"ONLY YOU AND I, DARLING, ONLY YOU AND I."
The horror of this infamous statement so completely overwhelmed her
that she lost the power of speech. The room swam before her; in her
excitement she had risen to her feet, and her slight form swayed like
a reed in the throes of a pitiless storm. Presently Leonard spoke
again, and his voice brought some clearness to her distracted mind;
but every word he uttered cut into her heart like a sharp knife.
"If you are not sufficiently composed to hear what it is my duty to
say, I will leave you and come again in an hour."
She motioned to him to remain, and her trembling hands then stretched
themselves toward a bottle of water on the table. He poured some into
a glass, which he placed close to her. Rallying a little she managed
to raise the glass to her lips, and to drink, the cold draught revived
her fainting senses.
"Speak," she said. "Say what you have to say."
"Had my brother lived," said Leonard, "the time would have come when
he would have been compelled to make the disclosure himself. Being
gone, the duty which was his devolves upon me. It may be that he would
have righted the wrong he did you, for he was weak and easily
prevailed upon. I do not seek to excuse him, and it is certain that he
acted as he deemed best when he deceived you. Are you attending to me?
Shall I go on?"
"Yes," she gasped, "go on."
"When you were lying at death's door in the village to which you had
flown, the name of which you probably remember--" He purposely paused
here, to afford her an opportunity of answering him.
"I do not remember it," she said. "If I heard it, it has gone from me.
My mind was a blank."
"He was informed by the doctor," continued Leonard, with guilty
satisfaction, "who attended you that there was only one means of
restoring your reason, and that was to make you his wife. It was then
he conceived the idea of a sham marriage ceremony. It must be clear to
you, as it is to every person gifted with common-sense, that it was
not possible for you to marry him or any man in your state of mind. No
minister would have sanctioned such a marriage, and you could not,
therefore, be married in church. It was easy for Gerald to devise a
mock civil marriage, and to carry you away immediately to a foreign
country in order that you should not discover the deception. You have
been witness of the love which existed between him and me; his death
is to me an irreparable loss. I endeavored to dissuade him from his
purpose, but he would not listen to me: weak and amiable as he was, he
had a soul of obstinacy when his mind was strongly set, and my words
of counsel fell upon ears which were deaf to all the arguments I could
use. I saw that there was a danger that the strong love we had for
each other might be sapped if I thwarted him, and I could bear
anything but that. My dear, dear brother! His spirit is with me day
and night, and I forgive him for the action, although many would
condemn him for it. Now, perhaps, you can understand why you are
looked upon with disfavor here in this place--with something more than
disfavor, indeed, with repugnance. They regard your presence as a
shame and a scandal, and young girls are enjoined by their parents to
avoid you. Since my dear Gerald's death the true story of your
relations with him has in some way become known. It is not unlikely
that he himself confided it to some person, perhaps to the village
priest; and, to speak plainly, your position here is a little worse
than it was in your native town in England, from which you had to fly.
It is out of a feeling of kindness to you that I tell you it will be
best for you to leave as soon as possible. The simple people will not
tolerate you among them, and they may show their feelings toward you
in a more practical manner than they have yet done. To enable you to
escape I have a proposition to make to you, if you care to listen to
it."
To escape! Had it come to that? Was it to be ever her fate to fly from
unmerited shame, to be oppressed and hunted down? But it was not of
herself alone she thought; her unborn babe appealed to her. A life of
duty lay before her. It was merciful that this view of the position in
which she stood came to her aid; otherwise her great despair might
have driven her to the last desperate expedient of those wretched
mortals to whom life has become a burden too hard to be longer
endured.
"What is your proposition," she asked, faintly.
"My brother had a regard for you," said Leonard, "and when the time
had arrived when, supposing that he had lived, he would have been
compelled to separate himself from you, he would most likely have made
some provision for you. I stand in his place, and I do loving honor to
his memory by acting as he would have done. You shall not face the
world in poverty, and besides, you shall not have the power to say
that you have been first betrayed and then cast forth penniless. I
will provide for you, and will undertake to pay, through a lawyer whom
I shall appoint, a sum of two pounds a week so long as you lead a
respectable life and say nothing to my dear brother's hurt. You may
live where you like, but I would advise you to choose some other
country than England. There the story of your shame would cling to
you, would follow you everywhere. Away from England no one would know,
and life would be easier for you. Do you accept?"
