DRIFTING OUT.
In Mrs. Major Wheatly's pretty drawing-room in their new house in Golden
Row sat Miss Winnie Rose, the governess. She is dressed in slight
mourning, very simple, as becomes a governess, but fitting the small,
light figure with exquisite neatness, and she is counting time for Miss
Wheatly, who sits strumming out her music-lesson at the piano. Mrs.
Wheatly lies on a sofa at the window, dawdling over a novel and looking
listlessly at the passers-by, and wishing some one would call. She
started up, thinking her mental prayer was granted, as a servant
entered with a card. But it was not for her. It was handed to the
governess.
"Mr. Blake!" said Miss Rose, hesitatingly. "This cannot be for me,
Margaret."
"O yes'm, it is! He requested particularly to see Miss Rose."
"Is it Mr. Blake?" inquired Mrs. Wheatly. "What can he want with you, I
wonder?"
Miss Rose smiled as she got up.
"I am sure I don't know. I may go down, I suppose?"
"Oh, certainly, my dear!" said Mrs. Wheatly, yawning. "And ask him if he
has heard from his sister lately. Stop your strumming, Louisa, it makes
my head ache."
Mr. Blake was sitting in what was called the morning-room, and shook
hands with Miss Rose when she came in. But how strangely grave he was!
What could he want with her? Her heart fluttered a little as she looked
at him.
"My dear young lady!" he began, with an ominously grave face, "it is
very serious business that brings me here this morning. Are you quite
sure no one can overhear us?"
Awful beginning! The little governess turned pale as she listened.
"No one," she faltered. "What is it you mean, Mr. Blake?"
"My dear," said Mr. Blake, as if he were speaking to a young lady of ten
years, "don't look so frightened. I want to ask you a question, and you
must pardon me if it sounds impertinent. Is your name, your family-name,
really Rose?"
The governess uttered a low cry, and covered her face with both hands.
"I am answered," said Val. "Your name is Henderson--Olive Henderson; and
you should be heiress of Redmon, instead of--of the person whose name is
Harriet, and who reigns there now. Oh, my dear young lady, how is this?
Is there no one in the world to be trusted?"
She rose from her seat suddenly, and sank on her knees at his feet with
a gushing sob.
"I have done wrong," she cried, "for all deceit is wrong; and though
Rose is my name, it is not my father's. But oh, Mr. Blake! if you only
knew all, I don't think you would blame me so much. It was not I who
changed it. It has been the name by which I have gone for years, and I
could not resume my rightful one without suspicion and explanation that
involved the honor of the dead; and so I was silent. No one was wronged
by it--no one in the wide world; and I did not think it so very wrong."
She sobbed out as she spoke, in a sudden outbreak of distress. Val
stooped kindly and raised her up.
"My dear child, I only doubted you for a moment. You are too good to
willfully deceive any one to their harm. But you must calm yourself and
listen to me; for right must be done to all. Who is that woman at
Redmon? Is she your stepsister?"
The governess's only reply was to clasp her hands piteously.
"Oh, Mr. Blake, what have you done? How have you found this out? Oh, I
am so sorry, so very sorry; for you don't know the misery you will
make!"
"Misery! Do you mean to yourself?"
"No, no! but to her. Poor Harriet! Oh, Mr. Blake, who can have told you
this?"
"Sit down and calm yourself, my dear Miss Rose, and you shall hear all.
Do you recollect one day, very shortly after your return here, visiting
Miss Henderson at her cottage down the street here?"
"Yes, yes."
