Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (34 page)

 
          
           
That night, in the darkest hour before the dawn, a figure went gliding through
the shadowy Park to its most solitary corner. Here stood the tomb of the
Trevlyns, and here the figure paused. A dull spark of light woke in its hand,
there was a clank of bars, the creak of rusty hinges, then light and figure
both seemed swallowed up.

 
          
           
Standing in the tomb where the air was close and heavy, the pale glimmer of the
lantern showed piles of moldering coffins in the niches, and everywhere
lay
tokens of decay and death. The man drew his hat lower
over his eyes, pulled the muffler closer about his mouth, and surveyed the spot
with an undaunted aspect, though the beating of his heart was heard in the deep
silence. Nearest the door stood a long casket covered with black velvet and
richly decorated with silver ornaments, tarnished now. The Trevlyns had been a
stalwart race, and the last sleeper brought there had evidently been of goodly
stature, for the modern coffin was as ponderous as the great oaken beds where
lay the bones of generations. Lifting the lantern, the intruder brushed the
dust from the shield-shaped plate, read the name RICHARD TREVLYN and a date,
and, as if satisfied, placed a key in the lock, half-raised the lid, and,
averting his head that he might not see the ruin seventeen long years had made,
he laid his hand on the dead breast and from the folded shroud drew a mildewed
paper. One glance sufficed, the casket was relocked, the door rebarred, the
light extinguished, and the man vanished like a ghost in the darkness of the wild
October night.

 
          
           
"A Gentleman, my lady."

 
          
           
Taking a card from the silver salver on which the servant offered it, Lady
Trevlyn read, "Paul Talbot," and below the name these penciled words,
"I beseech you to see me." Lillian stood beside her and saw the line.
Their eyes met, and in the girl's face was such a sudden glow of hope, and
love, and longing, that the mother could not doubt or disappoint her wish.

 
          
           
"I will see him," she said.

 
          
           
"Oh, Mamma, how kind you are!" cried the girl with a passionate
embrace, adding breathlessly, "He did not ask for me. I cannot see him
yet. I'll hide in the alcove, and can appear or run away as I like when we know
why he comes."

 
          
           
They were in the library, for, knowing Lillian's fondness for the room which
held no dark memories for her, my lady conquered her dislike and often sat
there. As she spoke, the girl glided into the deep recess of a bay window and
drew the heavy curtains just as Paul's step sounded at the door.

 
          
           
Hiding her agitation with a woman's skill, my lady rose with outstretched hand
to welcome him. He bowed but did not take the hand, saying, in a voice of grave
respect in which was audible an undertone of strong emotion, "Pardon me,
Lady Trevlyn. Hear what I have to say; and then if you offer me your hand, I
shall gratefully receive it."

 
          
           
She glanced at him, and saw that he was very pale, that his eye glittered with
suppressed excitement, and his whole manner was that of a man who had nerved
himself up to the performance of a difficult but intensely interesting task.
Fancying these signs of agitation only natural in a young lover coming to woo,
my lady smiled, reseated herself, and calmly answered, "I will listen
patiently. Speak freely, Paul, and remember I am an old friend."

 
          
           
"I wish I could forget it. Then my task would be easier," he murmured
in a voice of mingled regret and resolution, as he leaned on a tall chair
opposite and wiped his damp forehead, with a look of such deep compassion that
her heart sank with a nameless fear.

 
          
           
"I must tell you a long story, and ask your forgiveness for the offenses I
committed against you when a boy. A mistaken sense of duty guided me, and I
obeyed it blindly. Now I see my error and regret it," he said earnestly.

 
          
           
"Go on," replied my lady, while the vague dread grew stronger, and
she braced her nerves as for some approaching shock. She forgot Lillian, forgot
everything but the strange aspect of the man before her, and the words to which
she listened like a statue. Still standing pale and steady, Paul spoke rapidly,
while his eyes were full of mingled sternness, pity, and remorse.

 
          
           
"Twenty years ago, an English gentleman met a friend in a little Italian
town, where he had married a beautiful wife. The wife had a sister as lovely as
herself, and the young man, during that brief stay, loved and married her—in a
very private manner, lest his father should disinherit him. A few months
passed, and the Englishman was called home to take possession of his title and
estates, the father being dead. He went alone, promising to send for the wife
when all was ready. He told no one of his marriage, meaning to surprise his
English friends by producing the lovely woman unexpectedly. He had been in
England
but a short time when he received a letter
from the old priest of the Italian town, saying the cholera had swept through
it, carrying off half its inhabitants, his wife and friend among others. This
blow prostrated the young man, and when he recovered he hid his grief, shut
himself up in his country house, and tried to forget. Accident threw in his way
another lovely woman, and he married again. Before the first year was out, the
friend whom he supposed was dead appeared, and told him that his wife still
lived, and had borne him a child. In the terror and confusion of the plague,
the priest had mistaken one sister for the other, as the elder did die."

 
          
           
"Yes, yes, I know; go on!" gasped my lady, with white lips, and eyes
that never left the narrator's face.

 
          
           
"This friend had met with misfortune after flying from the doomed village
with the surviving sister. They had waited long for letters, had written, and,
when no answer came, had been delayed by illness and poverty from reaching
England
. At this time the child was born, and the
friend, urged by the wife and his own interest, came here, learned that Sir
Richard was married, and hurried to him in much distress. We can imagine the
grief and horror of the unhappy man. In that interview the friend promised to
leave all to Sir Richard, to preserve the secret till some means of relief
could be found; and with this promise he returned, to guard and comfort the
forsaken wife. Sir Richard wrote the truth to Lady Trevlyn, meaning to kill
himself, as the only way of escape from the terrible situation between two
women, both so beloved, both so innocently wronged. The pistol lay ready, but
death came without its aid, and Sir Richard was spared the sin of suicide."

