And thus they parted. All their air castles and beautiful chambers of
imagery, blown to the ground by one sad cyclone of fate. In the city of
A.P., a resting place was found for the stranger who had suddenly dashed
from their lips the scarcely tasted cup of happiness. Mr. Luzerne
employed for her the best medical skill he could obtain. She was
suffering from nervous prostration and brain fever. Annette was constant
in her attentions to the sufferer, and day after day listened to her
delirious ravings. Sometimes she would speak of a diamond necklace, and
say so beseechingly, "Clarence, don't look at me so. You surely can't
think that I am guilty. I will go away and hide myself from you.
Clarence, you never loved me or you would not believe me guilty."
But at length a good constitution and careful nursing overmastered
disease, and she showed signs of recovery. Annette watched over her when
her wild ravings sounded in her ears like requiems for the loved and
cherished dead. Between her and the happiness she had so fondly
anticipated, stood that one blighted life, but she watched that life
just as carefully as if it had been the dearest life on earth she knew.
One day, as Annette sat by her bedside, she surmised from the look on
her face that the wandering reason of the sufferer had returned.
Beckoning to Annette she said "Who are you and where am I?"
Annette answered, "I am your friend and you are with friends."
"Poor Clarence," she murmured to herself; "more sinned against than
sinning."
"My dear friend," Annette said very tenderly, "you have been very ill,
and I am afraid that if you do not be very quiet you will be very sick
again." Annette gently smoothed her beautiful hair and tried to soothe
her into quietness. Rest and careful nursing soon wrought a wondrous
change in Marie Luzerne, but Annette thoughtfully refrained from all
reference to her past history and waited for time to unravel the mystery
she could not understand, and with this unsolved mystery the match
between her and Luzerne was broken off. At length, one day when Marie's
health was nearly restored, she asked for writing materials, and said,
"I mean to advertise for my mother in a Southern paper. It seems like a
horrid dream that all I knew or loved, even my husband, whom I deserted,
believed that I was dead, till I came suddenly on him in the park with a
young lady by his side. She looked like you. Was it you?"
"Yes," said Annette, as a sigh of relief came to her lips. If Clarence
had wooed and won her he had not willfully deceived her. "Oh, how I
would like to see him. I was wayward and young when I left him in anger.
Oh, if I have sinned I have suffered; but I think that I could die
content if I could only see him once more." Annette related the strange
sad story to her physician, who decided that it was safe and desirable
that there should be an interview between them. Luzerne visited his long
lost wife and after a private interview, he called Annette to the room,
who listened sadly while she told her story, which exonerated Luzerne
from all intent to deceive Annette by a false marriage while she had a
legal claim upon him.
"I was born," she said, "in New Orleans. My father was a Spaniard and
my mother a French Creole. She was very beautiful and my father met her
at a French ball and wished her for his companion for life, but as she
was an intelligent girl and a devout Catholic she would not consent to
live a life by which she would be denied the Sacrament of her Church; so
while she could not contract a civil marriage, which would give her the
legal claims of a wife, she could enter into an ecclesiastical marriage
by which she would not forfeit her claim to the rights and privileges of
the Church as a good Catholic. I was her only child, loved and petted by
my father, and almost worshipped by my mother, and I never knew what it
was to have a wish unfilled if it was in her power to gratify it. When I
was about 16 I met Clarence Luzerne. People then said that I was very
beautiful. You would scarcely think so now, but I suppose he thought so,
too. In a short time we were married, and soon saw that we were utterly
unfitted to each other; he was grave and I was gay; he was careful and
industrious, I was careless and extravagant; he loved the quiet of his
home and books; I loved the excitements of pleasure and the ball room,
and yet I think he loved me, but it was as a father might love a wayward
child whom he vainly tried to restrain. I had a cousin who had been
absent from New Orleans a number of years, of whose antecedents I knew
not scarcely anything. He was lively, handsome and dashing. My husband
did not like his society, and objected to my associating with him. I did
not care particularly for him, but I chafed against the restraint, and
in sheer waywardness I continued the association. One day he brought me
a beautiful diamond necklace which he said he had obtained in a distant
land. I laid it aside intending to show it to my husband; in the
meantime, a number of burglaries had been committed in the city of B.,
and among them was a diamond necklace. My heart stood still with sudden
fear while I read of the account and while I was resolving what to do,
my husband entered the house followed by two officers, who demanded the
necklace. My husband interfered and with a large sum of money obtained
my freedom from arrest. My husband was very proud of the honor of his
family and blamed me for staining its record. From that day my husband
seemed changed in his feelings towards me. He grew cold, distant and
abstracted, and I felt that my presence was distasteful to him. I could
not enter into his life and I saw that he had no sympathy with mine, and
so in a fit of desperation I packed my trunk and took with me some money
I had inherited from my father and left, as I said in a note, forever. I
entered a convent and resolved that I would devote myself to the service
of the poor and needy, for life had lost its charms for me. I had
scarcely entered the convent before the yellow fever broke out and raged
with fearful intensity. I was reckless of my life and engaged myself as
a nurse. One day there came to our hospital a beautiful girl with a
wealth of raven hair just like mine was before I became a nurse. I
nursed her through a tedious illness and when she went out from the
hospital, as I had an abundance of clothing, I supplied her from my
wardrobe with all she needed, even to the dress she wore away. The
clothing was all marked with my name. Soon after I saw in the paper that
a young woman who was supposed from the marks on her clothing and the
general description of her person to be myself was found drowned in a
freshet. I was taken ill immediately afterwards and learned on
recovering that I had been sick and delirious for several weeks. I
sought for my mother, inquired about my husband, but lost all trace of
them both till I suddenly came across my husband in Brightside Park. But
Clarence, if you have formed other ties don't let me come between you
and the sunshine. You are free to apply for a divorce; you can make the
plea of willful desertion. I will not raise the least straw in your way.
