LIGHT SHINES THROUGH THE DARK CLOUDS.
Leonard cursed his ill luck, cursed Gerald for his infatuation, cursed
Emilia for stepping in to spoil his plans, cursed the wagoner and his
wife for their kindness toward her--in short, cursed everything and
everybody except himself, whom he regarded as the person who was being
wronged in the affair. But he wore a constant smile upon his lips, his
words were honey, and the consideration he expressed for Emilia was
perfect in its way. Sometimes when he spoke of her it was in a choked
voice, and he was certainly successful in deceiving everyone around
him. His one hope now was that Emilia would die, and could he have
done so without risk to himself, he would cheerfully have given her a
cup of poison to bring about that consummation.
Gerald's great grief was that Emilia did not recognize him. Indeed,
she knew no one. Even when she was able to move about her mind was a
blank. She allowed him to take her hand in his, and to retain it, but
to the tender pressure of his fingers she made no response. They took
woodland rambles together, hand in hand, and she gathered wild flowers
which she arranged afterward in the cottage. She listened to all he
said, nodding her head gently from time to time in a manner which made
his heart beat with hope that she understood what he was speaking of.
Of course the subject-matter, when originated by Gerald, was personal.
He dilated upon his love for her, and explained again and again how it
was that he had not come to her the day after the fire; and when he
finished she gazed at him with a pitiful smile on her lips and a
vacant look in her eyes, which proved too well that his words had
fallen upon ears insensible to their meaning. Upon abstract matters
she was more intelligent. She loved the animals about the cottage, and
the dumb creatures loved her and obeyed her least motion; she loved
the flowers that were gathered, but Gerald observed with pain that she
tended with care only those she gathered herself. When he gave her any
she accepted them gently, but presently they dropped from her hand,
and she made no effort to pick them up. "I have wrecked her reason,"
he groaned. "Monster that I am, I have ruined my dear girl's life!" As
for Leonard, he derived some satisfaction from what was transpiring.
"She is drifting into a confirmed idiot," he thought. "It is not so
good as getting rid of her altogether, but I am grateful for small
mercies."
It had been arranged between Gerald and Leonard that a certain secrecy
should be observed in their proceedings. Leonard did not exactly know
how this would be to his advantage, but he had a dim idea that it
might be so turned, and that at all events it would be better than
making a full disclosure of all that had transpired. When Leonard
mooted the plan Gerald asked what would be the good of it, and Leonard
answered:
"My poor boy! What a simpleton you are, and how little you know the
world. It is the publicity of the thing that has driven Emilia to the
injudicious course she has pursued, for I do not disguise from you
that it would have been far better for her had she remained to face
matters boldly."
"It was impossible she should do so," said Gerald. "My dear girl's
nature is far too sensitive and delicate to cope with such snakes in
the grass as Mrs. Seaton."
"Granted; but although there would have been suffering, I still
maintain it would have been the better course. I repeat that it is the
publicity of the unfortunate affair that has directed her movements.
Would she have run away, had she not been found in your house?"
"No, she would have had no motive for doing so."
"Exactly; and the motive that urged her on was the publicity of the
thing. You would only be adding to her unhappiness by making affairs
still more public. Scandal is a feminine bird with a thousand pairs of
wings, my boy, and she would fly here, and render Emilia's life
intolerable. There is nothing that people enjoy so much. Every man's
door flies open when she knocks, and if it should chance to remain
shut the jade creeps in through the crevices. Emilia would not thank
you if she discovered that it was through you she was being pursued by
the wretched innuendoes circulated by Mrs. Seaton. Let sleeping dogs
lie. And bear in mind that Emilia has made things a hundred times
worse by running away from her enemies."
"How so?"
"She has left them in possession of the field, and therefore in the
position of victors. I am not speaking from my heart, but with the
usual worldly tongue, which I most heartily despise, when I say that
Emilia's flight is in itself an admission of guilt. It is really so,
Gerald. She has piled difficulty upon difficulty, and you must not
assist her in the work. Her sensitive nature, yes, I grant you all
that, but it is for the man to be strong and wise, and to let his
actions be guided by a cool brain."
