything you may say. The paper you have signed
fully protects me from any base statements you may make when you are
no longer under my roof. You have no friends? Why, there is Mr. Paget.
Do you think I have been blind to your goings on? Assignations, secret
meetings, under my very eyes. Go to him. I have no doubt you know
where to find him."
"Madam!"
"Oh, you may madam me as much as you like; it will not alter my
determination. Ah, Jane"--to the new servant who entered the
room--"have you locked the door of the room which Miss Braham
occupied?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And brought her box down?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Give me the key of the room. That will do, my good girl; I do not
require you any more. Go down-stairs and get your supper. Leave the
door open." The merciless woman waited until Jane had reached the
basement and was out of hearing; then she spoke again. "If you cannot
take your box with you to-night, you can send for it in the morning,
but once out of my house you do not enter it again. Go immediately, or
I will send for the police."
She advanced toward Emilia, who retreated in affright; step by step
she hounded the poor girl to the street door, which she threw open.
The next moment Emilia was standing alone in the dark and gloomy
night.
Dazed and horrified, she felt as if her senses were leaving her; she
pressed her hands over her eyes, and cowered to the walls for
protection. But a friend was near.
Restless with love's fever, Gerald, heedless of the rain--for what is
so slight a thing to one who loves as he did?--was hovering about the
house in which his darling lived. He looked up at the windows, and
choosing one as the window of Emilia's room, gazed at it with fervor,
making of it a very heaven--a heaven to be glorified by her presence.
"To-morrow," he mused, as he paced slowly up and down on the opposite
side, "I will ask her plainly to be my wife. She is unhappy--she told
me so--and it must be because she is living with such a wicked woman.
Yes, I will ask her to-morrow. She loves me, I am sure of it. It is
only that she is poor and I am rich. What of that? It will make it all
the better for us--a thousand times better than if she were rich and I
were poor. Then we might never come together. Dear Emilia, sweet
Emilia, the sweetest, dearest, most beautiful on earth! I love her, I
love her, I love her!"
Thus ecstatically musing, he saw the street-door suddenly opened and
as suddenly and violently shut, and a figure thrust forth, as if in
anger. He had no idea that it was Emilia; the thought was too
barbarous to be entertained; but out of curiosity he crossed the road
and went up to it.
"Good God!" he cried; "Emilia!" and caught her up in his arms.
"Oh, Gerald, Gerald!" she sobbed, and lay there, helpless and almost
heartbroken, and yet with a sweet sense of comfort stealing upon her
great grief.
What mattered rain and darkness? She had called him Gerald, and he
knew for a surety that he was loved. He kissed her, and she did not
resist, but lay, sobbing more quietly now, within the sanctuary of his
loving arms.
Ecstasy at being permitted to embrace her enthralled him for a time,
but presently he begged her to explain the meaning of her being thrust
at such an hour from Mrs. Seaton's house. Before she could render it
the street-door was opened quietly and slowly, and a woman's face
peered out--Mrs. Seaton's.
"I thought as much," cried the stony-hearted woman, with a laugh. "A
pretty pair!" and then the door was closed again, and only the sound
of the falling rain was heard.
With a feeling of burning indignation Gerald looked down upon the
white face of his dear girl. Her eyes were closed; her arms hung loose
at her side; she had fainted.
He was thankful that the street was deserted and that there were no
witnesses near, for he had sense enough to know that Emilia's
reputation was at stake.
"You fiend," he muttered, with a dark glance at Mrs. Seaton's house.
"You abominable fiend!" And then he called softly, "Emilia, Emilia!
Look up, my darling. We are safe now, and we will never part."
His voice, but not the words he spoke, reached her senses. She opened
her eyes, and clung more closely to him, murmuring,
"For Heaven's sake, take me from this place."
"Come, then," he said, supporting her. It was not until they had
traversed two or three streets that Gerald began to feel perplexed.