I will go back to the convent and spend the rest of my life in penitence
and prayer. I have sinned; it is right that I should suffer." Clarence
looked eagerly into the face of Annette; it was calm and peaceful, but
in it he read no hope of a future reunion.
"What say you, Annette, would you blame me if I accepted this release?"
"I certainly would. She is your lawful wife. In the church of her father
you pledged your faith to her, and I do not think any human law can
absolve you from being faithful to your marriage vows. I do not say it
lightly. I do not think any mother ever laid her first born in the grave
with any more sorrow than I do to-day when I make my heart the sepulchre
in which I bury my first and only love. This, Clarence, is the saddest
trial of my life. I am sadder to-day than when I stood a lonely orphan
over my grandmother's grave, and heard the clods fall on her coffin and
stood lonely and heart-stricken in my uncle's house, and felt that I was
unwelcome there. But, Clarence, the great end of life is not the
attainment of happiness but the performance of duty and the development
of character. The great question is not what is pleasant but what is
right."
"Annette, I feel that you are right; but I am too wretched to realize
the force of what you say. I only know that we must part, and that means
binding my heart as a bleeding sacrifice on the altar of duty."
"Do you not know who drank the cup of human suffering to its bitter
dregs before you? Arm yourself with the same mind, learn to suffer and
be strong. Yes, we must part; but if we are faithful till death heaven
will bring us sweeter rest." And thus they parted. If Luzerne had felt
any faltering in his allegiance to duty he was too honorable and upright
when that duty was plainly shown to him to weakly shrink from its
performance, and as soon as his wife was able to travel he left A.P.,
for a home in the sunny South. After Luzerne had gone Annette thought,
"I must have some active work which will engross my mind and use every
faculty of my soul. I will consult with my dear friend Mrs. Lasette."
All unnerved by her great trial, Annette rang Mrs. Lasette's front door
bell somewhat hesitatingly and walked wearily into the sitting-room,
where she found Mrs. Lasette resting in the interval between twilight
and dark. "Why Annette!" she said with pleased surprise, "I am so glad
to see you. How is Clarence? I thought you would have been married
before now. I have your wedding present all ready for you."
"Mrs. Lasette," Annette said, while her voice trembled with
inexpressible sorrow, "it is all over."
Mrs. Lasette was lighting the lamp and had not seen Annette's face in
the dusk of the evening, but she turned suddenly around at the sound of
her voice and noticed the wan face so pitiful in its expression of
intense suffering.
"What is the matter, my dear; have you and Luzerne had a lover's
quarrel?"
"No," said Annette, sadly, and then in the ears of her sympathizing
friend she poured her tale of bitter disappointment. Mrs. Lasette folded
the stricken girl to her heart in tenderest manner.
"Oh, Mrs. Lasette," she said, "you make me feel how good it is for girls
to have a mother."
"Annette, my brave, my noble girl, I am so glad."
"Glad of what, Mrs. Lasette?"
"Glad that you have been so true to conscience and to duty; glad that
you have come through your trial like gold tried in the fiercest fire;
glad that my interest in you has not been in vain, and that I have been
able to see the blessed fruitage of my love and labors. And now, my dear
child, what next?"
"I must have a change; I must find relief in action. I feel so weak and
bruised in heart."
"A bruised reed will not break," murmured Mrs. Lasette to herself.
"Annette," said Mrs. Lasette, "this has been a fearful trial, but it
must not be in vain; let it bring you more than happiness; let it bring
you peace and blessedness. There is only one place for us to bring our
sins and our sorrows, and that is the mercy seat. Let us both kneel
there to-night and ask for grace to help in this your time of need. We
are taught to cast our care upon Him for he careth for us. Come, my
child, with the spirit of submission and full surrender, and consecrate
your life to his service, body, soul and spirit, not as a dead offering,
but a living sacrifice."
Together they mingled their prayers and tears, and when Annette rose
from her knees there was a look of calmness on her face, and a deep
peace had entered her soul. The strange trial was destined to bring joy
and gladness and yield the peaceable fruit of righteousness in the
future. Mrs. Lasette wrote to some friends in a distant Southern town
where she obtained a situation for Annette as a teacher. Here she soon
found work to enlist her interest and sympathy and bring out all the
activity of her soul. She had found her work and the people among whom
she labored had found their faithful friend.