In consenting to bestow Regina's hand on Mr. Palma, Mrs. Laurance had
stipulated that the marriage should be deferred for one year,
alleging that her daughter was yet very young, and having been so
long separated she wished her to remain with her at least for some
months. Mr. Palma reluctantly assented to conditions which compelled
him to return to America without Regina, and in November Mrs.
Laurance removed to Milan, where she desired that her child's fine
voice and musical talent should be trained and developed by the most
superior instruction.
Swiftly the twelve months sped away, and in revisiting the
Mediterranean shores, linked by so many painful reminiscences with
the period of her former sojourn, Mrs. Laurance, despite the efforts
of her faithful and fond companion, seemed to sink into a confirmed
melancholy.
By tacit agreement no reference was ever made to her past life, but a
shadow chill and unlifting brooded over her, and the sleeplessness
that no opiate could conquer--a sleeplessness born of heart-ache
which no spell could narcotize--robbed her cheek of its bloom, and
left weary lines on her patient, hopeless face.
Mr. Chesley had returned with Mr. Palma to the United States, and
late in the following autumn Mrs. Laurance and Regina sailed for New
York.
The associations of the voyage were peculiarly painful to the unhappy
wife, whose lips never unclosed upon the topic that engrossed her
thoughts, and soon after their arrival her physician advised a trip
to Florida or Cuba, until the rigour of the winter had ended, as an
obstinate cough again aroused fears of consumption.
To accompany her mother, Regina postponed her marriage until June,
and notwithstanding Mr. Palma's avowed dissatisfaction and earnest
protest, spent the winter and spring in the West Indies. Mrs.
Laurance gradually regained health, but not cheerfulness, and in May,
when they returned to New York, preparations were made for the
wedding, which in deference to her mother's feelings, Regina desired
should be very quiet.
Her husband's estate had long been in Mrs. Laurance's possession, and
the stately mansion had been repaired and refurnished, awaiting its
owner; but she shrank with a shiver from the mention of the place,
announcing her intention to visit it no more, until she was laid to
rest in the proud family tomb, whither the remains of General René
Laurance had already been removed.
In accordance with her daughter's wishes, she had taken for the
summer a villa on the Hudson, only a short distance from the city,
and a week before the day appointed for the marriage they took
possession of their country home.
As the time rapidly approached, Mrs. Laurance's depression of spirits
seemed to increase; she jealously counted the hours that remained,
and her sad eyes rested with fateful foreboding on her daughter's
happy countenance.
On the afternoon previous to the wedding, the mother sat on the
verandah overlooking the velvet lawn that stretched between the house
and the river. The sun was setting, and the rich red glow rested upon
the crest of distant hills, and smote the sails of two vessels
gliding close to the opposite shore.
On the stone step sat Regina, her head leaning against her mother's
knee, her hand half buried in the snowy locks of Hero, who crouched
at her side.
"Mrs. Palma and Uncle Orme will not arrive until noon; but Olga comes
early to-morrow; and, mother, I know you will be glad to learn that
at last her brother has persuaded her to abandon her intention of
joining the----"
She did not complete the sentence, for glancing up, she saw that Mrs.
Laurance's melancholy eyes were fixed on the crimson sky and purpling
hills far away, and she knew that her thoughts were haunting grey,
ashy crypts of the Bygone.
For some moments silence prevailed, and mother and child presented a
singular contrast. The former was clad in some violet-coloured
fabric, and her wealth of golden hair was brushed smoothly back and
twisted into a loose knot, where her daughter's fingers had inserted
a moss rose with clustering buds and glossy leaves.
The girl wore a simple white muslin, high in the throat, where a
quilling of soft lace was secured by a bunch of lemon blooms and
violets; and around her coil of jet hair twined a long spray of
Arabian jasmine that drooped almost to her shoulder.
One face star-eyed and beaming as Hope, with rosy dreams lurking
about the curves of her perfect mouth; the other pale, dejected, yet
uncomplaining, a lovely statue of Regret.
Very soon the white hand that wore the black agate, wandered across
the daughter's silky hair.
"Yonder goes the train; and Mr. Palma will be here in a few minutes.
How little I dreamed that cold, undemonstrative, selfish man would
prove such a patient, tender lover! Truly--
'Beauty hath made our greatest manhoods weak.'
Kiss me, my darling, before you go to meet him. My blue-eyed baby!
after to-morrow you will be mine no longer. In the hearts of wives
husbands supplant mothers, and reign supreme. Do not speak, my love.
Only kiss me, and go."
She bent over the face resting on her knee, and a moment after
Regina, followed by the noble old dog, went down the circuitous walk
leading to the iron gate. On either side stood deodar cedars, and
behind one of these she sat down on a rustic seat.
She had not waited long when footsteps approached, and Mr. Palma's
tall, handsome figure passed through the gate, accompanied by one who
followed slowly.
"Lily!"
The lawyer passed his arm around her, drew her to his side, and
whispered:
"I bring you glad tidings. I bring my darling a very precious bridal
present--her father."
Turning quickly, he put her in Mr. Laurance's arms.
"Can my daughter cordially welcome her unhappy and unworthy father?"
"Oh! how merciful God has been to me! My father alive and
safe--really folding me to his heart? Now my mother can rest, for now
she can utter the forgiveness which her heart long ago pronounced;
but which, having withheld at your painful parting interview, has so
sorely weighed down her spirits. Oh, how bright the world looks!
