In the clear, cold analytical light which the "_Juventui Mundi_"
pours upon the nebulous realm of Hellenic lore and Heroic legend, we
learn that Homer knew "no destiny fighting with the gods, or unless
in the shape of death, defying them,"--and that the "Nemesis often
inaccurately rendered as revenge, was after all but self-judgment, or
sense of moral law." Even in the dim Homeric dawn, Conscience found
personification.
Aroused suddenly to a realization of the wrongs and wretchedness to
which his inordinate pride and ambition had chiefly contributed, the
Nemesis of self-judgment had opened its grim assize in General
Laurance's soul, and he cowered before the phantoms that stood forth
to testify.
No father of ordinary prudence and affection could have failed to
oppose the reckless folly of his son's ill-starred marriage, or
hesitated to save him, if compatible with God's law and human
statutes, from the misery and humiliation it threatened to entail.
But when he made a football of marriage vows, and became auxiliary
to a second nuptial ceremony, striving by legal quibbles to cancel
what only Death annuls, the hounds of Retribution leaped from their
leash.
The deepest, strongest love of his life had bloomed in the sunset
light, wearing the mellow glory of the aftermath; and his heart clung
to the beautiful dream of his old age, with a fierce tenacity that
destroyed it, when rudely torn away by the awful revelations of
"Infelice." To lose at once not only his lovely idol, but that
darling fetich--Laurance _prestige_; to behold the total eclipse of
his proud reputation and family name; to witness the ploughshare of
social degradation and financial ruin driven by avenging hands over
all he held dearest, was a doom which the vanquished old man could
not survive.
Perhaps the vital forces had already begun to yield to the disease
that so suddenly prostrated him at Naples, dashing the cup of joy
from his thirsty lips; and perchance the grim Kata-clothes had handed
the worn tangled threads of existence to their faithful minister
Paralysis, even before the severe shock that numbed him while sitting
in the theatre _loge_.
When his eyes closed upon the spectacle of his son, folding in his
arms his firstborn, they shut out for ever the things of time and
sense, and consciousness that forsook him then never reoccupied its
throne. He was carried from the brilliant salon of the popular
actress to the home of his son; medical skill exhausted its
ingenuity, and though forty-eight hours elapsed before the weary
heart ceased its slow feeble pulsations, General Laurance's soul
passed to its final assize, without even a shadowy farewell
recognition of the son, for whom he had hoped, suffered, dared so
much.
"Some men's sins are open beforehand, going before to judgment; and
some men they follow after."
During the week that succeeded his temporary entombment in the sacred
repose of _Père La Chaise_, Mrs. Orme completed her brief engagement
at the theatre where she had so dearly earned her freshest laurels;
and though her tragic career closed in undimmed splendour, when she
voluntarily abdicated the throne she had justly won, bidding adieu
for ever to the scene of former triumphs, she heard above the
plaudits of the multitude the stern whisper, "Vengeance is mine,
saith the Lord, I will repay."
The man whom she most intensely hated, and most ardently longed to
humiliate and abase in public estimation, had escaped the punishment;
housed from reproach by the stony walls of the tomb, mocking her
efforts to requite the suffering he had inflicted; and the keenest
anticipations of her vindictive purpose were foiled, vanquished.
One morning, ten days after the presentation of "Infelice," Mrs. Orme
sat listening to her daughter, who, observing her restless,
dissatisfied manner, proposed to read aloud. Between the two had
fallen an utter silence with reference to the past, and not an
allusion had been made to Cuthbert Laurance since the night he had
first held his daughter to his heart. Death had dropped like a sacred
seal upon its memorable incidents, which all avoided; but mother and
child seemed hourly to cling more closely to each other.
To-day sitting on a low ottoman, with her arm thrown across her
mother's knee, while the white hand wearing the black agate wandered
now and then over her drooping head, Regina read the "_Madonna Mia_."
She had not concluded the perusal, when a card was brought in, and a
glance at her mother's countenance left her no room to doubt the name
it bore.
"After five minutes, show him in."
Mrs. Orme closed her eyes, and her lips trembled.
"My daughter, do you desire to be present at this last earthly
interview?"
"No, mother. My wrongs I freely forgive, I told him so, but yours I
can never forget; and I would prefer in future not to meet him. God
pity and comfort you both."
She kissed her mother's cheek, lips, even her hands, and hastily
retreated. As she vanished, Mrs. Orme threw herself on her knees, and
her lips moved rapidly while she wrung her fingers; but the petition
was inaudible, known only to the Searcher of hearts. Was it for
strength to prosecute to the bitter end, or for grace to forgive?