"You are a true counsellor, Leonard. But for you Heaven knows to what
a pass we should be driven. Still it sounds cruel."
"We must be cruel only to be kind, dear boy. The people in these parts
are like people in our own town, like people all over the world. There
isn't a pin to choose between them. So for your Emilia's sake we will
be mum."
So it was settled. Had Leonard had his wish, their names would have
been concealed and they would have adopted others; but to this Gerald
would not consent. Leonard was secretly exultant, although, as has
been said, he did not exactly know how it would be of advantage to
him. But he did know that secrecy would make matters worse for Emilia
instead of better, and that when her acquaintances became aware of the
plan adopted--as become aware they should if the necessity arose--it
would place another weapon in their hands against her.
Thus six weeks passed, and Emilia remained in the same condition.
Leonard wondered for how much longer they were going to stop. The
quietude of the place palled upon him; there were no amusements, no
society, and Gerald being with him, he was compelled to be on his best
behavior. He longed for the busy world and its pleasures and
excitements. He ventured to speak to Gerald about their stay.
"I shall not leave," said Gerald, "until Emilia is better, or until we
are married."
This staggered Leonard. "Surely," he said, "you have no notion of
marrying her while she remains as she is?"
"If it were possible," said Gerald, very seriously, "I should not
hesitate. Leonard, my dear brother, you are my superior in every way,
but at least in this affair I know what is right. Leave me here to
myself, then. Why should I condemn you to a life which must be
intolerably dull to you? You have already assisted me in a manner
which no other man in the world could or would have done, and to my
last hour I shall be grateful to you."
"I shall not leave your side," said Leonard, pressing his hand, "until
you drive me from you."
"That will be never," said Gerald, affectionately. "Leonard, with your
worldly wisdom, can you suggest any plan by which Emilia's mind could
be restored to her?"
"None, my dear boy."
"The doctor who attends her," said Gerald, in a musing tone, "is a
worthy gentleman, but there may be cleverer than he to be found in
cities."
"So far as I can see," said Leonard, much disturbed by this
observation, "he has done all that is possible in such a case."
"There will be no harm in my having a conversation with him. I shall
go at once."
"I am with you, Gerald, if you want me."
"I always want you, my dear brother. Let us go."
They found the doctor, an elderly gentleman, at home, and he received
them politely, but not exactly with cordiality. They fell immediately
into conversation about Emilia, but both Leonard and Gerald observed
that the doctor expressed himself with marked reserve. At length he
seemed to arrive at a certain resolution, and, with a significant look
at Leonard, he said:
"Would you mind leaving your brother and me in private a while?"
"Not at all," replied Leonard, somewhat startled. "If there is any
particular reason for it."
"I have a particular reason," said the doctor, "or I should not
request it."
"What do you say, Gerald?" asked Leonard.
"The doctor wishes it," said Gerald.
Leonard rose, and went to the door. Gerald ran after him into the
passage and whispered, "I will tell you everything that passes,
Leonard. You must not be hurt."
"Nothing can hurt me that is for your good," said Leonard. "I will
walk up and down the street, and wait till you come out." He was
furious with the doctor. "Officious fool!" he muttered when he was
outside. "What mischief will he be up to?"
"Now," said the doctor, when Gerald rejoined him, "I can speak more
freely. I have nothing whatever to say against your brother----"
"Nothing can be said against him," interrupted Gerald, warmly.
"It is pleasant to see the affection that exists between you,"
remarked the doctor; "but he is not the young lady's lover."
"No," said Gerald, "I am."
"It is for that reason," said the doctor, with a slight frown, "that I
desire to confer with you alone. Young gentleman, it is my intention
to speak very plainly to you. You are the young lady's lover, you
declare. Her honorable lover, may I ask?"
"Her honorable lover," replied Gerald, "as I am a gentleman."
"Declared and accepted?"
"Declared and accepted."
"Have you any objection to my saying what is in my mind?"
"Not the slightest."
"You love her honorably. Therefore you would do much to restore her to
health?"
"I would give all I possess in the world. I would sacrifice my life
for her dear sake."
"You are rich?"
"I am very well-to-do."
"Have you a thousand a-year?"
