SLANDER'S FOUL TONGUE.
The young servant whose loquacious tongue Gerald did not dare to trust
was not asleep when he brought Emilia home. She was in bed, it was
true, but wide-awake, with a candle alight at her bedside. It was
against the rules of the house, but she did not care for that, being
deeply engrossed in a thrilling story which set rules at defiance and
drove sleep away. She heard the street-door opened and closed, then a
murmur of voices, like the distant murmur of the sea, and then the
second opening and closing of the street-door. The sounds did not
arouse her curiosity, she was so profoundly interested in the fate of
the hero and heroine that nothing short of a miracle could have
diverted her attention. So she read on with eager eyes and panting
bosom, long after Gerald had left the house, and would have continued
to read, had she not come to those tantalizing words, "To be continued
in our next." Then, with a long-drawn sigh, she turned in her bed--and
forgot to blow out the candle.
Emilia had intended not to sleep; she would keep awake all the night,
and wait for Gerald in the morning--the morning of the day which was
to be for her the herald of a new and happier life. She bore Mrs.
Seaton no malice for the indignities she had suffered in her house.
There was no room in Emilia's heart for anything but love. With what
heartfelt gratitude did she dwell upon the image of Gerald, the
noblest man on earth. "I thank God for him," she sighed. "Dear Lord, I
thank Thee that Thou hast given me the love of a man like Gerald. My
Gerald! Is it true? Can it be real? Ah, yes; I see his dear eyes
looking into mine; his dear voice sinks into my heart. Make me
grateful for the happiness before me!" It stretched out into the
future years, a vista of peace and love and joy. Insensibly she sank
upon her knees and prayed, and when she rose the room, the world, and
all that it contained, were transfigured. How fair, how sweet was
life! She had prayed for Gerald and for herself, had prayed that she
might prove worthy of him, and might be endowed with power to brighten
his days. Then she sat before the fire, and clasping her knee with her
hands, imagined bright pictures in the glowing points of lights. She
felt herself sinking to sleep. "I will just close my eyes for a few
minutes," she thought. There were warm rugs about the room. Loosening
her dress, she threw herself upon the couch, and covering herself with
the rugs, fell asleep with joy in her heart and a smile on her lips.
At half-past three in the morning Gerald, after an absence of half an
hour or so, was returning to the street in which his house was
situated, when he saw an angry glare in the sky, and heard sounds of
confusion in the near distance. Almost instantly A fire-engine raced
past him. He hastened after it, partly from instinct, but chiefly
because it was going in his direction. He had, however, no idea that
the danger personally concerned him. Long before he reached his street
he was undeceived. Crowds of people encompassed him, and he found it
difficult to proceed. Three or four fire-engines were at work;
firemen were risking their lives in the enthusiasm of their noble
work; policemen were keeping back the excited lookers-on.
"My God!" he cried, as he turned the corner; "it is my house, and
Emilia is there!"
Frantically he strove to force his way through the crowd, which would
not give way for him at first, but he redoubled his efforts, and
running under or leaping over firemen, policemen, and the men and
women who were surging round, he tore off his coat, and rushed toward
the burning building. He was pulled back, and escaping from those who
held him, darted forward again with despairing cries, and was caught
in the arms of one who knew him.
"It's all right," cried this man to the firemen. "Mr. Paget has
escaped from the house."
He who spoke thought that Gerald, instead of striving to enter the
house, had just emerged from it, and his idea was strengthened by the
circumstance that Gerald was in his shirt sleeves. One in authority
came up to Gerald and said:
"We were getting frightened about you, sir. We got out a young lady
and your two servants----"
"A young lady!" gasped Gerald, and inwardly thanked God that Emilia
was saved.
"Yes, sir. There's some mystery about her, because your housekeeper
said there was no young lady there, but out she came, or was carried,
insensible----"
"For God's sake," cried Gerald, "don't tell me she is injured!"
"I think not, sir; but she was in an insensible condition, and some
people took her away. Your housekeeper said you were the only one
left. Now that we know no lives are lost we can get on with our work.
Your house is a wreck, sir; there'll be very little saved out of it."
"Where was the young lady taken to?" asked Gerald, in a state of
indescribable agitation, detaining the officer by the sleeve.
"I can't tell you, sir. Excuse me, I must attend to my duty."
Releasing himself from Gerald's grasp, he plunged among his men.