She placed a strong metal box on the ormolu stand near her chair, and
had just resumed her seat when Mr. Laurance entered, and approached
her. He was in deep mourning, and his intensely pale but composed
face bore the chastening lines of a profound and hopeless sorrow; but
retained the proud unflinching regard peculiar to his family.
Of the two, he was most calm and self-possessed. Bowing in answer to
the inclination of her head, he drew a chair in front of her, and
when he sat down she saw a package of papers in his hand.
"I am glad, Mrs. Laurance, that you grant me this opportunity of
saying a few words, which after to-day I shall seek no occasion to
repeat; for with this interview ends all intercourse between us, at
least in this world. These papers I found in poor father's private
desk, and I have read them. They are your notes, and the marriage
contract, which only awaited the signature he intended to affix."
She held out her hand, and a burning blush dyed her cheek, as she
reflected on the loathsome purpose which had framed that carefully
worded instrument.
"To-day I leave Paris for America, to front, as best I may, the
changed aspect of life. I have not yet told Abbie of the cloud of
sorrow and humiliation that will soon break over our family circle,
for poor little Maud has been quite ill, and I deferred my bitter
revelation until her mother's mind is composed and clear enough to
grasp the mournful truth. In the suit which I presume you will
commence, as soon as I land in America, you need apprehend no effort
on my part to elude the consequences of my own criminal folly and
rashness. I shall attempt no defence, beyond requiring my counsel to
state that no communication ever reached me from you; that I believed
you the wife of another; and I shall also insist upon the reading of
the two letters in answer to those I wrote, requesting the President
and Professor to ascertain where you were. I was assured that a
marriage contracted during my minority was invalid, and without due
investigation of the statutes of the State in which it was performed
and which had unfortunately undergone a change, I believed it. Your
right as a wife is clear, indisputable, inalienable, and cannot be
withheld; and the divorce you desire will inevitably be granted. I
cannot censure your resolution, it is due to yourself, doubly due to
your child--our child! My child! Oh! that I had known the truth
seventeen years ago! How different your fate and mine!"
She leaned back, closing her eyes, against the eloquent pleading of
that mesmeric countenance which was slowly robbing her of her stern
purposes; renewing the spell she had never been able to fully resist.
He saw the spasm of pain that wrinkled her brow, blanched her lips;
and gazing into the lovely face so dear to him, he exclaimed:
"Minnie! Minnie! Oh, my wife! My own wife!"
He sank on his knees before her, and his handsome head fell upon the
arm of her chair. She covered her face with her hands, and a
smothered sob broke from her tortured heart.
"I have sinned, but not intentionally against you. God is my witness
had I known all twenty oceans could not have kept me from my wife and
my baby. When you lived it all over again that night, when I saw you
ill, deserted, in a charity hospital, with the child you say is mine
cradled in your arms, oh! then indeed I suffered what all the pangs
of perdition cannot surpass. When you and I married we were but
children, but I loved you; afterward when I was a man, I madly
renewed those vows to one, whom I was urged, persuaded, to wed. I am
not a villain, and I know my duties to the mother of my afflicted
Maud, to the child of my loveless union, and I intend rigidly to
discharge them. But, Minnie, God knows that you are my true, lawful
wife, and I want here upon my knees, before we part for ever, to tell
you that no other woman ever possessed my heart. I have tried to be a
patient, kind, indulgent husband to Abbie, but when I look at you,
and think of her, remembering that my own rash blindness shut me from
the Eden that now seems so deliciously alluring, when I realize what
might have been for you and me, my punishment indeed appears
unendurable. Ah, no language can describe my feelings, as I looked at
that noble, lovely girl. Oh the fond pride of knowing that she is
mine as well as yours! My wife! my wife, let the holy blue eyes and
pure lips of our baby, our daughter, plead her father's
forgiveness----"
His voice faltered. There was a deep silence. Although kneeling so
near, he made no attempt to touch her. For fifteen years she had
struggled against all tender memories, and every softening
recollection had been harshly banished. She had trained herself to
despise and hate the man who had so blackened her life at its dewy
threshold; but the mysterious workings of a woman's heart baffle
experience, analysis, and conjecture.
Listening to the low cadence of the beloved voice that first waked
her from the magic realm of childhood, and unsealed the fountain of
affection, the days of their courtship stole back; the blissful hours
of the brief honeymoon. He was her lover, her noble young husband;
above all, he was the father of her baby; and yielding to the old
irresistible infatuation she suddenly laid her hand upon his head. As
yet she had not uttered a syllable since his entrance, but the
floodgates were lifted, and he heard the despairing cry of her
famished heart:
"Oh, my husband! My husband, my own husband!"
