Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (33 page)

 
          
           
"Poor dear, poor dear.
No wonder Paul turns sad
and won't talk of her, and that she
don't
see
anyone," sighed Hester pitifully.

 
          
           
"What is it? I see, but don't understand," whispered Lillian.

 
          
           
"She's an innocent, deary, an idiot, though that's a hard word for a
pretty creature like her."

 
          
           
"How terrible!
Come away, Hester, and never
breathe to anyone what we have seen." And with a shudder and sense of pain
and pity lying heavy at her heart, she hurried away, feeling doubly guilty in
the discovery of this affliction. The thought of it haunted her continually;
the memory of the lonely girl gave her no peace; and a consciousness of deceit
burdened her unspeakably, especially in Paul's presence. This lasted for a week,
then Lillian resolved to confess, hoping that when he found she knew the truth
he would let her share his cross and help to lighten it. Waiting her
opportunity, she seized a moment when her mother was absent, and with her usual
frankness spoke out impetuously.

 
          
           
"Paul, I've done wrong, and I can have no peace till I am pardoned. I have
seen Helen."

 
          
           
"Where, when, and how?" he asked, looking disturbed and yet relieved.

 
          
           
She told him rapidly, and as she ended she looked up at him with her sweet
face, so full of pity, shame, and grief it would have been impossible to deny
her anything.

 
          
           
"Can you forgive me for discovering this affliction?"

 
          
           
"I think I could forgive you a far greater fault, Lillian," he
answered, in a tone that said many things.

 
          
           
"But deceit is so mean, so dishonorable and contemptible, how can you so
easily pardon it in me?" she asked, quite overcome by this forgiveness,
granted without any reproach.

 
          
           
"Then you would find it hard to pardon such a thing in another?" he
said, with the expression that always puzzled her.

 
          
           
"Yes, it would be hard; but in those I loved, I could forgive much for
love's sake."

 
          
           
With a sudden gesture he took her hand saying, impulsively, "How little
changed you are! Do you remember that last ride of ours nearly five years
ago?"

 
          
           
"Yes, Paul," she answered, with averted eyes.

 
          
           
"And what we talked of?"

 
          
           
"A part of that childish gossip I remember well."

 
          
           
"Which part?"

 
          
           
"The pretty little romance you told me." And Lillian looked up now,
longing to ask if Helen's childhood had been blighted like her youth.

 
          
           
Paul dropped her hand as if he, read her thoughts, and his own hand went
involuntarily toward his breast, betraying that the locket still hung there.

 
          
           
"What did I say?" he asked, smiling at her sudden shyness.

 
          
           
"You vowed you'd win and wed your fair little lady-love if you
lived."

 
          
           
"And so I will," he cried, with sudden fire in his eyes.

 
          
           
"
What,
marry her?"

 
          
           
"
Aye, that
I will."

 
          
           
"Oh Paul, will you tie yourself for life to a—" The word died on her
lips, but a gesture of repugnance finished the speech.

 
          
           
"A what?" he demanded, excitedly.

 
          
           
"An innocent, one bereft of reason," stammered Lillian, entirely
forgetting herself in her interest for him.

 
          
           
"Of whom do you speak?" asked Paul, looking utterly bewildered,

 
          
           
"Of poor Helen."

 
          
           
"Good heavens, who told you that
base
lie?"
And his voice deepened with indignant pain.

 
          
           
"I saw her, you did not deny her affliction; Hester said so, and I
believed it. Have I wronged her, Paul?"

 
          
           
"Yes, cruelly.
She is blind, but no idiot, thank
God."