"You and she had along conversation in her chamber that day, part of
which was overheard. Miss Catty Clowrie was in the house at the time,
and she overheard--how, I don't pretend to say; but she heard enough to
excite her suspicions that all was not as it should be. She heard you
addressed as 'Olly', and heard you call Miss Henderson 'Harriet.' She
saw her down on her knees before you, pleading desperately for
something, Miss Clowrie could not quite make out what; and she heard
you promise to comply with her request, on condition of her paying over
to Mrs. Marsh a certain annuity. All this looked very odd, you know; and
Miss Clowrie, who is a good deal of an attorney, they tell me, scented a
criminal case. She consulted with her father on the subject, and was
overheard by her brother Jacob, who is in my office. Jake communicated
the story next morning in confidence to Bill Blair, and Bill related it
in confidence to me. I cross-questioned Jake, and got out of him all he
knew, and then pooh-poohed the story, and told them Catty must have been
dreaming. But the annuity was paid, and I suspected the whole thing at
once. It was none of my business, however, so I held my tongue; and as
Mr. and Miss Clowrie hadn't facts enough to go upon, they held theirs,
too, and waited for something to turn up. There is the story to you,
Miss Rose; and now why on earth, if you are the true Olive Henderson,
have you slaved here as a governess, while you let another, who had no
right, usurp your place and wealth?"
The governess lifted her head with some spirit.
"It is no slavery, Mr. Blake! They are very kind to me here, Mr. Blake,
and I have every reason to be happy; and Harriet has a right, a strong
right, which I never mean to dispute, to possess whatever belongs to me.
She is no usurper, for I have made over to her fully and sincerely the
legacy bequeathed to Philip Henderson.
"I understand. You are very generous and self-sacrificing, Miss
Rose--but still she has no right there, and--" But Miss Rose
interrupted, clasping her hands in passionate appeal.
"Oh, Mr. Blake, what are you going to do? Oh, I entreat of you, if you
have any regard for me or poor Harriet, not to reveal what you know.
Indeed, indeed, I don't want it! What should I do with half that money?
I have everything I want, and am as happy as the day is long. Do you
think I could ever be happy again if I turned poor Harriet out; do you
think I could ever live in that grand place, knowing I had made her
miserable for life? Oh, no, Mr. Blake! You are good and kind-hearted,
and would not make any one unhappy, I know! Then let things go on as
they are; and don't say anything about this?"
"But I cannot, my dear little martyr!" said Val, "and I must speak of it
to her, at least, because it is involved in another story she must
hear."
"In another story?"
"Yes, Miss Rose--for I suppose I must still call you by that name--in
another story, stranger than anything you ever heard out of a novel. A
cruel and shameful story of wrong and revenge, that I have come here to
tell you this morning, and to which all this has been but the preface."
The governess lifted her pale, wondering face in mute inquiry, and Val
began the story Paul Wyndham had related the night before. The brown
eyes of the little governess dilated, and her lips parted as she
listened, but she never spoke or interrupted him until he had finished.
She sat with her clasped hands in her lap, her eyes never leaving his
face, her lips apart and breathless.
"So you see, Miss Rose," Val wound up, "in telling that unfortunate girl
at Redmon that she is not, and never has been, legally the wife of Paul
Wyndham, it is of absolute impossibility to shirk the other story. Had
she never falsely possessed herself of that to which she had no claim,
this dishonor would have been saved her. She might have been poor, but
not disgraced, as she is now."
"Oh, Mr. Blake! what have I heard? Nathalie Marsh alive and here?"
"Not Nathalie Marsh--Nathalie Wyndham. Whatever your stepsister may be,
Nathalie at least is his lawful wife!"
"Oh, my poor, poor, Nathalie! And is she really insane--hopelessly
insane?"
"Hopelessly, I fear, but she does not look as if her life would last
long. She is only the shadow of what she was--a poor, thin, frail
shadow.
"And Harriet, who is so proud, what will she say when this is told her?
Oh, how could Mr. Wyndham do her such a wrong? It was cruel! it was
unmanly!"
"So it was," nodded Val, "and it's not like him, either; for Wyndham is
a pretty honorable fellow, as the world goes. But man, even at the
best," said Mr. Blake, modestly, thinking of his own short-comings, "is
weak, and temptation is strong. I think he is sorry enough for it
now--not selfishly sorry, either. And now, Miss Rose, what I want is
this. I know you are a sort of unprofessed Sister of Charity where the
sick are concerned, and you and poor Natty used to be friends. I want to
know if you will come and stay with her for awhile; she hasn't a soul of
the female kind but Midge. If Joanna were here, I wouldn't have to
trouble you; but in her absence you are the only one I can think of. Of
course, her mother must go; but poor Mrs. Marsh is of no more use in a
sick room than a big wax doll. She will play propriety while you stay."
