A STARTLING VISIT
Early next morning Mr. Cave, in accordance with the request of Dr. Kerr,
went to the Cliffs to spend the day with Tudor Hereward. He found the
young man too ill to leave his room, seated in a reclining-chair near
the open window.
The effects of alternate hope and fear ending at last in despair
deepened by remorse.
Mr. Cave sat down beside him and essayed to comfort him; but he did not
succeed. Loss, sorrow and disappointment may be consoled, but remorse
and despair are beyond comfort.
“The truest, gentlest, fondest child that ever blessed man I drove out
that bitter night to meet her cruel death! It is that which is killing
me,” he said, in reply to Mr. Cave’s well meant efforts to rouse and
cheer him.
“You are morbid, Hereward. You are too severe on yourself. You are not
rational and consistent. You should remember, my dear friend, you did
not mean to drive her away.”
“Ah, but the taunting, insulting, unpardonable words I hurled at her,
heaped upon her head, overwhelming her—no true woman could have borne
them! If she had been the creature I suspected and accused her of being,
she might have borne them and remained here for profit; but Lilith had
no alternative but to leave the house! And I drove her from it as surely
as if I had taken her by the shoulders and put her out and turned the
key against her!”
“I do not think you should consider it in that light. Besides, for the
words you used, you would do wisely to remember now the provocation you
received,” gravely suggested Mr. Cave.
“Not from her! Not from Lilith! She was ever true, meek, gentle and
wonderfully self-controlled for a being so young. No! I never received
provocation from that child,” said Hereward, with a deep sigh.
“Then from false appearances!—false appearances which would have driven
a much older and wiser man than you quite beside himself.”
“But against which I should have set Lilith’s life and character then—as
I do now. No, Mr. Cave, you need not talk to me of comfort. I will not
receive it!”
“Ah, Tudor, you hug, cherish, and cultivate your sorrow.”
“Not my sorrow! Sorrow is a matter of time, and it may be consoled. But
remorse is a thing of eternity, never to be comforted.”
“You seem to nourish this remorse as a matter of duty and conscience.”
“Yes, I do. I will not take comfort.”
“Tudor, my dear boy, there never was a case of insanity in either branch
of your family. Their brains were too strong and too well balanced, else
I should fear for you. But at any rate you really must go away from this
place,” said the minister, very earnestly.
“Well, and if I should, it would be only to wander over the earth as
aimlessly and drearily as the legendary Jew,” replied the young man.
Mr. Cave remained with him until nearly dark, and then went away,
promising to come and see the solitary mourner in a very few days.
The next morning the invalid, with the assistance of the two
men-servants, got downstairs and into the front piazza, where he sat in
his favorite reclining-chair, with a little stand beside him.
He was still sitting there alone, gazing vacantly out upon the lovely
summer scene of mountain, valley, woods and waters spread out before
him, when the sound of a strange footstep, a firm and ringing footstep,
fell upon his ear.
In another moment the figure of a young man, dressed as a gentleman,
emerged from the footpath through the alder bushes, and came into view.
In that moment, with a start of surprise, Hereward recognized the form
and face of Mr. Alfred Ancillon.
The young wanderer came up the steps, and standing in front of the pale
and fainting invalid, took off his hat, and in a stern voice demanded—as
if he had the most sacred right to demand:
“Tudor Hereward! Where is Lilith?”
“Lilith! How dare you utter that name!—the name of the lady whose
destruction you have compassed?” faintly yet indignantly demanded
Hereward.
“No! not I, sir! I never wounded her by a word! I never wronged her by a
thought! Your senseless jealousy has wrought all this ruin! Only ten
days ago, in the remote Southwestern town where I was fulfilling an
engagement, did I happen to pick up an old copy of the New York
_Pursuivant_, and read the account of her dead body having been found
three weeks after she had disappeared from her home! I threw up my
engagement and came here with all speed, for well I guessed that you,
and you only, had the secret of her disappearance and her death.