 
          
           
There was such earnestness in his voice, such reproach in his words, and such
ardor in his eye, that Lillian's pride gave way, and with a broken entreaty for
pardon, she covered up her face, weeping the bitterest tears she ever shed. For
in that moment, and the sharp pang it brought her, she felt how much she loved
Paul and how hard it was to lose him. The childish affection had blossomed into
a woman's passion, and in a few short weeks had passed through many phases of
jealousy, hope, despair, and self-delusion. The joy she felt on seeing him
again, the pride she took in him, the disgust Helen caused her, the relief she
had not dared to own even to herself, when she fancied fate had put an
insurmountable barrier between Paul and his cousin, the despair at finding it
only a fancy, and the anguish of hearing him declare his unshaken purpose to marry
his first love—all these conflicting emotions had led to this hard moment, and
now self-control deserted her in her need. In spite of her efforts the
passionate tears would have their way, though Paul soothed her with assurances
of entire forgiveness, promises of Helen's friendship, and every gentle device
he could imagine. She commanded herself at last by a strong effort, murmuring
eagerly as she shrank from the hand that put back her fallen hair, and the face
so full of tender sympathy bending over her:

 
          
           
"I am so grieved and ashamed at what I have said and done. I shall never
dare to see Helen. Forgive me, and forget this folly. I'm sad and heavyhearted
just now; it's the anniversary of Papa's death, and Mamma always suffers so
much at such times that I get nervous."

 
          
           
"It is your birthday also. I remembered it, and ventured to bring a little
token in return for the one you gave me long ago. This is a talisman, and
tomorrow I will tell you the legend concerning it. Wear it for my sake, and God
bless you, dear."

 
          
           
The last words were whispered hurriedly; Lillian saw the glitter of an antique
ring, felt the touch of bearded lips on her hand, and Paul was gone.

 
          
           
But as he left the house he set his teeth, exclaiming low to himself,
"Yes, tomorrow there shall be an end of this! We must risk everything and
abide the consequences now. I'll have no more torment for any of us."

 
          
           
"Is Lady Trevlyn at home, Bedford?" asked Paul, as he presented
himself at an early hour next day, wearing the keen, stern expression which
made him look ten years older than he was.

 
          
           
"No, sir, my lady and Miss Lillian went down to the Hall last night."

 
          
           
"No ill news, I hope?" And the young man's eye kindled as if he felt
a crisis at hand.

 
          
           
"Not that I heard, sir. Miss Lillian took one of her sudden whims and
would have gone alone, if my lady hadn't given in much against her will, this
being a time when she is better away from the place."

 
          
           
"Did they leave no message for me?"

 
          
           
"Yes, sir.
Will you step in and read the note at
your ease. We are in sad confusion, but this room is in order."

 
          
           
Leading the way to Lillian's boudoir, the man presented the note and retired. A
few hasty lines from my lady, regretting the necessity of this abrupt
departure, yet giving no reason for it, hoping they might meet next season, but
making no allusion to seeing him at the Hall, desiring Lillian's thanks and
regards, but closing with no hint of Helen, except compliments. Paul smiled as
he threw it into the fire, saying to himself, "Poor lady, she thinks she
has escaped the danger by flying, and Lillian tries to hide her trouble from
me. Tender little heart! I'll comfort it without delay."

 
          
           
He sat looking about the dainty room still full of tokens of her presence. The
piano stood open with a song he liked upon the rack; a bit of embroidery, whose
progress he had often watched, lay in her basket with the little thimble near
it; there was a strew of papers on the writing table, torn notes, scraps of
drawing, and ball cards; a pearl-colored glove lay on the floor; and in the
grate the faded flowers he had brought two days before. As his eye roved to and
fro, he seemed to enjoy some happy dream, broken too soon by the sound of
servants shutting up the house. He arose but lingered near the table, as if
longing to search for some forgotten hint of himself.

 
          
           
"No, there has been enough lock picking and stealthy work; I'll do no more
for her sake. This theft will harm no one and tell no tales." And
snatching up the glove, Paul departed.

 
          
           
"Helen, the time has come. Are you ready?" he asked, entering her
room an hour later.

 
          
           
"I am ready." And rising, she stretched her hand to him with a proud
expression, contrasting painfully with her helpless gesture.

