Three o'clock on a warm June afternoon. The great heat has caused
something like a purple haze to cloud over the deep blue of the sapphire
sky. There is not one breath of wind to stir the leaves or cool the
flushed faces of those whose duties call them out on this sultry June
day. Away in the deep green heart of the broad land broad streams are
flowing; in the very heart of the green woods there is cool, silent
shade; by the borders of the sea, where the waves break with a low,
musical murmur, there is a cooling breeze; but here in London on this
bright June afternoon there is nothing to lessen the white, intense
heat, and even the flowers exposed for sale in the streets are drooping,
the crimson roses look thirsting for dew, the white lilies are fading,
the bunches of mignonette give forth a fragrance sweet as the "song of
the swan in dying," and the golden sun pours down its flood of rich,
warm light over all.
Three o'clock, and the express leaves Euston Square for Scotland at a
quarter past. The heat in the station is very great, the noise almost
deafening; huge engines are pouring out volumes of steam, the shrill
whistle sounds, porters are hurrying to and fro. The quarter-past three
train is a great favorite--more people travel by that than by any
other--and the platform is crowded by ladies, children, tourists,
commercial gentlemen. There are very few of the humbler class. Ten
minutes past three. The passengers are taking their places. The goddess
of discord and noise reigns supreme, when from one of the smaller doors
there glides, with soft, almost noiseless step, the figure of a woman.
She wore a long gray cloak that entirely shrouded her figure; a black
veil hid her face so completely that not one feature could be seen. When
she entered the station the change from the blinding glare outside to
the shade within seemed to bewilder her. She stood for a few moments
perfectly motionless; then she looked around her in a cautious, furtive
manner, as though she would fain see if there was any one she
recognized.
But in that busy crowd every one was intent on his or her business; no
one had any attention to spare for her. She went with the same noiseless
step to the booking office. Most of the passengers had taken their
tickets; she was one of the very last. She looked at the clerk in a
vague, helpless way.
"Where to, ma'am?" he asked, for she had only said, "I want a ticket."
"Where to?" she repeated. "Where does the train stop?"
"It will stop at Chester and Crewe."
"Then give me a ticket for Crewe," she said, and, with a smile on his
face, the clerk complied. She took the ticket and he gave her the
change. She swept it into her purse with an absent, preoccupied manner,
and he turned with a smile to one of his fellow-clerks, touching his
forehead significantly.
"She is evidently on the road for Colney Hatch," he observed. "If I had
said the train would stop at Liliput, in my opinion she would have said,
'Give me a ticket for there.'"
But the object of his remarks, all unconscious of them, had gone on to
the platform. With the same appearance of not wishing to be seen, she
looked into the carriages.
There was one almost empty; she entered it, took her seat in the corner,
drew her veil still more closely over her face, and never raised her
eyes.
A quarter past three; the bell rings loudly. There is a shrill whistle,
and then, slowly at first, the train moves out of the station. A few
minutes more, and the long walls, the numerous arches, are all left
behind, and they are out in the blinding sunlight, hurrying through the
clear, golden day as though life and death depended upon its speed. On,
on, past the green meadows, where the hedgerows were filled with
woodbines and wild roses, and the clover filled the air with fragrance;
past gray old churches whose tapering spires pointed to heaven; past
quiet homesteads sleeping in the sunshine; past silent, quaint villages
and towns; past broad rivers and dark woods. Yet never once did the
silent woman raise her eyes, never once did she look from the windows at
the glowing landscape that lay on either side. Once, and once only, she
caught a glimpse of the golden sunlight, and she turned away with a
faint, sick, shuddering sigh.
Her fellow-passengers looked wonderingly at her. She never moved; her
hands were tightly clasped, as one whose thoughts were all despairing:
Once a lady addressed her, but she never heard the words. Silent, mute,
and motionless, she might have been a marble statute, only that every
now and then a quick, faint shiver came over her.
On through the fair, English counties, and the heat of the sun grew
less. The birds came from their shelter in the leafy trees and began to
sing; the flowers yielded their loveliest perfumes, and the sweet summer
wind that blew in at the carriage windows was like the breath of
Paradise.
Still she had neither spoken nor moved. Then the train stopped, and the
sudden cessation from all sound made her start up suddenly, as though
roused from painful dreams.
"Have we--have we passed Crewe?" she asked.
And then her fellow-passengers looked wonderingly at her, for the voice
was like no other sound--no human sound; it was a faint gasp, as of one
who had escaped a deadly peril, and was still faint with the remembrance
of it.
