THE ASTOR HOUSE AND THE ATTIC ROOM.
When woman sinneth with her heart,
Some trace of heaven still lingers there;
The angels may not all depart
And yield her up to dark despair.
But man--alas, when thought and brain
Can sin, and leave the soul at ease:
Can sneer at truth and scoff at pain!--
God's angels shrink from sins like these!
Alone in one of the most sumptuous chambers of the Astor House, sat the
man who had made an impression so powerful upon little Julia Warren that
morning. Though the chill of that stormy night penetrated even the
massive walls of the hotel, it had no power to throw a shadow upon the
comforts with which this man had found means to surround himself. A fire
blazed in the grate, shedding a glow upon the rug where his feet were
planted, till the embroidered slippers that encased them seemed buried
in a bed of forest moss.
The curtains were drawn close, and the whole room had an air of snugness
and seclusion seldom found at a hotel. Here stood an open dressing-case
of ebony, with its gold mounted and glittering equipments exposed; there
was a travelling desk of ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, opal-tinted
and glittering like gems in the uncertain light. Upon the mantel-piece
stood a small picture-frame, carved to a perfect net-work, and
apparently of pure gold, circling the miniature of a female, so
exquisitely painted, so beautiful in itself, that the heart warmed to a
glow while gazing upon it. It was a portrait of the very girl whom Julia
had seen supported by that man's arm in the morning--new and fresh was
every tint upon the ivory. Alas! no female face ever had time to grow
shadowy and mellow in that little frame; with almost every change of the
moon some new head was circled by the glittering net-work--and this
spoke eloquently of one dark trait in the character of the man.
He sat before the fire, leaning back in his cushioned easy-chair, now
glancing with an indolent smile at the picture--now leaning toward a
small table at his elbow, and helping himself to the fragments of some
tiny game-birds from a plate where several were lying, all somewhat
mutilated, as if he had tried each without perfectly satisfying his
fastidious appetite. Various foreign condiments, and several flasks of
wine stood on the table, with rich china and glasses of unequal shape
and variously tinted. For at the hotel this man was known to be as
fastidious in his taste as in his appetite; with him the appointments of
a meal were equally important with the viands.
No lights were in the room, save two wax tapers in small candle-sticks
of frosted silver, which, with various articles of plate upon the table,
composed a portion of his travelling luxuries. If we have dwelt long
upon these small objects, it is because they bespoke the character of
the man better than any philosophical analysis of which we are capable,
and from a feeling of reluctance to come in contact with the hard and
selfish, even in imagination.
Oh! if the pen were only called upon to describe the pure and the good,
what a pleasant task might be this of authorship; but while human life
is made up of the evil and the good, in order to be true, there must be
many dark shadows in every picture of life as it exists now, and has
existed from the beginning of the world. In humanity, as in nature
herself, there is midnight darkness contrasting with the bright and pure
sunshine.
There was nothing about the person of Leicester that should make the
task of describing him an unpleasant one. He had reached the middle age,
at least was fast approaching it: and on a close scrutiny, his features
gave indication of more advanced years than the truth would justify; for
his life had been one that seldom leaves the brow smooth, or the mouth
perfectly flexible. Still to a casual observer, Leicester was a
noble-looking and elegant man. The dark gloss and luxuriance of his
hair was in nothing impaired by the few threads of silver that begun to
make themselves visible; his forehead was high, broad and white; his
teeth perfect, and though the lips were somewhat heavy, the smile that
at rare intervals stole over them was full of wily fascination, wicked,
but indescribably alluring. That smile had won many a new face to the
little frame from which poor Florence Craft seemed to gaze upon him with
mournful tenderness.
As he looked upward it deepened, spread and quivered about his mouth,
that subtle and infatuating smile. There was something of tenderness,
something of indolent scorn blended with it then, for his eyes were
lifted to that beautiful face gazing upon him so immovably from the
ivory. He caught the mournful expression, cast, perhaps, by the position
of the candles, and it was this that gave a new character to his smile.
He stretched himself languidly back in his chair, clasped both hands
behind his head, and still gazed upward with half closed eyes.
This change of position loosened the heavy cord of silk with which a
dressing-gown, lined with crimson velvet, and of a rich cashmere
pattern, had been girded to his waist, thus exposing the majestic
proportions of a person strong, sinewy and full of flexible vigor. His
vest was off, and the play of his heart might have been counted through
the fine and plaited linen that covered his bosom. Something more than
the rise and fall of a base heart, had that loosened cord exposed.