 
          
           
"They have gone to the Hall, and we must follow. It is useless to wait
longer; we gain nothing by it, and the claim must stand on such proof as we
have, or fall for want of that one link. I am tired of disguise. I want to be
myself and enjoy what I have won, unless I lose it all."

 
          
           
"Paul, whatever happens,
remember
we cling
together and share good or evil fortune as we always have done. I am a burden,
but I cannot live without you, for you are my world. Do not desert me."

 
          
           
She groped her way to him and clung to his strong arm as if it was her only
stay. Paul drew her close, saying wistfully, as he caressed the beautiful
sightless face leaning on his shoulder, "
Mia
cara
, would it break your heart, if at
the last hour I gave up all and let the word remain unspoken? My courage fails
me, and in spite of the hard past I would gladly leave them in peace."

 
          
           
"No, no, you shall not give it up!" cried Helen almost fiercely,
while the slumbering fire of her southern nature flashed into her face.
"You have waited so long, worked so hard, suffered so
much,
you must not lose your reward. You promised, and you must keep the
promise."

 
          
           
"But it is so beautiful, so noble to forgive, and return a blessing for a
curse. Let us bury the old feud, and right the old wrong in a new way. Those
two are so
blameless,
it is cruel to visit the sins of
the dead on their innocent heads. My lady has suffered enough already, and
Lillian is so young, so happy, so unfit to meet a storm like this. Oh, Helen,
mercy is more divine than justice."

 
          
           
Something moved Paul deeply, and Helen seemed about to yield, when the name of
Lillian wrought a subtle change in her. The color died out of her face, her
black eyes burned with a gloomy fire, and her voice was relentless as she
answered, while her frail hands held him fast, "I will not let you give it
up. We are as innocent as they; we have suffered more; and we deserve our
rights, for we have no sin to expiate. Go on, Paul, and forget the sentimental
folly that unmans you."

 
          
           
Something in her words seemed to sting or wound him. His face darkened, and he
put her away, saying briefly, "Let it be so then. In an hour we must
go."

 
          
           
On the evening of the same day, Lady Trevlyn and her daughter sat together in
the octagon room at the Hall. Twilight was falling and candles were not yet
brought, but a cheery fire blazed in the wide chimney, filling the apartment
with a ruddy glow, turning Lillian's bright hair to gold and lending a tinge of
color to my lady's pallid cheeks. The girl sat on a low lounging chair before
the fire, her head on her hand, her eyes on the red embers, her thoughts—where?
My lady lay on her couch, a little in the shadow, regarding her daughter with
an anxious air, for over the young face a somber change had passed which filled
her with disquiet.

 
          
           
"You are out of spirits, love," she said at last, breaking the long
silence, as Lillian gave an unconscious sigh and leaned wearily into the depths
of her chair.

 
          
           
"Yes, Mamma, a little."

 
          
           
"What is it? Are you ill?"

 
          
           
"No, Mamma; I think
London
gaiety is rather too much for me. I'm too young for it, as you often
say, and I've found it out."

 
          
           
"Then it is only weariness that makes you so pale and grave, and so bent
on coming back here?"

 
          
           
Lillian was the soul of truth, and with a moment's hesitation answered slowly,
"Not that alone, Mamma. I'm worried about other things. Don't ask me what,
please."

 
          
           
"But I must ask. Tell me, child, what things? Have you seen any one? Had
letters, or been annoyed in any way about—anything?"

 
          
           
My lady spoke with sudden energy and rose on her arm, eyeing the girl with
unmistakable suspicion and excitement.

 
          
           
"No, Mamma, it's only a foolish trouble of my own," answered Lillian,
with a glance of surprise and a shamefaced look as the words reluctantly left
her lips.

 
          
           
"Ah,
a love trouble
, nothing more? Thank God for
that!" And my lady sank back as if a load was off her mind. "Tell me
all, my darling; there is no confidante like a mother."

 
          
           
"You are very kind, and perhaps you can cure my folly if I tell it, and
yet I am ashamed," murmured the girl. Then yielding to an irresistible
impulse to ask help and sympathy, she added, in an almost inaudible tone,
"I came away to escape from Paul."