 
          
           
Paul paused for breath, but Lady Trevlyn motioned him to go on, still sitting
rigid and white as the marble image near her.

 
          
           
"The friend only lived to reach home and tell the story. It killed the
wife, and she died, imploring the old priest to see her child righted and its
father's name secured to it. He promised; but he was poor, the child was a
frail baby, and he waited. Years passed, and when the child was old enough to
ask for its parents and demand its due, the proofs of the marriage were lost,
and nothing remained but a ring, a bit of writing, and the name. The priest was
very old, had
neither friends, money, nor proofs to help him;
but I was strong and hopeful, and though a mere boy I resolved to do the work.
I made my way to
England
, to Trevlyn Hall, and by various stratagems (among which, I am ashamed
to say, were false keys and feigned sleepwalking) I collected many proofs, but
nothing which would satisfy a court, for no one but you knew where Sir
Richard's confession was. I searched every nook and corner of the Hall, but in
vain, and began to despair, when news of the death of Father Cosmo recalled me
to
Italy
; for Helen was left to my care then. The old man had faithfully
recorded the facts and left witnesses to prove the truth of his story; but for
four years I never used it, never made any effort to secure the title or
estates."

 
          
           
"Why not?"
breathed my lady in a faint whisper, as
hope
suddenly revived.

 
          
           
"Because I was grateful," and for the first time
Paul's voice faltered.
"I was a stranger, and you took me in. I
never could forget that, nor tie many kindnesses bestowed upon the friendless
boy. This afflicted me, even while I was acting a false part, and when I was
away my heart failed me. But Helen gave me no peace; for my sake, she urged me
to keep the vow made to that poor mother, and threatened to tell the story
herself. Talbot's benefaction left me no excuse for delaying longer, and I came
to finish the hardest task I can ever undertake. I feared that a long dispute
would follow any appeal to law, and meant to appeal first to you, but fate
befriended me, and the last proof was found."

 
          
           
"Found! Where?" cried Lady Trevlyn, springing up aghast.

 
          
           
"In Sir Richard's coffin, where you hid it, not daring to destroy, yet
fearing to keep it."

 
          
           
"Who has betrayed me?" And her eye glanced wildly about the room, as
if she feared to see some spectral accuser.

 
          
           
"Your own lips, my lady.
Last night I came to
speak of this. You lay asleep, and in some troubled dream spoke of the paper,
safe in its writer's keeping, and your strange treasure here, the key of which
you guarded day and night. I divined the truth. Remembering Hester's stories, I
took the key from your helpless hand, found the paper on Sir Richard's dead
breast, and now demand that you confess your part in this tragedy."

 
          
           
"I do, I do! I confess, I yield,
I
relinquish
everything, and ask pity only for my child."

 
          
           
Lady Trevlyn fell upon her knees before him, with a submissive gesture, but
imploring eyes, for, amid the wreck of womanly pride and worldly fortune, the
mother's heart still clung to its idol.

 
          
           
"Who should pity her, if not I? God knows I would have spared her this
blow if I could; but Helen would not keep silent, and I was driven to finish
what I had begun. Tell Lillian this, and do not let her hate me."

 
          
           
As Paul spoke, tenderly, eagerly, the curtain parted, and Lillian appeared,
trembling with the excitement of that interview, but conscious of only one
emotion as she threw herself into his arms, crying in a tone of passionate
delight, "Brother! Brother! Now I may love you!"

 
          
           
Paul held her close, and for a moment forgot everything but the joy of that
moment. Lillian spoke first, looking up through tears of tenderness, her little
hand laid caressingly against his cheek, as she whispered with sudden bloom in
her own, "Now I know why I loved you so well, and now I can see you marry
Helen without breaking my heart. Oh, Paul, you are still mine, and I care for
nothing else."

 
          
           
"But, Lillian, I am not your brother."

 
          
           
"Then, in heaven's name, who are you?" she cried, tearing herself
from his arms.

 
          
           
"Your lover, dear!"

 
          
           
"Who, then, is the heir?" demanded Lady Trevlyn, springing up, as
Lillian turned to seek shelter with her mother.

 
          
           
"I am."

 
          
           
Helen spoke, and Helen stood on the threshold of the door, with a hard, haughty
look upon her beautiful face.

 
          
           
"You told your story badly, Paul," she said, in a bitter tone.
"You forgot me, forgot my affliction, my loneliness, my wrongs, and the
natural desire of a child to clear her mother's honor and claim her father's
name. I am Sir Richard's eldest daughter. I can prove my birth, and I demand my
right with
his own
words to sustain me."

 
          
           
She paused, but no one spoke; and with a slight tremor in her proud voice, she
added, "Paul has done the work; he shall have the reward. I only want my
father's name. Title and fortune are nothing to one like me. I coveted and
claimed them that I might give them to you, Paul, my one friend, always, so
tender and so true."

 
          
           
"I'll have none of it," he answered, almost fiercely. "I have
kept my promise, and am free. You chose to claim your own, although I offered
all I had to buy your silence. It is yours by right—take it, and enjoy it if
you can. I'll have no reward for work like this."

 
          
           
He turned from her with a look that would have stricken her to the heart could
she have seen it. She felt it, and it seemed to augment some secret anguish,
for she pressed her hands against her bosom with an expression of deep
suffering, exclaiming passionately, "Yes, I
will
keep it, since I am to lose all else. I am tired of pity.
Power is sweet, and I will use it. Go, Paul, and be happy if you can, with a
nameless wife, and the world's compassion or contempt to sting your
pride."