Protruding from an inner pocket of his dressing-gown the inlaid butt of
a revolver was just visible.
Thus surrounded by luxuries, with a weapon of death close to his heart,
William Leicester sat gazing with half-shut eyes upon the mute shadow
that returned his look with such mournful intensity. At length the smile
upon his lip gave place to words full of meaning, treacherous and more
carelessly cruel than the smile had foreshadowed.
"Oh! Flor, Flor," he said, "your time will soon come. This excessive
devotion--this wild love--it tires me, child--you are unskilful, Flor--a
little spice of the evil-one--a storm of anger--now a dash of
indifference--anything but this eternal tenderness. It gets to be a bore
at last, Flor, indeed it does."
And Leicester waved his head at the picture, smiling gently all the
time. Then he unsealed one of the wine-flasks, filled a glass and lifted
it to his mouth. After tasting the wine with a soft, oily smack of the
lips, and allowing a few drops to flow down his throat, he put aside the
glass with a look of disgust, and leaning forward, rang the bell.
Before his hand left the bell-tassel, a servant was at the door, not in
answer to his summons, but with information that a carriage had stopped
at the private entrance, and that some one within wished to speak with
him.
Leicester seemed annoyed. He drew the cords of his dressing-gown, and
stood up.
"Who is in the carriage? What does he seem like, John?"
The mulatto smiled till his teeth glistened in the candle-light.
"Why don't you speak, fellow?"
The waiter cast a shy glance toward the picture on the mantel-piece, and
his teeth shone again.
"The night is dark as pitch, sir; I couldn't see a yard from the door;
but I heard a voice. It wasn't a man's voice."
"A woman!--in all this storm too. Surely _she_ cannot have been so
wild," cried Leicester, casting aside his dressing-gown, and hurriedly
replacing it with garments more befitting the night, "Go, John, and say
that I will be down presently, and listen as you give the message; try
and get a glimpse of the lady."
John disappeared, and threaded his way to the entrance with wonderful
alacrity. A man stood upon the steps, apparently indifferent to the rain
that beat in his face. By changing his position he might have avoided
half the violence of each new gust, but he seemed to feel a sort of
pleasure in braving it, for a stern pallor lay upon the face thus
steadily turned to the storm.
This was the man who had first spoken to the servant, but instead of
addressing him, John was passing to the carriage, intent on learning
something of its inmate. But as he went down the steps a strong grasp
was fixed on his arm, and he found himself suddenly wheeled, face to
face, with the powerful man upon the upper flag.
"Where are you going?"
There was something in the man's voice that made the mulatto shake.
"I was going to the carriage, sir, with Mr. Leicester's message to
the--the----" Here John began to stammer, for he felt the grasp upon his
arm tighten like a vice.
"I sent for Mr. Leicester to come down; give _me_ his answer!"
"Yes--yes, sir, certainly. Mr. Leicester will be down in a minute,"
stammered John, shaking the rain from his garments, and drawing back to
the doorway the moment he was released, but casting a furtive glance
into the darkness, anxious, if possible, to learn something of the
person in the carriage.
That moment, as if to reward his vigilance, the carriage window was let
down, and by the faint light that struggled from the lanterns, the
mulatto saw a white hand thrust forth; and a face of which he could
distinguish nothing, save that it was very pale, and lighted by a pair
of large eyes fearfully brilliant, gleamed on him through the
illuminated mist.
"What is it? Will he not come? Open the door--open the door," cried a
voice that rang even through his inert heart.
It was a female's voice, full and clear, but evidently excited to an
unnatural tone by some powerful feeling.
Again the mulatto attempted to reach the carriage.
"Madam--Mr. Leicester will----"
Before the sentence was half uttered, the mulatto found himself reeling
back against the door, and the man who hurled him there, darted down the
steps.
"Shut the window--sit further back, for gracious' sake."
"Is he coming? Is he here?" was the wild rejoinder.
"He _is_ coming; but do be more patient."
"I will--I will!" cried the lady, and without another word she drew back
into the darkness.
Meanwhile the mulatto found his way back to the chamber, where Mr.
