A SEALED BOOK REOPENED.
One day shortly after the announcement of her engagement, Dorothy
sought her mother, upon the departure of her last pupil, her face
unusually grave and a trifle careworn.
"Mamma," she began, with some hesitation, "I have been thinking, and do
you not think, that we ought to tell Clifford about--about our past?"
Helen turned upon her with a look of dismay, and flushed a startled
crimson.
This was the first time during many years that their unhappy history
had been alluded to by either; for, soon after taking up their
residence in New York, Helen had forbidden the topic. She wished
Dorothy to forget the harrowing past, even if she herself could not;
hence it had been carefully avoided by both. She had gradually grown
to hope, if not actually to believe, that those wretched experiences
had been blotted from her memory; or, at least, had become so vague and
indistinct that they no longer disturbed her peace. Their life, for
the most part, had flowed on so smoothly and harmoniously, they were so
devoted to and happy in each other, and also in their social relations;
they had a delightful if not an elegant home, with every comfort and
many luxuries, while each succeeding year seemed to hold more and more
of promise for them, that this tragic chapter of the long ago had
become, even to Helen herself, very like some dream belonging to a
previous existence.
Hence Helen had not once thought of reviving the sad story in
connection with Dorothy's prospective marriage, and when the girl gave
utterance to her unexpected proposition she began to think, with a
terror-stricken heart throb, that she had, perhaps, been very remiss in
not having frankly confided to Mr. Alexander, when he had come to ask
of her Dorothy's hand in marriage, the fact of her husband's
disgraceful desertion of her, and that she was a divorced wife,
practically living under an assumed name.
This unforeseen predicament came upon her like a crushing blow, and,
for the moment, the old rebellion and resentment, which she thought she
had long ago conquered, took possession of and mastered her with even
more than the old-time bitterness and force.
How could she ever face it--this relentless test of her integrity! It
was an ordeal before which she shrank affrighted. Did she need to face
it? Why not let everything go on without uncovering this grave of the
dead past, the outcome of which might prove very disastrous to
Dorothy's bright hopes, and so break her own heart?
The Alexanders were proud, high-toned people. How would they receive
such a revelation?
What if the story of John Hungerford's disgraceful career should ruin
Dorothy's life at this supreme moment? Suppose, in spite of their
apparently increasing affection for her, this aristocratic family
should absolutely refuse their consent to the alliance of their son
with the daughter of a divorcee? Oh, it was passing strange that she
had not thought of all this before! It had been forced upon her now,
however, with a shock that deprived her of every atom of strength, for
she knew the truth must be told.
"How do you feel about it, dearie?" she at length forced herself to
inquire, after an interval of silence, and to gain more time to think
before voicing a more definite reply.
"Mamma, it seems dreadful! I cannot bear to revive unpleasant memories
for you," Dorothy began, turning a troubled face upon her. "Still,
we----"
"But, Dorrie, our own past cannot be questioned--our lives have been
pure and above reproach. Why, then, is it necessary to disclose that
for which we are in no way responsible?" Helen questioned, after
another long pause. "We have not heard a word from--from him during
all these years. He may be dead--I think he must have died, or we
should have heard something. At any rate, he is dead to us! Why,
then, resurrect all that dreadful story?"
Her voice quivered with repressed agony, and there was a note of
despairing appeal in her tones that smote her listener keenly.
"But would it be quite honest not to tell Clifford? My name is really
Dorothy Hungerford, you know," she gravely responded.
"The decree gave me the right to resume my maiden name, or to retain
his--whichever I chose. If I preferred to keep the latter portion of
his, I cannot think there would be any dishonesty in your being married
as Dorothy Ford," Helen argued, but not feeling quite comfortable or
honest in the position she had assumed.
"All the same, there would be a deceptive thought back of it--something
to conceal from my husband, which might some time cloud our lives if it
should be discovered later," Dorothy persisted, a troubled look in her
eyes.
Helen groaned bitterly in spirit. She knew that the girl's attitude
was the only safe one to adopt, but she shrank from the ordeal with a
sickening dread.
"Have you no fear that this confession may cloud your life even before
your hopes are realized?" she questioned, almost sharply, in her
despair.
"Mamma, surely you do not fear _that_!" Dorothy cried, aghast, her face
blanching suddenly snow white.
"The Alexanders are very proud," sighed her mother.
"Oh, I never thought of anything so dreadful!" said the girl
unsteadily. "I have such faith in Clifford's love for me. The only
reason I have hesitated was because I could not bear to wound you by
recalling our trouble, by having to tell any one what you have had to
bear. But now"--with a sudden dauntless uplifting of her head--"I must
tell him immediately. If there is the least danger that this
disclosure will change his regard for, or his intentions toward, me, or
will make trouble between him and his people, it is better to know and
meet it now than when it would be too late to remedy the mistake."
