THE DREADED INTERVIEW.
Her husband had not returned when Mrs. Courland reached their lodgings
after her early journey to that ill-fated cottage.
This was fortunate, in many respects: it gave her a little time to
reflect on the events of the morning, and to prepare herself for the
ordeal she had yet to go through. Had Captain Courland returned before
her, she must have accounted, in some way, for her absence, and that
might have led to a premature confession, which she thought had better
not be made until she had seen Alrina, and been fully convinced that the
likeness could not be mistaken. She had received quite sufficient proof
from Miss Freeman of the identity of the child, and she had, moreover,
received from her a sealed packet, which she said would reveal all more
clearly, and other mysteries besides; but she made her promise, most
solemnly, that the packet should not be opened until after her death,
which she knew could not be far distant, she said.
While Mrs. Courland was deliberating on these important matters, her
nephew, Frederick Morley entered the room in great haste, telling her
that he had found Alrina, and that she was gone on with his brother to
see Miss Freeman, and he was to send a carriage for her if his aunt
wished it.
"That is my first wish, at present," replied Mrs. Courland; "I must see
Alrina before I confess my life of deception to my husband. Oh, how can
I tell him that I have been keeping this secret from him and deceiving
him for so many years! How could I have deceived him, who has been so
kind and good to me! It was his goodness that made me keep it from him:
I didn't like to wound his feelings: he will never forgive me--he
cannot! Oh, Frederick, how can I look into his honest face, and confess
my guilty secret!" and burying her face in the soft cushions of the
couch on which she had been reclining, she burst into tears.
"My dear aunt," said Morley, "you are wrong to meet trouble half-way: my
uncle's goodness of heart will forgive all; and, when he sees Alrina, he
will take her to his heart as if she had been his own child:--I know he
will!"
"No!" replied Mrs. Courland, "--you don't know him: he has the most
utter abhorrence of deception--he hates secrets and mysteries: he
expressed his opinion, in the severest manner, on this subject, only a
few days ago. Oh, I cannot--I cannot go through with it! Should he even,
in kindness, forgive the deception, he would look upon me with scorn and
suspicion during the remainder of my life: oh, that would be
terrible!--I could not bear it!--I could not live in such a state!--I
should be wretched and miserable!"
"But consider, aunt," urged Frederick, "if you believe Alrina to be
really your daughter, what injustice you will be doing her by
withholding this confession.--What is to become of her? Would you send
your daughter out into the world a houseless wanderer? Think of this, my
dear aunt; oh, let me beg of you to think of this poor girl! Will you
spurn her from your door, after permitting her to know what has been
told her to day?--It would be cruel--most cruel! Uncle Courland must
know it then; although Alrina would rather die than tell it herself;
this I am sure of; but others would not be so scrupulous. Consider,
aunt,--consider, before you send your daughter out unprotected into the
wide world; those she once looked to for protection are gone,--scattered
abroad on the face of the earth. Consider, Aunt Courland, her position
and yours."
Frederick spoke with energy and warmth; for, in pleading the cause of
Alrina, he was pleading his own cause too.
For some minutes after he had finished Mrs. Courland remained with her
face buried in the cushions; at length she rose and wiped her eyes,
which bore evidence of the tears she had shed, and the hard struggle
that had been going on for the last few minutes in her breast, to subdue
her haughty, proud, spirit to the task of making this humble confession
of guilt, which she now felt she must and would make, whatever the
consequences might be. Frederick had touched a tender chord in the
mother's breast, and, rising with calm dignity, she approached the table
and wrote a brief note, which she desired Frederick to send to his
brother at once, with a carriage to bring him and Alrina to the hotel to
wait the result of her dread interview with her husband: but whatever
that result might be, she said her daughter should be cared for as her
daughter.
Frederick lost no time in despatching the carriage, and waited
impatiently its return to the hotel, where Alrina would remain until
after Mrs. Courland's interview with her husband, the result of which
Frederick still seriously feared and doubted. For although he could
scarcely believe that the captain would refuse to take in this poor
wanderer as one of his household, yet he knew his temper was sometimes
hasty and impetuous, and he might say things in the first burst of
passion, which he might be sorry for after, but which would decide his
aunt in her course; for she possessed the haughty pride of her
aristocratic ancestors, and would never bend to ask, as a favour, that
which, in a hasty moment, might be denied,--even though the denial were
made madly, in the heat of passion. Frederick, therefore, although he
had urged the confession, and painted its reception by his uncle in as
mild colours as he could, still dreaded the meeting of two such spirits,
for such a purpose. But it must be done: and he thought "If it were
done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly."
Captain Courland returned soon after Frederick left, disappointed and
out of spirits: they had not succeeded in discovering the slightest
trace of the fugitive.
Julia was not satisfied with the search that had been made the night
before, and she was gone to some houses a little way out of the town,
which she knew Flora was fond of visiting sometimes; so the captain
returned alone. He observed that his wife's spirits were unusually
depressed. She had been weeping, evidently; but he imputed it to her
anxiety for their poor afflicted protegè. She was sitting on the couch,
resting her arm on a table, and supporting her throbbing brow with her
hand.
Her husband seated himself by her side, and, taking her other hand in
his, affectionately, tried to comfort her by saying that he had no doubt
Flora had wandered out into the country and missed her way, and, from
her infirmity, she could not, perhaps, make anyone understand who she
was nor where she came from. "So cheer up my dear," said he, "all will
turn up well in the end, no doubt."