Leicester was waiting with no little impatience. The very imperfect
report which he was enabled to give, relieved Leicester from his first
apprehension, and excited a wild spirit of adventure in its place.
"Who in the name of Heaven can it be?" broke from him as he was looking
for his hat. "The face, John, you saw the face, ha!"
"Only something white, sir; and the eyes--such eyes, large and
shining--a great deal brighter than the lamp, that was half put out by
the rain!"
"It cannot be Florence, that is certain," muttered Leicester, as he took
up his dressing-gown from the floor and transferred the revolver to an
inner pocket of his coat--"some old torment, perhaps, or a new one.
Well, I'm ready."
Leicester found the carriage at the entrance, its outlines only defined
in the surrounding darkness by the pale glimmer of a lamp, whose
companion had been extinguished by the rain. Upon the steps, but lower
down, and close by the carriage, stood the immovable figure of that self
constituted sentinel. As Leicester presented himself, on the steps
above, this man threw open the carriage door, but kept his face turned
away, even from the half dying lamp-light.
Leicester saw that he was expected to enter; but though bold, he was a
cautious man, and for a moment held back with a hand upon his revolver.
"Step in--step in, sir," said the man, who still held the door; "the
rain will wet you to the skin."
"Who wishes to see me?--what do you desire?" said Leicester, with one
foot on the steps. "I was informed that a lady waited. Is she within the
carriage?"
A faint exclamation broke from the carriage, as the sound of his voice
penetrated there.
"Step in, sir, at once, if you would be safe!" was the stern answer.
"I am always safe," was the haughty reply, and Leicester touched his
side pocket significantly.
"You are safe here. Indeed, indeed you are!" cried a sweet and tremulous
voice from the carriage. "In Heaven's name, step in, it is but a woman."
He was ashamed of the hesitation that might have been misunderstood for
cowardice, and sprang into the vehicle. The door was instantly closed;
another form sprang up through the darkness and placed itself by the
driver. The carriage dashed off at a rapid pace, for, drenched in that
pitiless rain, both horses and driver were impatient to be housed for
the night.
Within the carriage all was profound darkness. Leicester had placed
himself in a corner of the back seat. He felt that some one was by his
side shrinking back as if in terror or greatly agitated. It was a
female, he knew by the rustling of a silk dress--by the quick
respiration--by the sort of thrill that seemed to agitate the being so
mysteriously brought in contact with him. His own sensations were
strange and inexplicable; accustomed to adventure, and living in
intrigue of one kind or another continually, he entered into this
strange scene with absolute trepidation. The voice that had invited him
into the carriage was so clear, so thrillingly plaintive, that it had
stirred the very core of his heart like an old memory of youth, planted
when that heart had not lost all feeling.
He rode on then in silence, disturbed as he had not been for many a day,
and full of confused thought. His hearing seemed unusually acute.
Notwithstanding the rain that beat noisily on the roof, the grinding
wheels, and loud, splashing tread of the horses, he could hear the
unequal breath of his companion with startling distinctness. Nay, it
seemed to him as if the very beating of a heart all in tumult reached
his ear also: but it was not so. That which he fancied to be the voice
of another soul, was a powerful intuition knocking at his own heart.
Leicester had not attempted to speak; his usual cool self-possession
was lost. His audacious spirit seemed shamed down in that unknown
presence. But this was not a state of things that could exist long with
a man so bold and so unprincipled. After the carriage had dashed on,
perhaps ten minutes, he thought how singular this silence must appear,
and became ashamed of it. Even in the darkness he smiled in self
derision; a lady had called at his hotel--had taken him almost per force
into her carriage--was he to sit there like a great school-boy, without
one gallant word, or one effort to obtain a glimpse at the face of his
captor? He almost laughed as this thought of his late awkward confusion
presented itself. All his audacity returned, and with a tone of half
jeering gallantry he drew closer to the lady.
"Sweet stranger," he said, "this seems a cold reception for your
captive. If one consents to be taken prisoner on a stormy night like
this, surely he may expect at least a civil word."
He had drawn close to the lady, her hand lay in his cold as ice. Her
breath floated over his cheek--that, too, seemed chilly, but familiar as
the scent of a flower beloved in childhood. There was something in the
breath that brought that strange sensation to his heart again. He was
silent--the gallant words seemed freezing in his throat. The hand
clasped in his grew warmer, and began to tremble like a half frozen bird
taking life from the humane bosom that has given it shelter. Again he
spoke, but the jeering tone had left his voice. He felt to his innermost
soul that this was no common adventure, that the woman by his side had
some deeper motive than idle romance or ephemeral passion for what she
was doing.