"Yes, yes; I will go at once!" exclaimed Miss Rose, starting up in
womanly impulsiveness. "Wait one moment while I run and tell Mrs.
Wheatly."
"Oh, there's no such hurry! It will do this afternoon, when I will call
for you, with Mrs. Marsh. Don't tell Mrs. Wheatly who it is you are
going to see, mind--the secret will get out, of course, but we don't
want everybody to know it just yet."
"I will not tell. What time will you call?"
"About three. I am going to Redmon now. She ought to know at once!"
"My poor, poor Harriet! Oh, Mr. Blake! She is so proud and sensitive.
You will spare her as much as you can?"
Mr. Blake took the two little clasped hands between his own broad palms,
and looked down kindly in the pale, pleading face.
"I think I could spare my worst enemy if you pleaded for him, my little
friend. Don't be afraid of me, Miss Winnie. I don't think it is in me to
strike a fallen foe--and that poor girl at Redmon never injured me.
Good-bye, until then!"
Mr. Blake's composure, as we know, was not easily disturbed; but he rang
the bell at Redmon with much the same sensation a miserable sufferer
from toothache rings at a dentist's door.
Yes, Mrs. Wyndham was in, the servant said, taking the visitor's card
and ushering him into the library, where a bright fire blazed, for the
lady of Redmon liked fires. Val sat and stared at it, wondering how he
would begin his disagreeable task, and how she would take it.
"She's such a flarer anyway!" thought Mr. Blake, "that I dare say she'll
fly out at me like a wildcat! What a mess it is! I wish I never had got
into it!"
The door opened while he was thinking, and Olive came in. She was
dressed in a loose morning negligee, every fold showing how
indifferently her toilet had been made. Val saw, too, how pale, and wan,
and weary her dark face looked; how hollow, and earthen, and melancholy
her large black eyes. She had had her own share of the suffering, and
her pride and haughty defiance seemed subdued now.
"Does she know already?" wondered Val; "if not, why does she look like
that? Have you been ill, Mrs. Wyndham?" he asked, aloud.
"Oh, no," she said, drearily; "but I have not been out much of late, and
so have got low-spirited, I suppose. This wretched autumn weather, too,
always makes me dismal."
"How shall I begin?" thought Val, staring moodily in the fire. But the
cheering blaze gave forth no answer, and it was Olive herself who broke
the ice.
"Has anything happened, Mr. Blake, to make you wear that serious face?
Mr. Wyndham----"
She paused--her voice quivering a little. Val looked up.
"Mr. Wyndham is at Rosebush Cottage," he said. "Did you know it?"
"I thought he was. It is three days since he was here."
The tremor was in her voice again.
"What does it mean, at all?" thought Val; "it can't be that she cares
for the fellow, surely!"
"Is his mother worse, do you know?" she asked, her spirit rebelling
against the question her torturing anxiety forced from her.
"Now it is coming!" thought Val; "bless my soul! but it is hard to get
out! It sticks in my throat like Macbeth's amen! Madam," he said, aloud,
facing round and plunging into the icy shower-bath at once, "there has
been a terrible mistake, which only came to my knowledge last night. A
great wrong has been done you by Mr. Wyndham, and it is to inform you of
it I have come here to-day."
Her pale face turned blood-red, and then ghastly white.
"You need not tell me," she cried, "I know it! She is not his mother!"
"She is not!" said Val, very much surprised; "but how in the world did
you find it out?"
She did not speak. She sat looking at him with a dreadful fixed stare.
"Tell me all," she said; "tell me all! Who is she?"
"She is his wife! I don't think you can know that. He was a married man
before he ever saw you here."
A low cry of despair broke from Olive's white lips. This was not what
she had expected--at the worst, she had never thought of this.
"His wife!" she cried, "and what, then, am I?"
Val sat dumb. It was not a very pleasant question to answer; and, to
tell the truth, he was more than a little afraid of the lightning
flashing from those midnight eyes.
"What am I?" she repeated, in a voice almost piercing in its shrillness.
"What am I? If she is his wife, what am I?"