"Leave me to myself," said Emilia. "I will send for you presently."
"I will wait below," said Leonard; "but do not be long in deciding, or
I may change my mind."
Alone with her grief and her shame, Emilia, by a supreme effort of
will, forced herself to calmness. The solemn sense of responsibility
imbued her soul with strength. She was no longer a girl, dependent
upon others for counsel, for guidance, for love. Not a friend in the
world had she, but a helpless being would soon be lying at her breast
who would claim from her all that it was in the power of a loving
woman to give. A new life lay before her. How would she commence it?
She strove for a few minutes to bring the past back to her mind, but
it presented itself to her in pictures so blurred and indistinct that
she relinquished the effort. Up to the point of her being driven from
Mrs. Seaton's house everything was clear, but her memory was gone upon
all that had occurred afterward until she found herself with Gerald in
a foreign land. The names of places, the names of people with which
and whom she had been associated within that interval were completely
blotted out. She did not doubt the base story which Leonard had
related. Had she and Gerald been legally married he would have placed
in her hands the certificate which proved her a lawful wife. The fatal
omission proved Leonard's story to be true. Not a word about their
marriage had ever passed between Gerald and herself during their
honeymoon. He, with his careless easy nature, living with Emilia a
life of sweetest happiness, left everything to the future; he had
thought it wisest, too, to allow a long time to elapse before reviving
memories which had brought Emilia so much sorrow; she would regain her
full strength, she would be better able to think of the past. This was
not known to Emilia; she could only decide upon her future action by
what was within her cognizance.
She felt no bitterness toward Gerald. He had, no doubt, acted for the
best, and had imposed upon her by a mock ceremony of marriage, in
order that she might be restored to health and reason. Would it have
been better that she had died? No. Her child would soon be in her
arms, bringing with it hope, and light, and peace perhaps. But the
child must not open her eyes among those who knew her unhappy mother's
story. The duty to the unborn which Emilia had to perform must be
performed elsewhere. Gerald's brother was right in advising her to
choose some other country than England in which to reside. But she had
to think of his offer to provide for her.
The moment she set her mind upon the subject she indignantly rejected
the offer. It was too late to remedy the errors of the past into which
she had been unwittingly led, but there should be no bridge between
the past and the future. Even had she been willing to entertain the
offer, it had been made in terms so insulting that no woman of decency
could have accepted it without covering herself with shame. "You shall
not have the power to say that you have been first betrayed and then
cast forth penniless." The provision, then, assumed the shape of a
bribe. And it was to be paid so long as she led a respectable life--a
tacit admission that hitherto her life had been disreputable within
her own knowledge. No, she would reject the offer, and would, with the
labor of her own hands, support herself and child.
At this point of her musings the landlord of the inn unceremoniously
entered the room.
"I wish you to leave my house to-day," he said.
She smiled sadly. This was the second time in her young life that she
had been undeservedly thrust forth upon the world. But she ventured a
gentle remonstrance.
"Give me till to-morrow," she pleaded, "and I will go. It is so
sudden, and I am not prepared."
"I have nothing to do with that," he said roughly. "You must go
to-day."
"If it must be," she said, resignedly, "I must submit. Will you kindly
ask Mr. Leonard Paget to come to me?"
Needless to say that this cruel move had been prompted by the villain
with whom Emilia was presently once more face to face.
"Have you reflected upon my offer?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied. "I cannot accept it."
He shrugged his shoulders, but not exactly at his ease. Did the
rejection mean that she intended to fight for her rights? This might
prove awkward. Her next words reassured him and made him jubilant
again.
"I prefer to depend only upon myself, and to get my own living."
"How? Where?"