"Lady," he said, in a tone harmonious with gentle respect, "at least
tell me why I am thus summoned forth. Let me hear that voice again,
though in this darkness to see your face is impossible. It seemed to me
that your voice was familiar. Is it so? Have we ever met before?"
The lady turned her head, and it seemed that she made an effort to
speak; but a low murmur only met his ear, followed by a sob, as if she
was gasping for words.
With the insidious tenderness which made this man so dangerous, he
threw his arm gently around the strangely agitated woman, not in a way
to arouse her apprehensions had she been the most fastidious being on
earth, but respectfully, as if he felt that she required support. She
was trembling from head to foot. He uttered a few soothing words, and
bending down, kissed her forehead. Then her head fell upon his shoulder,
and she burst into a passion of tears. Her being seemed shaken to its
very centre; she murmured amid her tears soft words too low for him to
hear. Her hand wove itself around his tighter and more passionately; she
clung to him like a deserted child restored to its mother's bosom.
Libertine as he was, Leicester could not misunderstand the agitation
that overwhelmed the stranger. It aroused all the sleeping romance--all
the vivid imagination of his nature; unprincipled he certainly was, but
not altogether without feeling. Surprise, gratified vanity, nay, some
mysterious influence of which he was unaware, held the deep evil of his
nature in abeyance. Strange as this woman's conduct had been, wild,
incomprehensible as it certainly was, he could not think entirely ill of
her. He would have laughed at another man in his place, had he
entertained a doubt of her utter worthlessness; but there she lay
against his heart, and spite of that, spite of a nature always ready to
see the dark side of humanity, he could not force himself to treat her
with disrespect. After all, there must have been some few sparks of
goodness in that man's heart, or he could not so well have comprehended
the better feelings of another.
She lay thus weeping and passive, circled by his arm; her tears seemed
very sweet and blissful. Now and then she drew a deep, tremulous sigh,
but no words were uttered. At length he broke the spell that controlled
her with a question.
"Will you not tell me now, why you came for me, and your name? If not
that, say where we have ever met before?"
She released herself gently from his arm at these words, and drew back
to a corner of the seat. He had aroused her from the sweetest bliss ever
known to a human heart. This one moment of delusion was followed by a
memory of who she was, and why she sought him, so bitter and sharp that
it chilled her through and through. There was no danger that he could
recognize her voice then, even if he had known it before. Nothing could
be more faint and changed than the tone in which she answered--
"In a little time you shall know all."
He would have drawn her toward him again, but she resisted the effort
with gentle decision; and, completely lost in wonder, he waited the
course this strange adventure might take.
The horses stopped before some large building, but even the outline was
lost in that inky darkness; something more gloomy and palpable than the
air loomed before them, and that was all Leicester could distinguish. He
sat still and waited.
The carriage door was opened on the side where the female sat, and some
words passed between her and a person outside, but she leaned forward,
and had her tones been louder, they would have been drowned by the rain
dashing over the carriage. The man to whom she had spoken closed the
door and seemed to mount a flight of steps. Then followed the sound of
an opening door, and after that a gleam of light now and then broke
through a chink in that black mass, up and up, till far over head it
gleamed through the blinds of a window, revealing the casement and
nothing more.
Again the carriage door was opened. The lady arose and was lifted out.
Leicester followed, and without a word they both went through an iron
gate and mounted the granite steps of a dwelling. The outer door stood
open, and, taking his hand, she led him through the profound darkness of
what appeared to be a spacious vestibule. Then they ascended a flight of
stairs winding up and up, as if confined within a tower; a door was
opened, and Leicester found himself in a small chamber, furnished after
a fashion common to country villages in New England, but so unusual in a
large city that it made him start.
We need not describe this chamber, for it is one with which the reader
is already acquainted. The woman who now stood upon the faded carpet,
over which the rain dripped from her cloak, had visited it before that
day.