Gerald, in his eager anxiety for information of Emilia, asked a dozen
persons around him, and obtained a dozen different answers. One said
one thing, one said another, and each speaker contradicted the one who
had previously spoken. At length he saw on the outskirts of the crowd
his housekeeper talking to a lady, and running toward them, he saw
that the lady was Mrs. Seaton.
"I am glad you are saved, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton, with freezing
politeness. "I was just asking your housekeeper who is the young lady
who was carried out of your house barely half dressed, and she insists
that no such person was there. But as a hundred people saw her, there
is, of course, no disputing a fact so clear. Perhaps you can tell us
who she is?"
A number of neighbors gathered around, some who knew both Gerald and
Emilia.
"And I said, sir," said the housekeeper, "that their eyes deceived
them----"
"Oh, that is very likely," interposed Mrs. Seaton, in her most
malicious tone.
"Because," continued the housekeeper, "when we went to bed last night
there was nobody but me and that little wretch of a Susan in the
house. It was her who set the place on fire, sir, with her novel
reading. I hope she'll be put in prison for it."
"But enlighten us, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton. "Who was the young
lady?"
"You are a malicious scandal-monger," cried Gerald, and tore himself
away, feeling that he had made for himself and Emilia a more bitter
enemy in calling Mrs. Seaton by that name.
He continued his inquiries for Emilia, but could obtain no
satisfaction. So many different stories were related to him that he
could not tell which was the true one.
The truth was that Emilia, being aroused from sleep by the fire,
unlocked the door of the room in which Gerald had left her, and rushed
into the passage. The place was strange to her, and she might have
been burned to death had not a fireman, who was making his way past
her, pulled her into the street. There she was taken up by one and
another, striving all the while to escape the prying eyes of those
around her, until, overcome by the complicated horror of her position,
she swooned away. Two compassionate maiden ladies, sisters, pitying
her state, said they would take care of her, and conveyed her to their
home.
There they tended her, wondering who she was, for she was a stranger
to them, as they were to her. But the terrors through which Emilia had
passed had completely prostrated her; the whole of the succeeding day
she fell from one faint into another, and the doctor who was called in
said it would be best to wait awhile before they questioned her too
closely. "She has had a severe mental shock," he said, "and if we are
not careful she will have an attack of brain fever." On the evening of
the following day she was somewhat better, but her mind was almost a
blank as to what had transpired during the past twenty-four hours. The
image of Gerald occasionally obtruded itself, and if he had appeared,
all would have been well; he was her rock, her shield, and, incapable
as she was of coherent thought, his absence weighed upon her as a
reproach, and she felt as if God and man had forsaken her. An
experience still more cruel was in store for her.
It was night, and she heard a voice in the adjoining room that smote
her with terror, the voice of Mrs. Seaton speaking to the ladies who
had befriended her. More successful than Gerald, Mrs. Seaton had
hunted her down.
"It's a neighborly duty," Mrs. Seaton was saying, "to prevent
kind-hearted ladies like yourselves from being imposed upon. I have
suffered from her artfulness and wickedness myself, and there was no
one to warn me; but if you allow yourself to be taken in by her you
will do it with your eyes open."
"She is very gentle-mannered," said one of the two ladies who had
befriended her, "and we have a great pity for her. Surely she cannot
be so bad as you paint her."
"Facts are facts," said Mrs. Seaton. "You do not even know her name."
"She is too weak to enter into particulars," said the lady, "and we
forbore to press her."
"Too weak!" exclaimed Mrs. Seaton, with a derisive laugh.
"Fiddlesticks! Excuse me for speaking so, but I hardly have patience
with her. Her weakness is put on; you are no match for the creature.
Of course if you do not mind being disgraced by association with such
a character it is no business of mine; but I ought to know her better
than you do."
"You use strong words," said the lady very gravely. "Disgraced! It is
too dreadful to think of. What is her name?"
"Emilia Braham. Her father died deeply involved, and would no doubt
have swindled his creditors if he had lived; fortunately for them he
died suddenly, and they were able to step in and save something from
the wreck. I will tell you the whole story if you care to hear it."
"We ought to hear it."