"I am well educated, and may be fortunate enough to obtain a situation
as governess in a family or school where a knowledge of English is
desirable. I thank you for your advice as to my future place of
residence, and I shall remain abroad. I have no friends in
England--nor, indeed, anywhere," she added, with a pitiful sigh, "and
I never wish to see it again."
"The landlord informs me," said Leonard, "that he has given you notice
to leave the inn immediately."
"He has been here with the same unkind order. Of course I must go."
"Of course: He has a right to send people away of whom he does not
approve. What will you do? No one else in the village will give you
shelter. I have made myself responsible for the expenses you have
incurred since my dear brother's death."
"That is hardly just," said Emilia, "as I have no claim upon you; but
my purse is empty. I must go away before night." She paused a moment
or two before she resumed. "Things have been removed from my room
during my illness which I might sell, and thus be enabled to take my
departure. I am not strong enough to go away on foot."
"Everything belonged to my brother."
"I do not dispute that."
"Would it not be sensible on your part to reconsider your
determination. Accept the offer I have made to you."
"I cannot." Her eyes fell upon the rings on her finger--the wedding
ring which Gerald had placed there, and the diamond ring which he had
given her. With a lover's extravagance he had purchased one of
considerable value. Leonard knew the price he had paid for it, one
hundred guineas. "These," said Emilia, pathetically, "are my own."
"I lay no claim to them," said Leonard, ungraciously.
"But they are really my own?"
"Consider them so."
She removed the diamond ring from her finger. "Is there any person in
the village who will purchase this of me?"
"No one rich enough. I will do so, if you wish."
"I humbly thank you. Give me what you like for it."
"I will give you a thousand francs," said Leonard, with a sudden fit
of generosity.
"But I do not want more than it is worth," said Emilia, with a joyful
flush. A thousand francs! It meant a safe escape from a place where
she was avoided; it meant sufficient to pay for a few weeks' board and
lodging.
"We will say it is worth that."
"You are most kind," said Emilia, giving him the ring. "And I can pay
what I owe the landlord."
"You cannot do that out of a thousand francs. Try and be a little
sensible, and say nothing more about it. After all, it was Gerald who
brought you here, and the responsibility, which was his, is now mine.
Here is the money. You will give me a receipt for it? Otherwise I
should not be able to account for my possession of a ring you have
always worn upon your finger."
"Kindly write out the receipt," said Emilia, "and I will sign it."
Leonard wrote the receipt, which Emilia signed.
"This will not do," he said. "You have signed it in a name which does
not belong to you."
She had signed "Emilia Paget." She shuddered at Leonard's remark.
"How else should I sign it?"
"In the name which is your own," said Leonard, tearing up the paper,
and writing another; "Emilia Braham."
He placed the fresh receipt before her, and with trembling fingers she
affixed the name, "Emilia Braham." Leonard exulted. Here was a proof
which he had not thought of obtaining. Being dated, it might serve as
an open admission that Emilia, living with his brother, was quite
aware that she was not his wife. The confession and the renunciation
were of her own doing.
"Can I do anything more for you?" he asked.
"Yes. Get me a carriage, and accompany me out of the village. I need
protection from insult."
"You shall not be insulted. I promise it. How long will you be getting
ready?"
"I shall be ready in less than an hour."
Her preparations for departure helped to divert her mind from the
grief which oppressed it. Into one trunk she packed what belonged to
her. She would have liked to take the desk, inlaid with silver, of
Indian manufacture, which she had regarded as her own, but it had been
removed with other articles which she believed were hers. She made no
complaint; even to herself she did not repine; she submitted to
everything, her only wish being to find herself in a place where she
was unknown. All was ready when Leonard came to tell her that the
carriage was waiting.
"Where do you wish to go?" he asked.
"It does not matter," she replied, "so long as I am among strangers."
He named a town at a distance of eighteen or twenty miles, and she
said it would do as well as any other. Soon they were at the door of
the inn, about which were assembled the usual idlers. The carriage
which Leonard had procured was a closed one, and he assisted Emilia
into it, saying that he would sit by the driver. She appreciated the
act, and believed it proceeded from thoughtfulness; it was her desire
to be alone with her thoughts.
