"I HAVE NO NAME."
What possession more awful that mortal can name
Than the stigma of passion--the birthright of shame--
The cloud of abasement grows deep and more dense
Till the soul is deformed in its darkness, intense.
It was only for a moment that Elizabeth crouched thus on the floor, for
before Sir Frederic could reach her side she had staggered to her feet
and confronting the trembling man with eyes grown suddenly haggard like
his own, she exclaimed brokenly:--
"Oh, Lawrie! Lawrie! You won my love when my heart was innocent of sin;
you deceived me and denied our marriage; you left your child to be born
in dishonor and your lawful wife without protection,--but I will gladly
forgive it all if you will only right the wrong that you have done our
little one by giving her, even at this late hour, her rightful name!"
Throughout her tearful, passionate appeal, the man she called her
husband shrank back with lowered lids and hands upraised before his face
as if to avert the torrent of reproaches that fell from her long silent
lips; but now as she forgot her wrongs and only begged the rightful
heritage of her child, the blood rushed violently to his face and
rising, he bent unsteadily toward her as with blazing eyes and husky
tones he exclaimed excitedly:--
"Name? My God! How can I give that which I never had?"
Then turning almost savagely to the wondering witnesses, he said
bitterly, "Coward and cur I may be, but that is my only legacy,--my only
inheritance from the parents who brought me into a world of sin and left
me, nameless and alone,--an outcast upon society and a leper among those
who boast their proud morality."
Then as his gaze rested once more upon his grief stricken wife, he
lowered his tones to almost gentleness as he added: "I saved your honor
by a legal marriage, but shame for the one honorable act of my life
made me deny it:--
"I tried to kill you," he continued recklessly, but Elizabeth, realizing
the awful consequences of the dreadful admission, sprang forward, crying
sharply, "No! No! Lawrie,--not that! Do not say that!" but he thrust her
wildly aside and went on as if no interruption had occurred:
"That was the second honorable impulse of my life. I knew the misery and
shame of your surroundings was worse than death and as I had no name to
offer you I tried to end your wretchedness"--
Before he could say more the hand of the law was upon him, and a stern
but kindly intentioned voice, said briefly, "Hush, man,--you are closing
the door of a prison cell upon yourself by your talking; come, answer me
and be brief,--are you or are you not Maurice Sinclair?"
"I am not," was the husky answer.
"Are you or are you not, Lawrence Maynard?"
At this question Elizabeth leaned heavily forward on Mrs. Sinclair's
arm, straining every nerve in her eagerness to catch his answer.
"I am not," was again the faint reply.
Then the officer turned to the excited group before him and with an
attempt to shorten the trying scene, said curtly, "Do any of you know
this man, and if so, by what name do you know him?"
There was a moment's silence, then a stranger stepped forward from
behind the others and almost simultaneously the two men looked into each
other's eyes and exclaimed:
"Dr. Seward!"
"Jack Fenton!"
Then the younger of the two, forgetful of his weaker frame, sprang
angrily forward and grasping the physician's shoulder, hissed fiercely
between his teeth, "You called me Jack Fenton, but you know that name is
false. You, and you only, can tell my father's name; speak, man, and
clear the mystery of my birth, or by the God above--"
But the effort was too much for his feeble strength and he sank
helplessly to the floor. Worn out by months and years of intense
excitement and threatened danger; dependent upon the uncertain issues of
chance and speculation for his maintenance and haunted by a morbid
thirst for the avenging of that shame and secrecy that dwelt upon his
birth, it was little wonder that the shock of present circumstances
benumbed his senses.
When at last the room was cleared, Dr. Seward bent above the prostrate
man and deep in his own heart the pain of a life's remorse sprang up and
nearly overcame him.
How much the young man knew of his part in the awful tragedy, he did not
know, but deep in his own heart he felt that the responsibility of this
wretched mortal's sins and miseries rested in great measure upon his
shrinking shoulders, and satisfied now, beyond a doubt, that this was
the child whose parentage he had so long concealed, he turned over and
over in his mind the possibilities of yet undoing the wrong which he
assisted, so materially, to do, thereby removing from his own accusing
conscience the secret that so long had been its burden. But for Mrs.
Sinclair's sake the words must yet remain unspoken. The prisoner would
be speedily returned to London, and upon Lady Van Tyne he depended for
aid in securing for her son, not only all that could possibly be done to
make his trial speedy and his condemnation light, but the deathless
silence which should save one noble woman from the knowledge of a loved
one's treachery. Would Lady Van Tyne do this? Dr. Seward hardly knew,
but he trusted that a mother's love would brave the scorn of public
censure, and that human sympathy for a suffering sister would raise a
shield of silence for the trusting wife's defence.
The Lady Van Tyne was vain and worldly, still it was his only hope, and
win or fail, it was for him to put it to the test.
To Sir Frederic, only, he told his plans, then acting upon their mutual
decision, he returned at once to England, leaving the unhappy young man
safe in the custody of American law and justice.