For—‘Jealousy is as cruel as the grave!’”
“Had I no just cause for jealousy?” demanded Hereward, thrown upon his
defence, trembling with weakness and scarcely conscious of having
instinctively put the question.
“No!—as the Lord is my judge and yours! A better, truer, purer woman
than Lilith never lived! A holier tie than that which bound us never
united man and woman!” retorted Ancillon. “Utterly blameless, though
reckless folly and egotism, if not even insanity, placed her in a false
position, created false appearances about her. But should all this have
led you to suspect Lilith? Lilith, who was brought up at your good, wise
father’s feet, and by your side? Lilith, who was so carefully trained in
all wisdom and goodness? Lilith, whose religious and self-sacrificing
spirit you knew so well? Should any false appearances have shadowed the
brightness of Lilith’s image in your eyes?”
“Man! Hold your peace! I am passing from earth, soon to meet Lilith in
the better world, if repentance and faith can take me there. I wish not
to quarrel with you now!”
“I will not hold my peace! I came here to ask you—Where is Lilith?”
“And you ask it in the tone in which the minister reads the question:
‘Cain, where is thy brother Abel?’ Lilith is in her grave,” moaned
Hereward.
“Yes, she is. And you have put her there. You have as surely murdered
your young wife as if you had plunged a sword through her bosom, like
that black brute, Othello, whom I never could consider a ‘noble’ Moor,
and never would personate to please anybody. Othello, when he found out
his mistake, had the decency to kill himself—the only decent thing he
ever did do! But you, Tudor Hereward—the law cannot hang you for driving
your young wife out to death. Why have you not had the manhood to hang
yourself?”
“Man, spare your reproaches! I am passing from earth, and if repentance
and faith avail me, going to that other world, where I shall receive my
dear one’s forgiveness. You may spare your reproaches, as indeed I do
not know how, or by what right, you, of all men, dare to make them,”
said Hereward, with more dignity than he had hitherto shown.
“I speak by the most sacred right that a man could have to speak,”
solemnly replied Ancillon.
“What are you to Lilith, or what was Lilith to you? A man may not know
all his wife’s relations. You may be of Lilith’s kindred—and, indeed, I
notice a likeness between your faces—but you cannot be of very near
kindred.”
“No?” queried Ancillon, with a wistful look.
“No!” repeated Hereward, with more emphasis than he had yet used in
speaking—“No! for you are not her brother. I knew her father and mother;
they were young people just married a year when Lilith was born. She was
not only their first, but their only child. The father—ah me!—lost his
life while rescuing me from drowning, a few days before Lilith was born.
Her mother, shocked to death by the sudden bereavement, gave birth to
her child and died. My father took the infant orphan from beside the
dead mother, and brought her home to be his own adopted daughter. So
that Lilith was an only child, and you could not be her brother.”
“No, I am not her brother,” assented Ancillon, with the same wistful
look.
“And if you are merely her cousin, or even her uncle, the relationship
in either case would not give you the right to take such liberties with
her name and memory as you have taken, and are taking now.”
“But I am not either her uncle or her cousin,” said Ancillon, with the
same inscrutable look.
“Then, in the name of Heaven, man! what are you, that you have dared to
do as you have done?” demanded Hereward, with an excitement for which he
was to pay in a dangerous reaction and depression.
“Mr. Hereward,” said Ancillon, with more gravity than he had lately
exhibited, “I came here not only to ask that question which first I put
to your conscience, but also to place in your possession a secret that I
have hitherto guarded with the most jealous care, not only for my own
sake, but even for yours, and most of all, for Lilith’s, that no sorrow
should come to her gentle heart, no reproach to her spotless name; but
now that she is gone I care not at all what doom may fall upon me, or
what shame may confuse you.”
Ancillon paused and smiled grimly.