"You shall. After her father's death she came to me and begged me to
give her a situation. I took her out of pity. 'I will give you a
trial,' I said to her. So she came into my house, and I treated her as
a daughter. After a time I had my suspicions, and I do not mind
confessing that I set a watch upon her. Then I discovered that she was
carrying on a disgraceful intimacy with Mr. Gerald Paget, meeting him
regularly and secretly, and keeping out at all hours. When she found
that all was known she told her gentleman friend, who came to me and
bullied me. In return for his insults I showed him the door, and
forbade his ever entering my house again. Then in the evening I sent
for the creature and informed her that she must leave my service the
following morning--that is, to-day. The language she used to me was
dreadful, and she said she would go at once. I told her I would not
allow it; badly as she had behaved, I felt that it was not right for
her, a single girl, to leave the house at night. However, she
insisted, and I had to give way. To protect myself from her malicious
slanders, I wrote out a paper which she signed in the presence of
another servant, who is ready to testify that the creature knew
perfectly well what she was doing. Here it is; you can read it. The
other servant witnessed her signature, as you see. Then she left the
house, and I soon found out why. She had arranged a clandestine
meeting with Mr. Paget that very night--I saw her with my own eyes in
his embrace. An hour or two afterward they got into a cab--I can give
you the number of the cab and the name of the driver--and drove to Mr.
Paget's residence, he being a bachelor, mind you, and living alone
with only two female servants in his employ. When he took the creature
home he knew quite well that his domestics were abed and asleep, and
that there was no risk of his scandalous doings being discovered. But
he reckoned without his host. There is a Providence--yes, happily
there is a Providence. The fire occurred, and the creature you are
harboring rushed out of Mr. Paget's house. Ask her how she got into
it. In the middle of the night, too. I ask you, as ladies of
common-sense, what construction does it bear? No artfully-invented
tale can explain it away. You should be thankful to me for putting you
on your guard. Oh, you don't know these creatures!"
"It is a dreadful story," said the lady.
"I hope you will do your duty, as I have done mine. Have I put it too
strongly in saying that her presence here is a disgrace?"
"No. We are obliged to you for the unpleasant task you have performed.
To-morrow, if she is strong enough, I will request her to take her
departure."
"Too lenient by far. In your place I should bundle her out, neck and
crop. If you wait till she says she is well enough to go you will wait
a precious long time. I shall take care, for my part, that everybody
knows the truth."
"Is it not strange," asked the lady, "that Mr. Paget has not called to
inquire after her?"
"Not at all; he wishes to keep his name out of the disgraceful affair
if he can. It is perfectly clear that he is ashamed of the connection,
and wants to be rid of it. So long as it could be kept quiet he didn't
mind, but now that it is made public--I can't help repeating, in the
most providential manner--it is another pair of shoes. Why, the whole
town is talking of it. When the creature shows her face, if she has
the hardihood to do it, she will meet with a proper reception. I
shouldn't at all wonder if it gets into the papers. Good-night."
Then there was a rustling of skirts, and Emilia knew that her cruel
persecutor had taken her leave. She pressed her hands upon her eyes,
and the scalding tears ran down her fingers. The horror of the
situation was almost more than she could bear. She could not think
clearly, but through her aching brain one conviction forced itself.
She was disgraced, irretrievably disgraced. Her good name was lost
forever. Nothing could restore it, nothing. If an angel from heaven
were to declare it, no man or woman would hereafter believe in her
purity and innocence. What should she do? Wait till the morning to be
turned from the hospitable house of these kind sisters? Go forth into
the broad light of day, and be pointed at and publicly shamed? No, she
would fly at once, secretly and alone, into the hard, cold world, far,
far from the merciless men and women who were ready to defame her. The
story which Mrs. Seaton had related to the maiden sisters was false
and malignant, but it was built upon a foundation of truth. If she
herself had to give evidence in her own defence she would be
pronounced guilty. She had been turned from Mrs. Seaton's house late
in the night, but she had signed a paper saying that she went of her
own free will. She and Gerald had been together in the streets--for
how long? She could not remember, but it seemed to be hours. And as if
that were not shame enough she had taken refuge in his house and had
accepted his hospitality at an hour that would make virtuous women
blush. He had pledged his faith to her, he had asked her to be his
wife, and now, when she most needed a defender, he was absent. It was
true, then, that he had deserted her. Had it been otherwise would he
not have sought her long before this, would he not have been present
to cast the malignant lie in Mrs. Seaton's face? She had believed so
fully in his faith and honor, in his professions of love! But he was
false, like all the rest of the world, from which sweetness and life
had forever fled.
"Oh, God!" she moaned. "In your Divine mercy, let me die to-night!"