Where should he take her? He had no lady friend to whom he could apply
and who would be willing to receive Emilia. It would be dangerous to
her character to go to an hotel. The hour, the circumstances, Emilia's
agitated state, were all against them. She was too weak to speak for
herself; upon him devolved the responsibility of providing for her, of
protecting her, and he was conscious that anything he might say to
strangers would do her more harm than good. There was already a danger
that she was being compromised. Some persons had passed them in the
streets, and dark as was the night, they could scarcely fail to see
that his arm was round her waist and that she was clinging to him. Now
and then sobs escaped from her overcharged heart. A few of the people
they met turned and looked after them, and Gerald heard one laugh. It
went through him like a sharp knife. If he could only get her safely
housed before she was recognized! But he was by no means sure that
this danger had been averted. Certainly two men who had passed them
were men he knew.
As for Emilia, happily or unhappily for herself, she noticed nothing.
This terrible crisis had completely prostrated her, and all that she
was conscious of was that she was under the protection of an honorable
man, and had escaped from the oppression of a vile woman.
Something must be done, and done soon. They could not walk the streets
the whole night. Every moment added to the dangers of the position.
"Emilia, will you listen to me?"
"I am listening, Gerald."
It was as if she had called him so all her life; and, indeed, in the
purest innocence, she had often murmured his name in secret to
herself. He was thrilled with ineffable happiness.
"You understand what I am saying to you, Emilia?"
"Yes."
"It is very late."
With sudden terror she cried, "You will not leave me, Gerald? You will
not desert me?"
"No, indeed. Do not be afraid. I am yours forever, in truth and honor.
But we must be prudent."
"I will do whatever you bid me, Gerald. I have no friend in the world
but you."
In his honor and honesty lay her safety. Well was it for her that she
had by her side a man like Gerald.
"Where did you live before you went to Mrs. Seaton?"
She shuddered at the name, and answered, "In Grafton Street," and
mentioned the number.
They were nearly a mile from the house, and in Emilia's weak state it
took them more than half an hour to get there, but weak as she was she
did not complain of fatigue. She was content so long as Gerald was
with her. There was no cessation in the rain, which still fell
steadily.
There was not a light to be seen in any of the windows of the house.
Gerald knocked, but knocked in vain. In despair he turned away, and
Emilia walked patiently with him.
Then it forced itself upon him that there was still the alternative of
endeavoring to obtain a room for her in a respectable hotel. To
conduct her to one of doubtful repute was not to be thought of. It was
close on midnight when they reached the hotel he had in his mind. He
did not venture to take her inside the building with him. Her swollen
eyes, her death-white face, her dishevelled hair, her clothes soaked
with rain, would have ensured failure. Besides, until he was sure of a
shelter for her, he did not care to expose her to the prying eyes of
strangers.
He explained to her what he was about to do, but he was doubtful
whether she quite understood him. All she said was:
"I do whatever you bid me, Gerald. I have no friend in the world but
you."
She had spoken these words many times, and no appeal could have been
more plaintive. The pity of it was that every time she uttered them
her voice had grown fainter.
"Wait here for me, Emilia. I will not be gone long. If anyone speaks
to you do not answer them."
"You will come back to me, Gerald?"
"Yes, surely, my darling."
He was fated not to succeed. His lame explanations, his stumbling
words, his references to "a young lady in an unfortunate position,"
his statement that it would be rendering him a personal obligation,
ensured failure. The lady manager of the hotel shook her head, and
said she could not accommodate his friend "under such circumstances,"
adding that she was surprised he should ask her to do so.
He rejoined Emilia, whose fingers tightened upon his arm as she
murmured:
"You have come back!"
They had not walked fifty yards before her strength gave way. Again
she fainted, and but for his support would have fallen to the ground.
Hailing a passing cab he, with the assistance of the driver, lifted
her into it, and gave the man instructions to drive to his house. With
a covert smile the man mounted to his box, and drove in the given
direction.
The house in which Gerald lived was that his parents had occupied. He
had been loth to leave it until the arrival of his half-brother
Leonard, when he had decided to discuss their future movements with
him. He had had a sincere affection for Leonard, and relied greatly
upon his judgment. Most of the servants had been dismissed; only two
remained, a housekeeper and a maid, and these attended to the young
gentleman's wants. They were in the habit of retiring early to bed;
Gerald had a latchkey with which he let himself in when he came home
late. Thus, in the present emergency, a certain privacy was ensured.