One thing seemed strange and out of keeping. A small lamp that stood
upon the bureau was of silver, graceful in form, and ornamented with a
wreath of flowers chased in frosted silver, and raised from the surface
after a fashion peculiar to the best artists of Europe. Leicester was a
connoisseur in things of this kind, and his keen eye instantly detected
the incongruity between this expensive article and the cheap adornments
of the room.
"Some waiting maid or governess," he thought, with a sensation of angry
scorn, for Leicester was fastidious even in his vices. "Some
waiting-maid or governess who has borrowed the lamp from her mistress'
drawing-table; faith! the affair is getting ridiculous!"
When Leicester turned to look upon his companion, all the arrogant
contempt which this thought had given to his face still remained there.
But the lady could not have seen it distinctly; she had thrown off her
cloak, and stood with her veil of black lace, so heavily embroidered
that no feature could be recognized through it, grasped in her hand, as
if reluctant to fling it aside. She evidently trembled from head to
foot: and even through the heavy folds of her veil, he felt the
thrilling intensity of the gaze she fixed upon him.
The look of scornful disappointment left his face; there was something
imposing in the presence of this strange being that crushed his
suspicions and his sneers at once. Enough of personal beauty was
revealed in the superb proportions of her form to make him more anxious
for a view of her face. He advanced toward her eagerly, but still
throwing an expression of tender respect into his look and manner. They
stood face to face--she lifted her veil.
He started, and a look of bewilderment came upon his face. Those
features were familiar, so familiar that every nerve in his strong frame
seemed to quiver under the partial recognition. She saw that he did not
fully recognize her, and flinging away both shawl and bonnet, stood
before him.
He knew her then! You could see it in the look of keen surprise--in the
color as it crept from his lips--in the ashy pallor of his cheek. It was
not often that this strong man was taken by surprise. His
self-possession was marvellous at all times; but now, even the lady
herself did not seem more profoundly agitated. She was the first to
speak. Her voice was clear and full of sweetness.
"You know me, William?"
"Yes!" he said, after a brief struggle, and drawing a deep
breath--"yes."
She looked at him: her large eyes grew misty with tenderness, and yet
there was a proud reserve about her as if she waited for him to say
more. She was keenly hurt that he answered her only with that brief
"yes."
"It is many years since we met," she said at length, and in a low voice.
"Yes, many years," was his cold reply; "I thought you dead."
"And mourned for me! Oh! Leicester, for the love of Heaven, say that I
was mourned when you thought me dead!"
Leicester smiled--oh, that cruel smile! It pierced that proud woman's
heart like the sting of a venomous insect, she seemed withered by its
influence. He was gratified, gratified that his smile could still make
that haughty being cower and tremble. He was rapidly gaining command
over himself. Quick in association of ideas, even while he was smiling
he had began to calculate. Selfish, haughty, cruel, with a heart fearful
in the might of its passion, yet seldom gaining mastery over nerves that
seemed spun from steel, even at this trying moment he could reason and
plan. That power seldom left him. With all his evil might, he was
cautious. Now he resolved to learn more, and deal warily as he learned.
"And if I did mourn, of what avail was it, Ada?" He uttered the name on
purpose, knowing that, unless she were marvellously changed, it would
stir her heart to yield more certain signs of his power. He was not
mistaken. She moved a step toward him as he uttered the name in the
sweet, olden tone that slept ever in her heart. The tears swelled to her
eyes--she half extended her arms.
Again he was pleased. The chain of his power had not been severed. Years
might have rusted but not broken it--thus he calculated, for he could
reason now before that beautiful, passionate being, coldly as a
mathematician in his closet. The dismay of her first presence
disappeared with the moment.
"Oh! had I but known it! Had I but dreamed that you cared for me in the
least!" cried the poor lady, falling into one of the hard chairs, and
pressing a hand to her forehead.
"What then, Ada--what then?"
He took her hand in his: she lifted her eyes--a flood of mournful
tenderness clouded them.
"What then, William?"
"Yes, what then? How would any knowledge of my feelings have affected
your destiny?"
"How? Did I not love--worship--idolize? Oh! Heavens, how I did love you,
William!"
Her hands were clasped passionately: a glorious light broke through the
mist of her unshed tears.
"But you abandoned me!"
"Abandoned _you_--oh, William!"
"Well, we will not recriminate--let us leave the past for a moment. It
has not been so pleasant that we should wish to dwell upon it."
"Pleasant! oh! what a bitter, bitter past it has been to me!"