"My dear madam, it is a most wicked affair from beginning to end, and
you have been most shamefully duped. Believe me, I pity you from the
very bottom of my heart."
With a cry that Val Blake never forgot, in its broken-hearted anguish
and despair, she dropped down on the sofa, and buried her face among the
pillows, as if she would have shut out the world and its miseries, as
she did the sight of the man before her.
Mr. Blake, not knowing any panacea for misery such as this, and fearing
to turn consoler, lest he should make a mess of it, did the very best
thing he could have done, let it alone, and began the story he had to
tell. So, lying there in her bitter humiliation, this woman heard that
her miserable secret was a secret no longer, and that the pale, silent
actress of Mrs. Butterby's lodgings had been Nathalie Marsh, and was now
Paul Wyndham's beloved wife. That was the misery--she scarcely heeded,
in the supreme suffering of that thought, the discovery of her own
trickery and deceit--she only knew that the man she had thought her
husband, and who, in spite of herself, she had learned to love, had
cruelly and shamefully deceived her. She had never for one poor moment
been his wife, never for an instant had a right to his name; she was
only the poor despised tool, whom he used at the bidding of the wife he
loved. The horrible agony she suffered lying there, and thinking of
those things, no human pen can tell--no heart conceive.
Mr. Blake rose up when he finished his narrative, thankful it was over.
She had never moved or spoken all the time, but he knew she had heard
him, and he paused, with his hand on the door, to make a last remark.
"I beg, my dear young lady, you will not be overcome by this unfortunate
affair. It will be kept as close as possible, and you need not be
disturbed in the possession of Redmon, since such is Miss Rose's wish. I
have done my duty in telling you, though the duty has been a very
unpleasant one, good-morning, madam."
She never moved. Val looked at the prostrate figure with a vague
uneasiness, and remembered it was just such women as this that swallowed
poison, or went down to the river and drowned themselves. He thought of
it all the way to Mrs. Marsh's, growing more and more uneasy all the
time.
"Oh, hang it," thought Mr. Blake, "I wish Paul Wyndham had been at
Jericho before I ever got mixed up in his dirty doings. If that
black-eyed young woman goes and does something desperate, I shall feel
as if I had a hand in her death. I am always getting into other people's
scrapes, somehow! I suppose it's my luck!"
Val knocked at the cottage door, and was admitted to the pleased
presence of Mrs. Marsh. And to her, once again, the story of plot and
counterplot had to be told; but it was a long time before she could
quite comprehend it. She cried a good deal when she fully took in the
sense of the thing, said she wondered at Mr. Wyndham, and thought it was
dreadful to have Nathalie restored, only to find she was out of her
mind. She wanted to go to her at once, she said--poor dear Natty! and so
Mr. Blake went for a cab without more ado, and found Mrs. Marsh shawled
and bonneted, and all ready, upon his return. They drove up Golden Row
and stopped at Mrs. Wheatly's for Miss Rose, whom Val handed in, in a
few minutes, and then packed himself up beside the driver.
Midge opened the door of Rosebush Cottage to the visitors, and stared
aghast upon seeing who they were.
"Is Mr. Wyndham in?" asked Val.
Midge nodded, and jerked her head toward the room he had been in the
preceding night, and, unconscious Val tapped at it, and then walked in,
followed by the two ladies.
Paul Wyndham stood up as they entered, pale and quiet as ever. Nathalie,
wrapped in a loose white morning-dress, lay on a lounge, a pile of
pillows under her head, and a mingled odor of vinegar and cologne and a
number of saturated cloths showed he had been bathing her forehead when
they came in. Mrs. Marsh never noticed him, but fell down on her knees
beside the lounge, in an outburst of motherly grief and joy, raining
kisses on the feverish face. Alas! that now-flushed, feverish face! the
cheeks crimson, the forehead shining, and burning with raging fever, the
golden hair all tossed and disordered over the pillows, and the hot,
restless head turning ceaselessly from side to side, vainly trying to
cool its fire. The blue eyes shone with fever's luster; but no light of
recognition came into them at her mother's passionate words and kisses.