“Speak, man! Speak, man—speak! What is it you would tell me?” demanded
Hereward, trembling with agitation.
“I would tell you nothing!”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing; for you might not believe my words. But I will give the means
of discovering my secret for yourself—of learning my story, and proving
its truth beyond all doubt,” gravely replied Ancillon.
“Well? Well? Well?”
“Do you happen to know of an old trunk, the property of Lilith’s
parents, filled with family relics and correspondence, bundles of yellow
letters, photographs, trinkets, prayer-books, Bibles, old diaries,
newspapers, pamphlets, and other rubbish? Do you happen to know of such
a depository?”
“I think I do,” said Hereward, reflectingly. “Yes; I am sure I do,” he
added, confidently.
“It seems to have been packed and preserved by your father’s orders,
after the death of Lilith’s mother and for the possible pleasure or
benefit of Lilith’s after life. Ah, dear! It was anything but a pleasure
or a benefit to the poor child. It was never opened from the day it was
packed until the day after your father’s funeral, when you had gone to
Washington, leaving Lilith alone in this old house. Then, she having
received the key of the trunk for the first time, as a legacy from your
father, sent for the trunk and opened it. And then she learned the dire
secret of her family, even before she ever saw my face. It was an
accident that brought me to the Cliffs, that night, Mr. Hereward.”
“I heard that it was—the storm——”
“Not so. The storm kept me at the Cliffs, but did not bring me here. I
was a guest at Rushmore, and at the supper table chanced to hear, in the
gossip of the ladies, the story of Lilith Wyvil’s adoption and marriage.
To me it was a revelation. I determined to see her. I did so, and was
storm-bound for a week at the Cliffs.”
“Ah!”
“That trunk, Mr. Hereward, is at your disposal. All necessary
information can be found within it. Seek and know and prove it, all for
yourself! When you have done so, you may deliver me over to the British
authorities as a fugitive from justice and send me back to England,
under your favorite extradition treaty—to penal servitude for life! I
care not one farthing now that Lilith is gone!”
“Man! Man! in Heaven’s name, who and what are you?” demanded Hereward,
pale and shaking with emotion.
“I am known to the British police authorities as John Weston, the mail
robber; to the keepers of Portland prison, Z. 789; to the play-going
public as Mr. Alfred Ancillon, tragedian, comedian, tenor and athlete;
in diplomatic circles in Washington as Señor Zuniga, nephew of the P——
Minister; but to Lilith I was known by another name, and in a sweeter
relation. There! I have said and done all for which I came here. I am
going now. Good-bye! I shall be at the Antler’s in Frosthill all this
week, waiting your pleasure;” and the visitor put on his hat and walked
off by the way through which he had come.
He had seen Mr. Hereward drop back in his chair; but neither knew nor,
if he had known, would have cared that the invalid had fallen into a
deep swoon.
In this condition Dr. Kerr found him a few minutes later.
After using prompt means for his recovery, and seeing him open his eyes
and breathe again, the doctor made him swallow a cordial, and then asked
him what had caused his swoon.
“Weakness, I suppose,” evasively answered the invalid.
The doctor took him into the cool, shady drawing-room and made him lie
down on the sofa.
And then, when his strength was somewhat restored by the cordial he had
swallowed, the doctor produced a large envelope with an official stamp,
and said:
“I brought this from the post-office for you. I hope it may contain good
news that will rouse you up.”
Hereward thanked the doctor, and, without lifting his head from the sofa
pillow, opened the long envelope and took out a letter partly in print
and partly in writing. His pale face flushed a little as he read the
paper, and he passed it over to Dr. Kerr, saying:
“You see it is a letter announcing my appointment as secretary of
legation to the new embassy to the court of ——, and requiring me, in the
event of my accepting the mission, to be ready to sail with the party by
the Kron Prinz, on the first of June.”
“And you will accept it, Hereward? The sea voyage and the change will be
so good for you.”
“Yes, I shall accept it.”