"But the present. If you and I can talk of anything, it must be that.
Where have you been so many years?"
"You know--you know--why ask the cruel question?" she answered.
"True, we were not to speak of the past."
"And yet it must be before we part," she said, gently, "else how can we
understand the present?"
"True enough; perhaps it is as well to swallow the dose at once, as we
shall probably never meet again."
She cast upon him a wild upbraiding look. The speech was intended to
wound her, and it did--that man was not content with making victims, he
loved to tease and torture them. He sat down in one of the maple chairs,
and drew it nearer to her.
"Now," he said, "tell me all your history since we parted--your motive
for coming here."
She lifted her eyes to his; and smiled with mournful bitterness; the
task that she had imposed upon herself was a terrible one. She had
resolved to open her heart, to tell the whole harrowing, mournful truth,
but her courage died in his presence. She could not force her lips to
speak all.
He smiled; the torture that she was suffering pleased him--for, as I
have said, he loved to play with his victims, and the anguish of shame
which she endured had something novel and exciting in it. For some time
he would not aid her, even by a question, but he really wished to learn
a portion of her history, for during the last three years he had lost
all trace of her, and there might be something in the events of those
three years to affect his interest. It was his policy, however, to
appear ignorant of _all_ that had transpired.
But she was silent; her ideas seemed paralyzed. How many times she had
fancied this meeting--with what eloquence she had pleaded to him--how
plausible were the excuses that arose in her mind--and now where had
they fled? The very power of speech seemed abandoning her. She almost
longed for some taunting word, another cold sneer--at least they would
have stung her into eloquence--but that dull, quiet silence chained up
her faculties. She sat gazing on the floor, mute and pale; and he
remained in his seat coldly regarding her.
At length the stillness grew irksome to him.
"I am waiting patiently, Ada; waiting to hear why you abandoned your
husband!"
She started: her eye kindled, and the fiery blood flashed into her
cheek.
"I did _not_ abandon my husband. He left me."
"For a journey, but for a journey!" was the calm reply.
"Yes, such journeys as you had taken before, and with a like motive,
leaving me young, penniless, beset with temptation, tortured with
jealousy. On that very journey you had a companion."
She looked at him as if eager even then, against her own positive
knowledge, to hear a denial of her accusations; but he only smiled, and
murmured softly--
"Yes, yes, I remember. It was a pleasant journey."
"It drove me wild--I was not myself--suspicions, such suspicions haunted
me. I thought--I believed, nay, believe now that you wished me to
go--that you longed to get rid of me--nay, that you encouraged--I cannot
frame words for the thought even now. He had lent you money, large
sums--William, William, in the name of Heaven, tell me that it was not
for this I was left alone in debt and helpless. Say that you did not
yourself thrust me into that terrible temptation!"
She laid her hand upon his arm and grasped it hard; her eyes searched
his to the soul. He smiled--her hand dropped--her countenance fell--and
oh! such bitter disappointment broke through her voice.
"It has been the vulture preying on my heart ever since. A word would
have torn it away, but you will not take the trouble even to deceive me.
You smile, only smile!"
"I only smile at the absurdity of your suspicion."
She looked up eagerly, but with doubt in her face. She panted to believe
him, but lacked the necessary faith.
"I asked _him_ to deny this on his death-bed, and he could not!"
"Then he _is_ dead," was the quick rejoinder. "He _is_ dead!"
"Yes, he is dead," she answered in a low voice.
"And the daughter, his heiress?"
"She too is dead!"
He longed to ask another question. His eyes absolutely gleamed with
eagerness, but his self-control was wonderful. A direct question might
expose the unutterable meanness of his hope. He must obtain what he
panted to know by circuitous means.
"And you staid by him to the last?"
She turned upon him a sharp and penetrating look. He felt the whole
force of her glance, and assumed an expression well calculated to
deceive a much less excitable observer.
"I thought," he said, "that you had been living in retirement. That you
left the noble villain without public disgrace. It was a great
satisfaction for me to know this."
"I did leave him. I did live in retirement, toiled for my own bread; by
wrestling with poverty I strove to win back some portion of content."
"Yet you were with him when he died!"
"It was a mournful death-bed--he sent for me, and I went. Oh! it was a
mournful death-bed!"
Tears rolled down her cheeks; she covered her face with both hands.
