A REVELATION.
Nora had been, that afternoon, practising industriously, with a view to
having her part in the coming oratorio as perfect as possible; when she
was interrupted by a very unexpected visitor, Miss Spencer.
"I'm so glad to see you," she said, warmly. "So you've actually come to
see me at last!"
"I _had_ to come, unfortunately;" said Miss Spencer, her usually serene
face looking anxious and distressed. "I am sorry to say, I have some bad
news for you."
"About Mrs. Travers?" asked Nora, with prompt divination.
"Yes. She has had one of her restless fits lately. You know I've been
giving her some light work to do about the wards, just to keep her
employed, and I hoped the fit would wear off. But to-day, she slipped
out, and has never come back. We've sent in various directions, but have
got no news of her. Lizzie Mason's people have seen nothing of her. I
knew she didn't know your address, but still I thought it was just
possible she might have found her way here."
"No," replied Nora. "But what can have happened to her?"
"I suppose it's the old story," said Miss Spencer, with a sigh; then,
lowering her voice, she said:
"I know a good deal about her now, and I think I ought to tell you her
story, as she told it to me a few days ago. I meant to tell you about
it, the first time I had a good opportunity. But it is rather private.
She wanted me to promise not to tell any one, but, I didn't promise,
absolutely.
"There's no one else in," said Nora. "Sophy's out, and Will's away
attending some medical convention, and Cecilia's gone out for a walk
with the other children."
"Then, I'll try to tell it to you, as she told it to _me_--by snatches.
Part of it, of course, I had to guess at, putting things together as I
best could."
"Yes, I understand," replied Nora.
"Well, as you know already, she's English, and only came out a few years
ago, under very distressing circumstances. It's a very long story, but
I'll tell it as briefly as I can.
"It seems that her father died from the effects of drinking;--probably
_he_ was a 'dipsomaniac,' too; and--her own mother having died during
her infancy--she had to live with a step-mother who was by no means kind
to her. She got a situation when only sixteen, as a nursery-governess
with a lady who pitied her, and treated her most kindly. About a year
after she went there, a young clergyman came to stay at the house. She
must have been a most lovely girl, and he seems at once to have fallen
desperately in love. She was, evidently, easily won. She says he was
very handsome, and, I suppose, otherwise attractive. The lady she was
with, must, I think, have promoted the match. I suppose she thought it
was an excellent thing for her. So, after a very short engagement, they
were married from the house of this lady, who wouldn't let her go back
to her step-mother. She had only one aunt, the wife of her father's
brother, a good and kind woman; who, however, was in straitened
circumstances, and lived in a distant village. And I suppose her husband
didn't care to have much to do with her relations.
"His curacy--for he was only a curate--was in a small town not far from
London. At first she seems to have been very happy, but, by and by she
began to feel lonely. I fancy her husband began to find that she wasn't
much of a companion for him, for she hadn't had the chance of much
education, though she has quite a taste for painting flowers. So, I
suppose, when his affection began to cool down a little, he began to
tire a little of her constant society and of the quiet life they led. He
was passionately fond of music, and used to go up to London frequently,
for concerts and lectures, leaving her often alone for a day or two at a
time. She must always have been excitable, and she began to have fits of
crying when she was alone, and by and by she was attacked by neuralgia,
to which she had previously been subject. The doctor unhappily
recommended stimulants, and her hereditary taste for them rapidly
developed. The habit grew stronger and stronger, and at last her husband
discovered that she was sometimes not quite herself. She seems to have
had false friends, too, who tempted her. He, of course, was terribly
shocked and angry when he found it out. Probably it broke the spell that
her beauty had exerted to hold his affection. He declared that if she
continued the practice, he would not keep her with him. But when the fit
came upon her, she seemed to have no power to resist it, so she passed
some miserable weeks, trying to keep from it, and, when she could not
resist, in terror lest he should find it out.
"At last the crisis came. One warm day she went to visit one of these
'friends'--drank to excess--tried to get home--but, between the heat and
the effect of the stimulant, sank down, unable to walk, and was brought
home in that condition, insensible. Her husband left the house half
frantic, I suppose, leaving a note for her to read when she came to
herself, in which he told her they must part, at least until she was
thoroughly reformed; that he could not risk the consequences to his
usefulness in his profession, of having such a scandal in his house, and
that he would pay for her maintenance in her aunt's house, if she would
receive her; but, for the present, he would see her no more."