"My dear husband," said she, withdrawing her hand, "I am not worthy that
you should treat me so kindly: I have a dreadful secret to unfold to
you, which I feel I have kept from you too long."
"A secret!" exclaimed her husband, rising hastily, "I tell you I don't
like secrets: everything right and straight and above-board--that's my
plan! I don't want to hear any secrets! Who says that my wife has been
keeping a secret from me? I don't believe a word of it! Who says it, I
should like to know? I'll have him strung up to the yard-arm!"
He seemed in such agitation, as he hurriedly paced the room, that his
poor wife trembled for the result. She saw that a crisis was close at
hand, and probably her happiness was gone for ever: but she had made up
her mind to tell her secret, and she was determined to go through with
it, let the consequences be what they would. So she asked her husband,
in as calm a tone as she could command, to sit and listen for a few
minutes to what she had to say, and then she should throw herself on his
mercy, and would submit to any punishment he might think she deserved;
but she begged him to hear her tale to the end before he judged her.
This serious appeal took the captain quite by surprise. He didn't know
what to do or say, so he took a chair, and prepared for the worst.
With averted eyes, his guilty, trembling wife commenced her tale and
told all: her former marriage, the birth of her daughter, and the
concealment of the child by Miss Fisher: her treachery and heartless
importunities for money, and threats: and, above all, her own weakness
and guilt in keeping the secret from her good, kind husband.
When she had finished, she leaned her head on her hands, and burst into
a torrent of tears. She had been keeping her feelings under control
during the recital, that she might not interrupt the narrative which she
had to relate. She could not restrain them any longer; and now she
expected a terrible outburst of passion from her husband. The crisis was
at hand. She waited the awful doom which she felt she deserved; but it
did not come. She dared not look at her husband.
He had sat perfectly still and silent all the time she had been
speaking, and after she had finished he was silent still. At length he
rose, and approaching the couch seated himself by the side of his poor
weeping, trembling wife; and, taking her hand as he had done before, he
said,--"I knew my darling wife had no secrets that her husband was not
cognizant of."
"No secrets!" she exclaimed, looking up in astonishment,--"I have been
confessing the knowledge of a secret that I have been keeping from you
for years and years, to my sorrow and shame!"
"I heard what you have been telling me," replied her husband, "but you
have told me nothing that I didn't know before. Why I have known all
that for years."
"You have known it!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, in amazement. "How is it
possible! Who can have told you!"
"Well, now 'tis my turn to spin a yarn, as we sailors say," replied the
captain. "Your first husband's name was Marshall, he had a brother in
the Indian army. After your poor husband was killed, his brother came to
England. He had been informed of the secret marriage; and he had been
enjoined by his brother, in his last letter, after he received the wound
of which he died, that when he came to England, he would see his wife,
and do all he could for her. He came to England in my ship, and he saw
you."
"He did," replied Mrs. Courland.--"It was soon after the birth of my
little girl. He came to Fisher's cottage. Miss Fisher told him a
plausible tale, saying his brother wished that the marriage should never
be known until he came home to claim me as his wife. As the marriage had
been kept secret so long, it was thought best to keep it so entirely. I
was sent for to come home to my father's house, where I found you
waiting my arrival. You paid the most devoted attention to me.--You were
rich.--My parents and all my friends urged it, and we were married. I
was persuaded by Miss Fisher not to tell my secret, and so it was kept;
and it has been a burden on my mind from that time to this."
"My beautiful wife," said the captain, kissing her affectionately,
"Marshall returned with me to India, after our marriage, and he told me
the secret, so that you see I have known it almost as long as you have
known it yourself; but I never mentioned it, fearing to distress you,
well-knowing that you had been imposed upon by a designing avaricious
woman."
"My good, kind indulgent husband!" exclaimed his wife, caressing the
bluff old sailor, as if he had been a little spoiled child.
"And now that we have had all these explanations," said the captain,
"and might be happy with our daughter, she is lost!"
"She is found!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland: "our nephews have found her,
and by this time she is in Penzance; we will send for them."
A servant was despatched to the hotel, which was very near, and in a few
minutes, Mr. Morley appeared with a beautiful girl leaning on his arm.
Both the captain and Mrs. Courland were struck with her extreme beauty,
and the captain at once exclaimed,--"Isabella Morley the second, by all
that's beautiful!"
"No, sir!" replied Mr. Morley,--"not Isabella Morley, but Alrina
Marshall!"
"My long lost child!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, rushing towards Alrina,
and embracing her tenderly, "I see the likeness myself!"
"Good heavens!" cried the captain, "is this our daughter? Then what has
become of the other?"
"What other?" exclaimed Mr. Morley and Mrs. Courland in a breath.
"Why, the poor girl we have been in search of all night," replied the
captain: "I concluded she was the lost child!"
"Alas!" said Mr. Morley,--"she is indeed lost!" And he briefly related
the dreadful catastrophe which he had witnessed so recently, which threw
a gloom over the whole party. They soon recovered their spirits,
however, and, leaving the newly-formed family group to enjoy their
unexpected happiness in quietude, Mr. Morley accompanied by Frederick,
who had remained at the hotel while his brother took Alrina to her
newly found parents, hastened, as fast as possible, back to
Pendrea-house, to assist in unravelling the mysteries connected with
that ill-fated cottage and its unfortunate inmates.