"I had been the governess of his daughter--her nurse in the last
sickness."
"And you lived apart, alone--you and this daughter."
"She died in Florence. We were alone. She was sent home for burial."
"And to be a governess to this young lady you abandoned your own
child--_only_ to be governess. Can you say to me, Ada, that it was only
to be a governess to this young lady?"
There was feeling in his voice, something of stern dignity--perhaps at
the moment he did feel--she thought so, and it gave her hope.
She had not removed her hands; they still covered her face, and a faint
murmur only broke through the fingers--oh! what cowards sin makes of us!
That poor woman dared not tell the truth--she shrunk from uttering a
positive falsehood, hence the humiliating murmur that stole from her
pallid lips--the sickening shudder that ran through her frame.
"You do not answer," said the husband, for Leicester _was_ her
husband--"you do not answer."
She had gathered courage enough to utter the falsehood, and dropping
her hands, replied in a firm voice, disagreeably firm, for the lie cost
her proud spirit a terrible effort, and she could not utter it naturally
as he would have done.
"Yes, I can answer. It was to be the young lady's governess that I
went--only to be her governess!--penniless, abandoned, what else could I
do?"
He did not believe her. In his soul he knew that she was not speaking
the truth; but there was something yet to learn, and in the end it might
be policy to feign a belief which he could not feel.
"So after wasting youth and talent on his daughter--paling your beauty
over her death-bed and his--this pitiful man could leave you to poverty
and toil. Did he expect that I would receive you again after that
suspicious desertion?"
"No, no. The wild thought was mine--you once loved me, William!"
The tears were swelling in her eyes again; few men could have resisted
the look of those eyes, the sweet pleading of her voice--for the
contrast with her usual imperious pride had something very touching in
it.
"You were very beautiful then," he said--"very beautiful."
"And am I so much changed?" she answered, with a smile of gentle
sweetness.
In his secret heart he thought the splendid creature handsomer than
ever. If the freshness of youth was gone, there was grace, maturity,
intellect, everything requisite to the perfection of womanhood, in
exchange for the one lost attraction.
It was a part of Leicester's policy to please her until he had mastered
all the facts of her position; so he spoke for once sincerely, and in
the rich tones that he knew so well how to modulate, he told how
superbly her beauty had ripened with time. She blushed like a girl. He
could feel even that her hand was glowing with the exquisite pleasure
given by his praise. But he had a point to gain--all her loveliness was
nothing to him, unless it could be made subservient to his interest.
What was her present condition?--had she obtained wealth abroad?--or
could she insanely fancy that he would receive her penniless? This was
the point that he wished to arrive at, but so far she had evaded it as
if unconsciously.
He looked around the room, hoping to draw some conclusion by the objects
it contained. The scrutiny was followed by a faint start of surprise;
the hard carpet, the bureau, the bed, all were familiar. They had been
the little "setting out" that his wife had received from her parents in
New England. How came they there, so well kept, so neatly arranged in
that high chamber! Was she a governess in some wealthy household,
furnishing her own room with the humble articles that had once been
their own household goods? He glanced at her dress. It was simple and
entirely without ornament; this only strengthened the conclusion to
which he was fast arriving. He remembered the marble vestibule through
which they had reached the staircase, the caution used in admitting him
to the house. The hackney-coach, everything gave proof that she would be
an incumbrance to him. She saw that he was regarding the patch-work
quilt that covered the bed; the tears began to fall from her eyes.
"Do you remember, William, we used it first when our darling was a baby?
Have you ever seen her since--since?"
He dropped her hand and stood up. His whole manner changed.
"Do not mention her, wretched, unnatural mother--is she not
impoverished, abandoned? Can you make atonement for this?"
"No, no, I never hoped it--I feel keenly as you can how impossible it
is. Oh, that I had the power!"
These words were enough; he had arrived at the certainty that she was
penniless.
"Now let this scene have an end. It can do no good for us to meet again,
or to dwell upon things that are unchangeable. You have sought this
interview, and it is over. It must never be repeated."
She started up and gazed at him in wild surprise.
"You do not mean it," she faltered, making an effort to smile away her
terror--"your looks but a moment since--your words. You have not so
trifled with me, William!"
He was gone--she followed him to the door--her voice died away--she
staggered back with a faint wail, and fell senseless across the bed.