"Oh, how cruel!" exclaimed Nora, who had listened in silent dismay to
the tragic tale.
"Well, I'm afraid nine out of ten men of his temperament would have done
the same," replied Miss Spencer. "But, the poor thing was stunned when
she realized it all. She had no choice, however, except to do what he
directed. She went to live with her aunt in the country village, while
her husband, too miserable, probably, to go on with his work, got leave
of absence and came for a trip to America.
"A few months later, her child was born; but she was so terrified lest
the husband should take the little one from her, that she would not let
him be told of its existence. He did not write to her, directly, only
sending the remittances to her aunt. And he did not return from America,
but resigned his charge in England, and accepted one out here, glad,
doubtless, not to be exposed to meet the curious or pitying looks of old
acquaintances.
"When her child was a few months old, her aunt died, and her only
cousin, a woman some years older than herself, received an invitation to
come out here, to take a sort of housekeeper's place with a friend of
hers who had settled on a Western farm, and was in bad health. This poor
girl, who still loved her husband devotedly, was seized with a great
desire to come out with her, thinking that she too, could get a
situation, and then she would no longer need his money, which it hurt
her to receive, thinking that he could regard her only as a burden. She
of the sea, she would see him sometimes, and she would be near him in
case he were ill. Unhappily she could not subdue the fatal craving, and
she had no hope of her husband's taking her back; indeed, she seems to
have believed that his affection for her was utterly dead.
"So she set out, with her cousin and her child, for New York. They had
nearly reached land, when a collision occurred at night, and their
steamer was so injured that it speedily sank. In the hurry and
confusion, Mrs. Travers and her cousin were put into different boats,
and the one the cousin was in, was lost. She and her baby were saved,
but she lay in a half-unconscious condition for days afterwards, from
the fright and exposure. It happened that her cousin and she had
accidentally exchanged handkerchiefs, and hers, marked with her name,
was found on the body, when it was picked up, next day. And so, in the
newspaper accounts of the accident, her name was given in the list of
the lost. Her cousin's name was Travers, which had been her own maiden
name. When she recovered and saw her own name in the list of the lost
passengers, a strange idea took hold of her. She would leave it so, she
thought, and if her husband should see the name, he would cease to think
of her as a burden, and perhaps come to think more kindly of her, as we
generally do of the dead. And she felt that, with a different name, she
could make a new beginning in the new land. She went on to the
destination for which they were bound, and, having explained the death
of her cousin, she was accepted in her place, notwithstanding the
drawback of her child. As her cousin's name was Travers, _she_ was
naturally called Mrs. Travers, and she encouraged the mistake.
"What was her real name?" asked Nora, very quietly. A strange idea had
occurred to her, which she would not entertain, yet could not quite
reject.
"I don't know, I can only guess," replied Janet. "Well," she continued,
"she seems to have been tolerably comfortable there for three or four
years. Her cousin's friend knew her weakness, and was most careful not
to let her be exposed to temptation; and when, at times, she did,
notwithstanding, go wrong--it was overlooked, partly for her own sake
and partly for that of her dead cousin, and also of the little child,
whom every one was fond of.
"At last, this good friend died, and then she had to look for a new
home, the husband's mother coming to take charge. She kept track of her
husband's movements, and, as he had left his first parish for a large
city charge, she thought she would try to get a situation somewhere near
him, so that she might see him occasionally, taking care to do so
unobserved by him. Her old enemy still kept its hold on her; and again
and again deprived her of a home. She had been very much embittered
against religion, through her husband's throwing her off, for she
thought that had something to do with it; and had absolutely nothing to
hold by except her affection for her child, for whose sake she would
have kept straight, if she could. When she couldn't get a place, she
tried to maintain herself by taking in sewing, or by selling her little
paintings of flowers on cards, which I suppose people bought more out of
charity than anything else, in these days of chromos. She says she
doesn't know what she would have done, for some time past, but for poor
Lizzie Mason, who was always ready to share with her what little she
had."