 
          
           
"Because he loves you, Lillian?" asked my lady, with a frown and a
half smile.

 
          
           
"Because he does
not
love me, Mamma."
And the poor girl hid her burning cheeks in her
hands, as if overwhelmed with maidenly shame at the implied confession of her
own affection.

 
          
           
"My child, how is this? I cannot but be glad that he does
not
love you; yet it fills me with grief
to see that this pains you. He is not a mate for you, Lillian. Remember this, and
forget the transient regard that has sprung up from that early intimacy of
yours."

 
          
           
"He is wellborn, and now my equal in fortune, and oh, so much my superior
in all gifts of mind and heart," sighed the girl, still with hidden face,
for tears were dropping through her slender fingers.

 
          
           
"It may be, but there is a mystery about him; and I have a vague dislike
to him in spite of all that has passed. But, darling, are you sure he does not
care for you? I fancied I read a different story in his face, and when you
begged to leave town so suddenly, I believed that you had seen this also, and
kindly wished to spare him any pain."

 
          
           
"It was to spare myself. Oh, Mamma, he loves Helen, and will marry her
although she is blind. He told me this, with a look I could not doubt, and so I
came away to hide my sorrow," sobbed poor Lillian in despair.

 
          
           
Lady Trevlyn went to her and, laying the bright head on her motherly bosom,
said soothingly as she caressed it, "My little girl, it is too soon for
you to know these troubles, and I am punished for yielding to your entreaties
for a peep at the gay world. It is now too late to spare you this; you have had
your wish and must pay its price, dear. But, Lillian, call pride to aid you,
and conquer this fruitless love. It cannot be very deep as yet, for you have
known Paul, the man, too short a time to be hopelessly enamored. Remember,
there are others, better, braver, more worthy of you; that life is long, and
full of pleasure yet untried."

 
          
           
"Have no fears for me, Mamma. I'll not disgrace you or myself by any
sentimental folly. I do love Paul, but I can conquer it, and I will. Give me a
little time, and you shall see me quite myself again."

 
          
           
Lillian lifted her head with an air of proud resolve that satisfied her mother,
and with a grateful kiss stole away to ease her full heart alone. As she
disappeared Lady Trevlyn drew a long breath and, clasping her hands with a
gesture of thanksgiving, murmured to herself in an accent of relief, "Only
a love sorrow! I feared it was some new terror like the old one. Seventeen
years of silence, seventeen years of secret dread and remorse for me," she
said, pacing the room with tightly locked hands and eyes full of unspeakable anguish.
"Oh, Richard, Richard!
I forgave you long ago,
and surely I have expiated my innocent offense by these years of suffering! For
her sake I did it, and for her sake I still keep dumb. God knows I ask nothing
for myself but rest and oblivion by your side."

 
          
           
Half an hour later, Paul stood at the hall door. It was ajar, for the family
had returned unexpectedly, as was evident from the open doors and empty halls.
Entering unseen, he ascended to the room my lady usually occupied. The fire
burned low, Lillian's chair was empty, and my lady lay asleep, as if lulled by
the sighing winds without and the deep silence that reigned within. Paul stood
regarding her with a great pity softening his face as he marked the sunken
eyes, pallid cheeks, locks too early
gray,
and
restless lips muttering in dreams.

 
          
           
"I wish I could spare her this," he sighed, stooping to wake her with
a word. But he did not speak, for, suddenly clutching the chain about her neck,
she seemed to struggle with some invisible foe and beat it off, muttering
audibly as she clenched her thin hands on the golden case. Paul leaned and
listened as if the first word had turned him to stone, till the paroxysm had
passed, and with a heavy sigh my lady sank into a calmer sleep. Then, with a
quick glance over his shoulder, Paul skillfully opened the locket, drew out the
silver key, replaced it with one from the piano close by, and stole from the
house noiselessly as he had entered it.