Under no other circumstances than these would Gerald have dreamed of
taking Emilia to his house, but he was driven to a course of which he
inwardly disapproved. He had no time now to consider consequences;
Emilia demanded all his attention. She was still unconscious when they
arrived at the house, and he was compelled to ask the assistance of
the driver to carry her in. This being accomplished, he paid the man
liberally and dismissed him.
They had entered without being observed; the housekeeper and the maid
occupied rooms below, and Gerald supposed them to be both asleep at
the time. The room into which Emilia had been carried was his favorite
apartment, on the ground floor, and was somewhat daintily furnished.
From a sideboard he took wine and biscuits, and from an inner room he
brought towels and a basin of cold water. The fire in the grate had
burned low, but he threw wood and coals on it, and it was soon in a
bright blaze. Then he drew the sofa upon which Emilia was lying close
to the fireplace, and stood debating with himself what he should do.
Had the housekeeper been the only servant in the house he would have
called her in to attend to Emilia; she had been many years in the
service of his family, and he thought he could trust her; but he was
sure he could not trust the maid, who was an inveterate chatterbox.
Before he had decided what to do Emilia revived; struggling to her
feet she gazed around in stupefaction. In as few words as possible
Gerald explained what had occurred; she listened to him in silence,
then sank upon the couch, and burst into a passion of tears.
"Are you angry with me, Emilia?" he asked, in deep concern. "I could
do nothing else. To have kept you in the streets any longer would have
been your death. Listen to the rain; it is coming down harder than
ever. Here at least you are safe for a few hours. The housekeeper is
asleep down-stairs. I will call her up if you wish, but there is
another servant who cannot be trusted, I fear."
"If anyone sees me here I shall die of shame," said Emilia, in a low
tone. "What will become of me--oh, what will become of me?"
"There is nothing to fear," said Gerald, "and no one need be aware
that you are in the house. Do you not know already that I love you
with all my heart and soul, and that by consenting to become my wife
you will make me the happiest man in the world? The position in which
we are placed has been forced upon us. No one shall have the power of
placing an evil construction upon it. I will see to that. Your
happiness, your honor, are in my keeping. Can you not trust me,
Emilia?"
With these and other words as true and tender, he succeeded in calming
her. With innate delicacy he did not press her to answer him at such
an hour; he would wait till to-morrow; meanwhile he explained his plan
to her. She was to occupy the room till the morning, and to lock
herself in. He would find a bed elsewhere. Before the servants rose he
would return to the house and make a confidant of the housekeeper; the
younger servant should be sent upon a distant errand which would keep
her from the house till eleven or twelve o'clock. Before that time
Emilia would be settled elsewhere. Thus the secret would be preserved and
the tongue of scandal silenced.
"And then, Emilia," he said, gazing upon her with ardent affection, "I
will ask for my reward."
It was impossible, even if her heart were not already his, that she
should fail to be touched by his delicacy and devotion. Tenderly and
humbly she thanked him, and intended to say that she would give him
his answer on the morrow, but love broke down the barrier of reserve.
Involuntarily she held out her hands to him, and he clasped her in his
arms and kissed her on her lips, and said that the embrace was a
pledge of truth and constancy.
"From you, Emilia, as well as from me!"
"Yes, Gerald," she sighed; "I love you!"
So through the clouds of this dolorous night broke the sun of faithful
mutual love. It might have been excused him had he lingered, but for
her sake he would not.
"I shall wait in the passage," he said, "to hear you turn the key. No
one will disturb you. The housekeeper does not enter this room till I
ring in the morning, and I am not always an early bird. Good-night,
dear love."
"Good-night, dear Gerald. Are you sure you will be able to get a bed?"
"I can get a dozen. God bless and guard you!"
They kissed each other once more, and then he left her. He waited in
the passage to hear the key turned, and with a lover's foolish
fondness kissed the door which shut his treasure from his sight. He
listened in the passage a moment or two to assure himself that all was
still and safe, and then he crept to the street-door, which he opened
and closed very softly. He did not seek a bed elsewhere, having come
to the determination that it would be a better security from
slanderous tongues that it should be supposed he slept in his own
house that night. So he made pilgrimages through the streets, ever and
anon coming back to the house which sheltered his darling. But once it
fatefully happened that he was absent for some thirty or forty
minutes, during which period a startling and unexpected incident
occurred, the forerunner of as strange a series as ever entered into
the history of two loving hearts.