Miss Rose, throwing off her hat and mantle, knelt beside her and dipped
the cloths in vinegar and water, and laid them on the burning brow of
the poor stricken girl. Val looked inquiringly at Mr. Wyndham.
"She must have taken cold last evening in the church," he answered, in a
low tone; "she became delirious in the night, and has continued so ever
since."
"I'll be off for the doctor at once," said Val, briskly; "she's in a bad
way, I know. I'll fetch Dr. Leach, he was their family physician, and
won't tell."
Energetic Mr. Blake stalked out of the room without more ado. Paul
Wyndham followed him to the door.
"They know?" he inquired, motioning toward the room they had quitted.
"All about it," said Val, "and so does that unhappy young woman at
Redmon, and if she doesn't commit suicide before night it will be a
mercy. And oh, Wyndham, by the way, you had better not show yourself. It
isn't a very creditable affair, you know, to any of the parties
concerned, and the best atonement you can make is to keep out of sight."
He strode off, without waiting for a reply, in search of Dr. Leach, and
had the good fortune to find that gentleman taking his dinner. Mr. Blake
hurried him through that meal with little regard to calm digestion, and
on the road had to relate, for the fourth time, the story, of which he
was by this time heartily sick.
Dr. Leach listened like a man who cannot believe his own ears.
"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "is it a story out of the Arabian Nights
you are telling me? Nathalie Marsh alive, and Mr. Wyndham's wife! The
mother all a hoax, and the young woman at Redmon a--what is she, Blake?"
"Blamed if I know!" replied Mr. Blake; "but, whatever she is, Nathalie
was the first wife. It's a very uncommon story, but it is true as
preaching for all that, only I am getting tired of telling it so often."
"Well, well, well! Wonders will never cease! Natty returned to life,
Cherrie back in Speckport, and Charley coming! Why, Val, we will have
the old merry time all over again before long."
"I am afraid not! I am afraid poor Nathalie is beyond even your skill,
doctor. She was almost at death's door before, and this fever will
finish her."
Mr. Wyndham was not in the room when the doctor and Val returned. Mrs.
Marsh and Miss Rose were still keeping cooling applications to the hot
forehead, but nothing could cool the fever that consumed her. Val drew
Miss Rose aside as the doctor bent over his patient.
"Where is Wyndham?" he asked.
"I don't know. He has not been here since you left."
"What do you think of her?" nodding toward the fever-stricken girl on
the lounge.
The governess, whose experience among the sick poor made her no
unskillful leech, looked out of the window through a mist of tears.
"We have found her to lose her again, I fear. Look at Dr. Leach's face!
Can you not read his verdict there?"
The old physician certainly was looking seriously grave, and shook his
head at Mrs. Marsh's eager questioning.
"We must hope for the best, ma'am, and do what we can. The result is in
the hands of Providence."
"Then you think there is danger, doctor?" said Val, coming forward.
"Imminent danger, sir! It is typhoid fever, and a very serious case,
too. A strong constitution would stand a chance, but she has no
constitution at all. Gone, sir! gone! she is as feeble as an infant."
"Then there is no hope at all?"
"None!" replied Dr. Leach, solemnly; "she will never leave this room
alive. And better so, better so than as she was."
"Yes," said Val, sadly; "it is better as it is! My dear Mrs. Marsh,
don't distress yourself so. Think that her mind is entirely gone, and
never could be restored, I believe, and you will be thankful that her
earthly troubles are so nearly ended."
Dr. Leach was giving directions in a low tone to Miss Rose, and Val, at
his desire, lifted the slight form of the sufferer in his strong arms,
carried her into the inner room, and laid her on the bed.
"I will call in again before night," said the doctor. "Remember my
directions, Miss Rose. Come, Blake; you're going, I suppose?"
"Yes; in a moment. I want to see Wyndham."
Paul Wyndham was walking up and down the hall as they came out, his pale
face expressive of but one thing--intensest anxiety. Dr. Leach, with a
stiff bow, passed on and went out, but Val halted.
"Well?" Mr. Wyndham asked, eagerly.
"No hope," said Val; "no earthly power can save her. It's typhoid--the
most malignant kind. She will die, thank God!"