The driver was a long time starting; he fidgeted with his horses, with
his reins, with the harness, and then he fortified himself with half a
bottle of red wine. No one approached Emilia while he was thus
employed; no one breathed "farewell," or gave her a kind look. But
when at length the driver took his seat on the box, with Leonard
beside him, and was gathering up his ragged reins, the landlord's
daughter passed the open window of the carriage, and furtively threw
something in. It fell into Emilia's lap, and she, with eyes suddenly
overflowing, and lips convulsed with emotion, covered it with her
handkerchief, lest it should be taken from her. Then with a shout, the
driver set his horses in motion, and they commenced their journey.
Emilia lifted her handkerchief. In her lap lay a little bunch of
flowers, tied together with string, attached to which was a piece of
paper, and written upon the paper the words, "From his grave." She
pressed the flowers to her breast, to her lips, and murmured a prayer
of thankfulness. The sense of the deep and irreparable wrong which
Gerald had inflicted upon her passed away, and she thought of him only
as one to whom she had given her heart and the full measure of her
love. He was her child's father; better to think of him with love and
kindness, which would soften her heart, than with harshness and
bitterness, which would harden it. It would help to smooth the roads
of the future she was to pass in the loving companionship of her
child. "Only you and I alone, darling," she murmured; "only you and
I!"
How kind of the young girl to send her away with this token of pity
and sympathy. "Heaven bless her for it!" thought Emilia. "Heaven
brighten her life, and save her from misery!" Had Emilia possessed a
nature which would have hardened under such sufferings as she was
enduring, the young girl's simple offering would have humanized and
softened it. No wonder, then, that with a nature as sweet as ever
woman was blessed with, she looked upon the flowers from Gerald's
grave as an angel's gift, sent to her as a divine solace and
strengthener. "I _will_ be strong," she thought. "A duty of love is
mine to perform, and I will perform it in humbleness and gratitude."
From time to time Leonard came to the door of the carriage and asked
if he could do anything for her. She gently declined his offers of
refreshment, and said she needed nothing. He did not press his
attentions upon her, and she gave him credit for a kindness of heart
to which he had no claim.
It was ten o'clock at night when they reached the town to which
Leonard was conveying her. The carriage drew up at the door of at
hotel of some pretension, and there Leonard had no difficulty in
obtaining accommodation for Emilia. He told her he did not intend to
pass the night at the hotel, and she was grateful to him.
"To-morrow I shall return," he said. "Shall I say good-by to you now
or then?"
"Now," she replied.
"Very well. Good-by." He hesitated a moment, and then offered her his
hand.
She hesitated, also, before she accepted it. From him she had received
information of the blow which had dishonored her; could she touch his
hand in friendship? No, not in friendship, but why should she be
sullen and churlish? He had done her no direct wrong, he had even
shown her consideration and kindness. To refuse his hand would be a
bad commencement of the new life. She held out hers, and he took it in
his cool palm.
"You are still resolved not to accept my offer?" he asked.
"I am resolved."
"I will not endeavor to prevail upon you, for I see your mind is made
up."
"It is. You cannot turn me."
He gazed at her in surprise. There was a firmness in her, voice, a new
note he had not heard before.
"Is it your intention," he asked, "to come back to England?"
"I shall never set foot in England again," she said.
"Neither from that determination can anything turn me."
"It is a wise resolve. I promise to keep your secret." She turned from
him, saying in a low tone, "I shall be grateful if you never speak of
me."
"I promise not to do so. And you on your part should never mention my
name or my dear brother's."
"I will never do so. He is dead to me. You will be, when you pass out
of this room."
"I should tell you," he said, lingering still a moment, "that I have
entered your name in the hotel book as Emilia Braham."
"I should have done so myself. It is the name I shall bear for the
future."
"Being your right one. Well, good-by."
"Good-by," she said.
So they parted, to meet again--when?