Thank God! at last mother can find peace."
Looking fondly at her radiant face, Mr. Laurance asked in an unsteady
voice:
"Will my Minnie's child plead with her, for the long-lost husband of
her youth?"
"Oh, father! there is no need. Her love must have triumphed long ago
over the sense of cruel wrong and the memory of the past, for since
we learned that you were among those who perished she has silently
mourned as only a wife can for the husband she loves. Because she
sees in my face the reflex of yours, it has of late grown doubly dear
to her; and sometimes at night when she believes me asleep, she
touches me softly, and whispers, 'My Cuthbert's baby.' But why have
you so long allowed us to believe you were lost on that vessel?"
Briefly Mr. Laurance outlined the facts of his escape upon a raft,
which was hastily constructed by several of the crew when the boats
were beyond their reach. Upon this he had placed Maud, and on the
morning after the wreck of the vessel they succeeded in getting into
one of the boats which was floating bottom upward, and providentially
drifted quite near the raft. For several days they were tossed
helplessly from wave to wave, exposed to heavy rains, and on the
third evening, poor little Maud who had been unconscious for some
hours, died in her father's arms. At midnight when the moon shone
full and bright, he had wrapped the little form in his coat, and
consigned her to a final resting-place beneath the blue billows,
where her mother had already gone down amid the fury of the gale. He
knew from the colour and lettering of the boat, that it was the same
in which he had placed his terrified wife, and when it floated to
their raft he could not doubt her melancholy fate. A few hours after
Maud's burial, a Danish brig bound for Valparaiso discovered the
boat and its signals of distress, and taking on board the four
survivors, sailed away on its destined track. Mr. Laurance bad made
his way to Rio Janeiro, and subsequently to Havana, but learning from
the published accounts that his wife had indeed perished, and that he
also was numbered among the lost, he determined not to reveal the
fact of his existence to any one. Financially beggared, his ancestral
home covered by mortgages which Mrs. Laurance held, and utterly
hopeless of arousing her compassion or obtaining her pardon, he was
too proud to endure the humiliation that would overwhelm him in the
divorce suit he knew she intended to institute; and resolved never to
return to the United States, where he could expect only disgrace and
sorrow.
While in Liverpool, preparing to go to Melbourne, he accidentally
found and read Mrs. Laurance's advertisement in the London _Times_,
offering a reward for any definite information concerning Cuthbert
Laurance, reported lost on Steamer ----. Had she relented, would she
pardon him now? He was lonely, desolate; his heart yearned for the
sight of his fair young daughter, doubly dear since the loss of poor
Maud, and he longed inexpressibly to see once more the love of his
early and his later life.
If still implacably vindictive, would she have continued the
advertisement, which so powerfully tempted him to reveal himself? He
was fully conscious of his own unworthiness, and of the magnitude of
the wrongs inflicted upon her, but after a long struggle with his
pride, which bled sorely at thought of the scornful repulse that
might await him, he had written confidentially to Mr. Palma, and in
accordance with his advice, returned to New York.
Only the day previous he had arrived, and now came to test the power
of memory over his wife's heart.
"Father, she is sitting alone on the verandah, with such a world of
sadness in her eyes, which have lost the blessed power of weeping. Go
to her. I believe you need no ally to reach my mother's heart."
Mr. Laurance kissed her fair forehead, and walked away; and passing
his arm around Regina, Mr. Palma drew her forward across the lawn
till they reached a branching lilac near the verandah.
Here he paused, took off his glasses, and looked proudly and
tenderly down into the violet eyes that even now met his so shyly.
"My Lily, to-morrow at this hour you will be my wife."
His haughty lips were smiling as they sought hers, and with her
lovely flushed face half hidden on his shoulder, and one small hand
clinging to his, she watched her father's figure approaching the
steps.
Mrs. Laurance sat with her folded hands resting on the rail of the
balustrade, her head slightly drooped upon her bosom; and the
beautiful face was lighted by the dying sunset splendour, that
seemed to kindle a nimbus around the golden head, and rendered her
in her violet drapery like some haloed _Mater Dolorosa_, treading
alone the _Via Crucis_.
Dusky shadows under the melancholy brown eyes made them appear
darker, deeper, almost prophetic, and over her lips drifted a
fragment from "Regret"
"Oh that word Regret!
There have been nights and morns, when we have sighed,
'Let us alone Regret! We are content
To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep
For aye.' But it is patient, and it wakes;
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep,
But plaineth on the bed that it is bard."...
"Ahyes. In the room of revenge reigns regret. Where is my revenge? It
gleamed like nectar, and when I drained it consuming poison clung to
my lips. To revenge is to regret--for ever! To-day how utterly
widowed; to-morrow--childless. Oh, stranded life! Infelice!
Infelice!"
Upon the stone steps stood the man whom her eyes, turned toward the
distant hill-tops, had not yet seen, but when the passionate pathos
of that voice which had so often charmed and swayed its audiences
died away in a sob, a musical yet very tremulous tone fell on the
evening air:
"Minnie,--my wife! After almost twenty years of neglect, injustice,
and wrong, can the husband of your youth, and the father of your
child, hope for pardon?"
"There is no ruined life beyond the smile of heaven,
And compensating grace for every loss is given,
The Coliseum's shell is loved of flower and vine,
And through its shattered rents the peaceful planets shine."
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co London & Edinburg