"Three, at least, and funds in hand besides."
"What is the young lady's income?"
"She has none."
"She is poor, then?"
"Yes."
"And friendless?"
"With the exception of ourselves and two good maiden ladies who have
known her only for a day, she has no friends."
"Nor family--parents, I mean, brothers and sisters?"
"She has none."
"Your frank answers make my task easier, but at the same time do not
remove my doubts. I am taking the liberty of an old man, for I am old
enough to be your grandfather. The young lady interests me greatly,
and all that I know of her I have learned from the good people who,
perfect strangers to her, have taken her to their bosoms with as much
sincerity and almost as much affection as if she were a child of their
own."
"God bless them for it!"
"They have told me all they know. It is very little. Shortly after
being taken into their hospitable house, you and your brother present
yourselves. You are not related to her in any way--interrupt me if I
am wrong--and you at once place yourself on terms of loving intimacy
with her. You walk with her, hand in hand, you conduct yourself as a
lover toward her. Your behavior places her in an equivocal position--I
have no hesitation in saying so much--and I, an old-fashioned
gentleman, with old-fashioned notions of honor, regard your
proceedings with disfavor. The restoration of her health is placed in
my hands, and I, a physician of some experience, find in the patient
herself obstacles which it is out of my power to surmount. You two
gentlemen do not assist me in the least; you give no information
concerning her which may assist me in the duty devolving upon me as a
professional man. For there is here some mental disturbance, the
result of a severe shock, I judge to her heart and feelings, of which
I am in complete ignorance, and which renders me practically
powerless. Nevertheless, the interest she has created in me causes me
to make a study of the case, and I have a vague notion that I could
find a road to a cure if I were in possession of the particulars of
her history. Control your excitement."
But Gerald was not to be restrained. He started to his feet, and
bending toward the doctor, said, in his most earnest tone:
"Doctor, there is no fee you can name which I should deem too high if
you can restore the mind of my dear girl."
"My fee," said the doctor, dryly, "is half-a-crown a visit, medicine
included, and the poor young lady is in no position to pay even so
small a bill."
"I am responsible for everything."
"From you, as matters stand, I should decline to accept a penny. You
are acquainted with the story of the young girl's life?"
"I am."
"I have no right to force your confidence. If you choose to confide in
me, I may be able to do as I have said."
"I will tell you everything unreservedly," said Gerald, "on the
understanding that it does not pass your lips to another person."
"Let it be so," said the doctor, after a little pause, "for the young
lady's sake."
"It is for her sake," said Gerald, "that I exact the pledge of
secrecy."
Then he began the story, and related it faithfully, down to the
smallest detail. It occupied him some time, but the doctor did not
once interrupt him, but kept his eyes fixed upon Gerald's face, his
own growing brighter and brighter as the young man proceeded. The
story finished, there was silence for a minute or two, during which
the doctor sat with his head resting in his hand.
"Is there hope, doctor?" cried Gerald, the first to speak. "Tell me,
is there hope?"
"There is," replied the doctor, removing his hand. "The road is open
to you if you will take it."
"Does it, then, depend upon me?" exclaimed Gerald.
"Upon you, and upon no other man. It is my firm belief that from the
moment you take her in your arms and whisper the word, 'Wife,' the
cure will be commenced. The windows of her mind, of her heart, will be
opened for the light, and it will shine upon her soul, which will leap
up exultant in the knowledge that she stands purified in her own eyes
and in the eyes of the world. The stain that now lies upon her, the
heartless, merciless, unjust degradation which has been forced upon
her, have weighed her down, have clouded her mind. And let me tell you
that God has been merciful in this visitation. Had she recovered her
reason, and with her reason, the consciousness of her shame, she might
have gone mad from the horror of it. She is in your hands now, not in
mine."
He spoke solemnly, but no less solemnly than Gerald when he said, "As
I deal by her, may I be dealt by! how can I atone quickly for the
unconscious suffering I have inflicted upon her? Is a marriage in
church possible?"
"In her present state I fear not," said the doctor, "and I consider it
vital that there should be no delay, for she is sinking into
melancholia, from which she would never emerge. The registry office is
open to you, and a marriage there is as binding as a marriage at the
altar."