Paul Wyndham leaned against the wall and covered his face, with a bitter
groan.
"As to you," pursued Val, sternly, "you must leave this house at once,
and enter it no more. Do not forget that we are acting criminally in
screening you from the law, and that we can enforce our commands. Go at
once, and do not come here again until all is over!"
He left the house as he spoke, and joined the doctor, who had gained the
highroad. Some people passing stared to see them coming from Rosebush
Cottage, and surmised Mr. Wyndham's mad mother must be worse than ever.
"How long can she last, doctor?" Val asked, before they parted.
"Not over two weeks, I fancy, at the most. This fever will carry her off
at once."
Late in the evening Dr. Leach returned, and found Nathalie worse. Mr.
Wyndham had left the cottage, after taking one last look at the wife he
loved so passionately. The agony in his face had gone to Mrs. Marsh's
heart, and she cried now, as she spoke of it to the doctor.
"Yes, I dare say," the old man returned, shortly, "he's very sorry, no
doubt, but he's a villain for all that; and, only for poor Natty's sake,
I'd have him arrested for bigamy this minute!"
Miss Rose did not go home that night; she would never leave Nathalie
now. She sent a note to Mrs. Wheatly by the doctor, explaining that it
was a case of typhoid, and that she feared to bring the infection into
the family. All further explanation she left to the doctor, only
desiring that her clothes might be sent to her. Mrs. Marsh dispatched a
similar message to Betsy Ann, and before night everybody knew that Mr.
Wyndham's mother was very bad, that Dr. Leach and Val Blake had been
there, and that Mrs. Marsh and Miss Rose were staying to take care of
her.
And what did Speckport say to all this? Oh, Speckport had a great deal
to say, and surmise, and inquire. How was it, Speckport wanted to know,
in the first place, that Mrs. Marsh and Miss Rose should be especially
selected as the sick woman's nurses? To which Dr. Leach replied that
Miss Rose, being such a capital hand at the business, and so fond of it
into the bargain, he thought that there was no one in the town so fitted
for the task; and Mrs. Marsh, having nothing else to do, could play
propriety and read novels there as well as in Cottage Street. What was
Mr. Wyndham's mother like, was she a violent lunatic, and was her
present disease infectious? Speckport further inquired. To which Dr.
Leach said, Mrs. Wyndham was the wreck of a very handsome woman, that
she was not violent, only imbecile, and that her fever was highly
infectious, and made it extremely dangerous for any one but the
physician and nurses to enter the house; on which account Mr. Wyndham
would absent himself from Redmon, and Mrs. Olive from Rosebush Cottage,
until all was over. After which ominous phrase the doctor would hurry
away, and Speckport was satisfied.
Mr. Blake, to be consistent, took up his quarters elsewhere, and visited
the cottage every day to inquire. Paul Wyndham, who was stopping at the
Farmer's Hotel, very near the cottage, came two or three times a day to
ask, but no one invited him to enter, and a sense of honor forbade his
intruding. The answer to all inquiries was continually the same, "No
better." No, Nathalie was no better--never would be better in this
world! She lay tossing on her feverish bed, raving wildly, consumed with
burning heat, never resting night or day. All the scenes of her life
were acted over again in that burning chasm. Now she babbled of her
schoolgirl-days, her mathematics and her music, or berrying and nutting
frolics with Charley. Now she was with Captain Cavendish, loving and
trusting and happy; and now she was shrieking out again that she saw the
murdered woman, and covering her eyes to shut out the ghastly sight. Now
the days of her misery had come; now she was at sea with Captain
Locksley, and in the New York lodging-house; now on the stage, making
rambling, incoherent speeches, and singing stage-songs. Now she was with
Paul Wyndham, his wife; now she was in the cathedral listening to the
stern preacher. And here she would shriek out, and toss her arms wildly,
and ask them to take her to Redmon, that she must tell her all--she
must! she must! And Miss Rose and her mother would have to hold her down
by force to prevent her from rising from the bed in her excitement, and
soothe her with promises that she should go there--only to wait a little
while. And the poor sufferer would fall back exhausted, and perhaps go
back to the old days when she played with Charley, a child.