"No," replied a gentleman; "we have not reached Crewe yet. They are
stopping for water, I should imagine. This is supposed to be one of the
most out-of-the-way villages in England. It is called Redcliffe."
She gave one look through the open windows. There, behind the woods, a
little village lay stretched and half hidden by the thick green foliage.
"I want to get out here," she said, in the same faint voice.
Her fellow-travelers looked at each other, and their glances said
plainly, "There is something strange about her; let her go." A gentleman
called the guard, and the woman, whose face was so carefully veiled, put
something in his hand that shone like gold.
"Let me get out here," she said, and without a word he unlocked the
door, and she left the carriage. Those who remained behind breathed more
freely after she had gone. That strange, mute presence had had a
depressing effect on them all.
She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but made her way
quickly to the green fields, where the golden silence of summer reigned.
She walked there with hasty steps, looking behind her to see if she were
pursued.
She opened the white gates and went into a field where the tall trees
threw a deep shade. She sat down then, or, rather, flung herself on the
ground with a vehement cry, like one who had suffered from a deadly pain
without daring to murmur--one loud cry, and, from the sound of it, it
was easy to tell that it came from a broken heart. She bowed her head
against the rugged bark of a tree, and then fell into a deep slumber.
The wearied limbs seemed to relax. To sleep as she did she must have
been watching long.
When she opened her eyes again the afternoon had gone and the shadows of
evening were falling. It was still bright and warm, but she shivered
like one seized with mortal cold.
She rose and made her way to the quiet little village. It was almost out
of the world, so completely was it hidden by the trees and hills. She
reached the quiet little street at last. She looked at the windows of
the houses, but the notice she wanted to see was not in any of them. At
the end of the street she came to a narrow lane that led to the woods;
half-way down the lane was a small cottage half buried in elder trees.
In the window hung a small placard--"Rooms to let." She knocked at the
door, which was opened by a kindly-looking elderly woman.
"You have rooms to let?" said the faint, low voice. "I want two."
Then followed a few words as to terms, etc., and the transaction was
concluded.
"Shall my son fetch your luggage?" asked the landlady, Mrs. Hirste.
"I have no luggage," she replied; then seeing something like a doubtful
expression on the kindly face, she added; "I will pay you a month's
money in advance."
That was quite satisfactory. Mrs. Hirste led the way to a pretty little
parlor, which she showed with no little pride.
"This is the other room," she said, throwing open the door of a pretty
white chamber. "And now, is there anything I can get for you?"
"No," replied the strange, weak voice. "I will ask when I want anything;
for the present I only desire to be alone."
Mrs. Hirste withdrew, and her lodger immediately locked the door. Then
she threw off the gray cloak and thick veil.
"I am alone," she said--"alone and safe. Oh, if my wretched life be
worth gratitude, thank God! thank God!"
She repeated the words with a burst of hysterical weeping. She knelt by
the little white bed and buried her face in her hands. Deep, bitter sobs
shook her whole frame; from her white lips came a low moan that
betokened anguish too great for words. Then, when the passion of grief
had subsided and she was exhausted, she rose and stood erect. Then one
saw how superbly beautiful she was, although her face was stained with
tears.
She was still young, not more than three-and-twenty; her figure was of
rarest symmetry; when the great world knew her it had been accustomed to
say that her figure resembled that of the celebrated Diana for the
Louvre; there was the marvelous, free-spirited grace and matchless
perfection.
She had the face and head of a young queen, a face of peerless beauty; a
white, broad brow that might have worn a crown; eyes of the dark hue of
the violets, with long fringes that rested on a cheek perfect in shape
and color; brows straight, like those of a Greek goddess; lips sweet and
proud--they were white now, and quivering, but the beauty of the mouth
was unchanged.
So she stood in all the splendor of her grand loveliness. There is over
her whole figure and face that indescribable something which tells that
she is wife and mother both, that look of completed life.
The hands, so tightly clasped, are white and slender. There is no
attribute of womanly loveliness that does not belong to her.
After a time she went to the window. Great crimson roses, wet with dew,
and odorous woodbine peeped in as she opened it. The night-wind was
heavy with the perfume of the sleeping flowers, the golden stars were
shining in the sky, and she raised her pale, lovely face to the radiant
heavens.
"My God!" she prayed, "take pity on me, and before I realize what has
happened, let me die!"
"Let me die!" No other prayer went from her lips, although she sat
there from sunset until the early dawn of the new day flushed in the
glorious eastern skies.
While she sits there, with that despairing prayer rising from the depths
of her despairing heart, we will tell the story of Marian Arleigh's
penance.