He threw his arms around her as she leaned toward him, and drew the
head to his shoulder. So in silence they rested, and he felt that one
arm tightened around him, as he knelt holding her to his heart.
"Minnie, your true heart forgives your unworthy husband. Tell me so,
and it will enable me to bear all that the future may contain. Say,
Cuthbert, I forgive you."
She struggled up, gazed into his eyes, and exclaimed:
"No; I loved you too well, too insanely ever to forgive, had loved
you less, I might have forgiven more. There is no meekness in my
soul, but an intolerable bitterness that mocks and maddens me. I
ought to despise myself, and I certainly shall, for this unpardonable
weakness. But very precious memories unnerved me just then, and I
clung, not to you, not to Abbie Ames' husband, but to the phantom of
the Cuthbert whom long ago I loved so well, to the vision of the
young bridegroom I worshipped so blindly. Let me go. Our interview is
ended."
She withdrew from his arms, and rose.
"Before I go, let me see our child once more. Let me tell her that
her father is inexpressibly proud of the daughter who will honour his
unworthy name again."
"She declines meeting you again."
"Minnie, don't teach her to hate me."
"I gave her the opportunity, and she made her own choice, saying she
freely forgave the wrongs committed against her, but her mother's she
could never forget. If I had asked of Heaven the keenest punishment
within the range of vengeance, it seems to me none could exceed the
wretchedness of the man who, owning my darling for his child, is yet
debarred from her love, her reverence, her confidence, and the
precious charm of her continual presence. My sweet, tender, perfect
daughter! The one true heart in all the wide world that loves and
clings to me. You forsook and disowned me, repudiated your vows,
offered them elsewhere, making unto yourself strange new gods;
profaning the altar, where other images should have stood. The
banker's daughter, and the Laurance heiress she bore you, are
entitled to what remains of your fickle selfish heart, and I trust
that the two who supplanted my baby and me will suffice for your
happiness in the future as in the past. Into my own and my darling's
life you can enter no more. 'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he
reap. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?' You deem
me relentless and vindictive? Think of all the grey, sunless, woeful
existence I showed you behind the footlights not many nights since,
and censure me if you can. There is no pious resignation in my proud
soul for indeed 'there are chastisements that do not chasten; there
are trials that do not purify, and sorrows that do not elevate; there
are pains and privations that harden the tender heart, without
softening the stubborn will.' Of such are the sombre wrap and woof of
my ill-starred life. When you reach New York Mr. Erle Palma, who is
my counsel, will acquaint you with the course he deems it best to
pursue."
She looked calm and stately as the Ludovisian Juno, and quite as
lovely, in her pale pride.
"Minnie, do not part from me in anger. Oh, my wife, let me fold you
in my arms once more! And once, just once, I pray you, let me kiss
you! Are you not my own?"
She recoiled a step, her brown eyes lightened, and her words fell
crisp as icicles:
"Since I was a bride, three weeks a wife, since you pressed them
last, no man's lips have touched mine. I hold them too sacred to that
dear buried past to be submitted to a pressure less holy--to be
profaned by those of another woman's husband. Only my daughter kisses
my lips. Yours are soiled with perjury, and belong to the wife and
child of your choice. Go, pay your vows, be true at last to
something. Good-bye."
He came closer, but her pitiless chill face repulsed him. Seizing her
beautiful hand, white and cold as marble, he lifted it, but the flash
of the diamonds smote his heart like a heavy flail.
"The death's head that you gave me as a bridal token! Is there not a
fatality even in symbols? Upon my wedding ring stands the cinerary
urn that soon sepulchred my peace, my hopes. A mockery so exquisite
could not have been accidental, and faithfully that grinning skeleton
has walked with me. The ghastly coat of arms of Laurance."
She had thrown off his clasp, raised her hand, and turned the ring
over, till the jewels glowed, then it fell back nerveless at her
side.
"Minnie."
His voice was broken, but her lustrous eyes betrayed no hint of pity.
"My wife has no pardon for her erring husband. I have merited none,
still I hoped for one kind farewell word from lips that are strangely
dear to me. So be it. Tell my daughter, if her unhappy father dared
to pray, he would invoke Heaven's choicest blessings on her young
innocent head. And, Minnie love, let our baby's eyes and lips
successfully plead pardon for her father's unintentional sins against
the wife he never ceased to love."
He caught the hand once more, kissed the ring he had placed there
eighteen years before, and, feeling his hot trembling lips upon her
icy fingers, she shut her eyes. When she opened them--she was alone.
"We twain have met like ships upon the sea,
Who hold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet;--
One little hour! and then, away they speed,
On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud and foam--
To meet no more!"