Gerald's joy at the suggestion was unutterable. All he could do was to
seize the good doctor's hands and press them convulsively, and mutter
incoherent words of gratitude. The doctor understood him, however, and
smiled brightly upon him.
"One word more of advice," he said. "On the day you and my patient are
married, take her away immediately. Do not tarry here an hour. Have
all your preparations made, and start at once for France, or Italy, or
Switzerland. Let her move among new scenes--they will help her to
forget her misery, and will bring back memories of a happiness she
believes is lost to her forever. There, there. Go now, and see about
it. A gentleman offers you his hand."
They shook hands cordially, and Gerald hastened away.
Leonard banished the gloomy look from his face when Gerald came from
the house, but when he heard what Gerald had to tell him he was seized
with consternation. All his fine plans were about to be upset, and he
was powerless. He recognized instantly that nothing he could say would
stop the marriage, and that there was no alternative but to keep
Gerald bound to him, and to do whatever was required. But fair as was
his face, smooth as were his words, his heart was as the heart of a
demon, and he was already at work, scheming for the future, scheming
for the destruction of honest love and happiness.
Gerald found no difficulties in the way. The doctor's assistance
rendered everything easy. In fifteen days from that on which he had
made a confident of the good doctor Gerald and Emilia were on their
way to the registry office.
"You understand, Emilia," he said. "We are to be married this
morning."
"Yes, Gerald," she said softly, "I understand."
It was Gerald's wish that no one should accompany them to the office.
The witnesses, of whom there were three--Leonard, the doctor, and the
old wagoner--were to wait for the couple, and to make no demonstration
whatever. The ceremony was to be perfectly quiet, and the registrar
with a twenty-pound fee, managed this so perfectly that not a soul in
the place with the exception of those present at the marriage, was
aware that it was being performed.
When Emilia said to Gerald, "Yes, Gerald I understand," he looked with
heartfelt hope and gladness into her face. There was already a new
note in her voice; her soul was struggling to the light. They passed a
poor woman with a baby in her arms and some withered violets in her
hand. Emilia turned and gazed at the poor creature and the infant.
Gerald took some gold pieces from his pocket and pressed them into
Emilia's hand. She gave him a sweet look. The light was coming.
"Will you sell me two bunches of your violets?" said Emilia.
"Take them, my lady; two bunches for a penny."
The woman held out her hand, but Emilia, before she paid for the
flowers stooped and kissed the little child. Then she dropped the gold
pieces into the woman's palm.
"Oh, my God!" cried the woman, with a bewildered look, her fingers
closing tightly on the gold.
As they walked along Emilia gave Gerald one of the bunches of the
withered violets, which he put into his buttonhole, and she pinned the
other bunch to the bosom of her dress. Then she lowered her head and
touched Gerald's hand with her lips.
"My darling, my darling," murmured Gerald, with moist eyes, "may I
live to brighten all your future life!"
The ceremony was performed. Gerald placed the ring on Emilia's finger.
She caught her breath, and pressed her bosom with her right hand,
holding out her left.
"Be brave!" whispered Gerald. "My dear wife!"
The light had come: It shone in her eyes, in her face, it irradiated
her whole form. For the second time she lowered her head, and kissed
the hand of her faithful lover.
In a sequestered spot, at some distance from the registry office, two
carriages were waiting, one for Emilia and her husband, one for
Leonard. There had been a brief parting between Emilia and the wagoner
and his good wife, who had kissed her and bade her farewell. Then came
Gerald's parting from those friends and from the doctor. He left with
that worthy man two checks, the first being for the exact amount of
the doctor's account, calculated at half-a-crown a visit--he would
accept no more--the second for a substantial amount, to be given to
the wagoner when the newly-married couple had departed.
"You will join us at Interlaken to-day fortnight," said Gerald aside
to Leonard.
"Depend upon me," said Leonard; and so for that brief space they
parted from each other.
"My wife!" said Gerald, as they rode away in the bridal carriage, "my
darling wife!"
She lay in his arms, quiet and happy. Heaven's light was never sweeter
than that which shone within her wakened soul.