"But could you bear it, Dorrie?" almost sobbed Helen. "Think, dear,
what the worst would mean to you."
"_Whatever_ comes, I _must bear it_! I cannot, will not, live a lie!"
was the low-voiced, firm, but almost inaudible reply.
"I know you are right, dear; but it seems so unjust that the innocent
should have to suffer as we have suffered for the sins of another,"
said Helen rebelliously.
Throughout their conversation there had been running in her mind, like
a mocking refrain, a portion of the old Mosaic law--"visiting the
iniquity of the fathers upon the children," et cetera--and she found
herself vaguely wondering who could have formulated such a law. She
could not believe God had made it, for God was good--Love, and surely
there was nothing good or lovely about this seeming curse. Yet it had
been handed down for ages--a menace to every generation. It was
certainly very cruel. Here was Dorothy, a beautiful, cultivated girl,
well fitted to grace the position her lover could give her, and now, to
have her brilliant prospects blighted just on the verge of fulfillment
seemed too dreadful to contemplate.
Again there had been a long silence between mother and daughter, during
which each had battled with her troubled thoughts and conflicting
emotions.
At length Dorothy arose, and, going to Helen, knelt down before her,
leaned her elbows upon her lap, and dropped her pretty chin into her
small, white hands.
"Mamma, I am sure we will not have to suffer for being true," she said,
lifting a clear, smiling look to her. "How faithless we are! How
disloyal of me to think anything so unworthy of the best man that ever
lived! I am not going to fear that telling the truth, in order that I
may go to Clifford with a clear conscience, will spoil my life; he is
too high-minded, too noble, to allow a wrong for which I am in no way
responsible to part us. But--even if I knew it would, I should tell
him all the same; it is the only honorable course to pursue," she
concluded, with a look in her beautiful eyes that bespoke a purpose as
unflinching as the spirit of a martyr.
Helen bent and kissed her on the forehead.
"You shame me, dear; but I know you are right," she said humbly, but
adding, with a shiver of repugnance: "Do you want _me_ to tell him,
Dorrie? If it will save you----"
"No, indeed, mamma, dear! I could not think of subjecting you to
anything so dreadful," interposed the brave girl, a quiver of repulsion
in her tones. "I wish _I_ could have saved _you_ this trial," she went
on yearningly; "but I knew it would not be right to keep the truth from
Clifford, and now I want to tell him myself, because--I must look
straight into his dear eyes as he listens; then I shall know----"
"Oh, darling, forgive me if I have aroused a doubt in your
thought--have implanted a fear in your heart, that he will not stand
the test!" cried Helen remorsefully, as Dorothy's voice suddenly
faltered and failed her.
"You have not," returned her companion, almost defiantly. "_I know he
is true blue_. I will not think anything else."
So Dorothy told her lover her story, "looking straight into his eyes,"
when he came to her that evening, keeping nothing back, nor trying to
gloss anything over; and when she was done, like the true-hearted man
he was, Clifford Alexander gathered her into his arms, murmuring fondly:
"Sweetheart, put it all out of your mind; never give it another anxious
thought, for it belongs among the shades of the dim past, and the
present and the future are all that concern us now. Just know that I
love you for what you are, and that I honor your mother for the noble
woman that she is. She has shown wonderful fortitude during all these
years, and deserves the highest esteem of every one. As for your--that
man--whether he be living or dead, he has passed forever out of your
life; so be happy, dearest, and let none of these memories ever cloud
your dear eyes again, or cause your dear heart a single tremor."
"Clifford! Clifford!" tremulously breathed Dorothy, while she clung to
the strong arm enfolding her. "I knew you would not fail me."
But she was quivering in every nerve with repressed excitement, from
the reaction produced by the blessed assurance of his unimpeachable
loyalty, the unfailing love that was the light of her life, and had
safely weathered this crucial hour.
"Fail you, Dorothy!" he repeated, surprise and reproof blending in his
tones. "Could I fail to cling to what is my very life? I am glad you
told me, however; it shows the confidence you repose in me, and proves
your absolute integrity," he concluded, with a smile that made her
thrice glad she had not been tempted to withhold the truth from him.
Helen's troubled heart was also set at rest, when, later, they sought
her with radiant faces, and Clifford delicately yet feelingly referred
to her early trials, and earnestly begged that she would allow him to
be to her, through all her future, a son in truth as well as in name.
Thus, with all fear regarding Dorothy's future forever dispelled, as
she fondly believed, she joyfully resumed her preparations for their
approaching union.