"And all this time her husband thought her dead! Is he still alive?"
asked Nora, in a scarcely audible tone. She had grown very pale.
"Yes, he is alive, and he still thinks her dead."
"And suppose he were to have married again?"
"I think she never thought of that, till lately. If that had been
likely, I suppose she would have spoken. She did try to send for him,
when she thought herself dying, on the child's account; but the attempt
failed."
Both were silent for a few minutes. Nora, with a throbbing heart, and
bewildered mind, was going back in thought to the story, trying to piece
things together; remembering, with a pang, Miss Harley's remarks, and
trying to fight down a conviction that was too strong to resist. Miss
Spencer, who had divined the truth without being actually told by "Mrs.
Travers," sat full of silent sympathy for the shock she feared it would
be to Miss Blanchard,--yet not venturing to say a word. She had
purposely left the conclusion of her story somewhat vague, so as not to
let the disclosure come too suddenly.
"Well," said Nora, after a short silence, in the same low tone, "you
suspect something--what is it?"
"Everything points to one conclusion only--I am afraid," she replied.
"Yes, but it seems incredible. If one could only _know_, for sure!"
They heard the children coming and the sound of their merry
voices--Cecilia's lower tones mingling with the others. Nora rang the
bell, and told the maid not to let them come to the drawing-room, and to
bring some tea there for Miss Spencer and herself.
"Sophy is not coming back till late," she said, "and I had dinner with
the children, so I don't want anything but a cup of tea; and you will
stay, won't you? There are so many things I want to ask, yet. But I
couldn't talk to poor little Cecilia, just after hearing all this!"
They sat together in low-toned consultation, with long silences between;
till the evening light had faded out, and only the firelight shed its
fitful gleams about them. At last, however, Miss Spencer declared she
must go, as her turn for duty would come on before long.
"And they may have heard some news of her by this time," she said.
Just then there was a ring at the door. Nora started up with nervous
dread lest the visitor might, by any chance, prove to be one whom, just
then, she felt she could hardly bear to meet. As she listened to catch
the voice at the door, she heard Roland Graeme's clear, low tones,
asking whether Miss Blanchard were at home, as he wished particularly to
see her. Instantly it flashed upon her mind that he brought some news of
the lost one, for it must be something very special that brought him at
this unusual hour.
As he entered, Nora saw that he looked much agitated, and, as she
introduced him to Miss Spencer, she said:
"I believe, Mr. Graeme, you have come to tell us where Mrs. Travers is!"
He looked surprised at her guess; then, recollecting that Miss Spencer
had been the poor woman's nurse, he replied:
"You know, then, that she is out of the hospital?"
Nora assented, and Miss Spencer explained the anxiety her departure had
caused; and then Roland, as briefly and gently as possible, told what he
had seen. The two girls listened in silence, inexpressibly shocked;
tears of pain and pity starting to Nora's eyes, as she fixed them on the
firelight and called up the mental image of the poor young woman,
dragged away, and locked into a police-cell. Miss Spencer, with her
nurse's practical instinct, was thinking what could be done next.
"We must try to get her out as soon as possible, Mr. Graeme," she said.
"Yes," he said, "I will go round in the morning and do what I can. I
suppose they'll let her off with a fine--at worst."
"Oh, I should hope so!" exclaimed Nora. "Only do get her out and send
her back to the hospital! We must keep her there, till something
definite can be done for her."
"There's something else," he said, with an effort. "I found _this_ lying
on the road after she was gone, and I think it must be hers. Will you
take charge of it, Miss Spencer?"
He hoped she would not think of examining it then, but both girls looked
at it with eager scrutiny.
"Oh, I've often noticed it!" said Miss Spencer. "She always wore it
round her neck, and seemed afraid of any one's touching it."
As they examined it, they noticed the peculiar monogram, three "C's"
intertwined together on one side, and the word, "_Celia_," engraved on
the other. Nora took it and pressed the spring. One look at the two
portraits was enough to settle the question they had been discussing,
beyond a doubt.
No one spoke Mr. Chillingworth's name, but all felt that they knew his
sad secret; and knew, too, that of which he himself had not the
slightest idea.