Part 34 (2/2)
The two ladies drove in silence, till Diana said, abruptly: ”I am ready, Mrs. Vane; tell me all, and spare nothing.”
”Your solemn oath first, that living or dying, you will never reveal to any human soul what I shall tell you.” And as she spoke, Mrs. Vane extended her hand.
Diana gave her own, and took the oath which the other well knew she would keep inviolate.
”I shall not torture you by suspense,” Mrs. Vane began, ”but show you at once why I would save you from a greater suffering than the loss of love. Miss Stuart, read that, and learn the mystery of your lover's life.”
With a sudden gesture, she took from her bosom a worn paper, and unfolding it, held before the other's eyes the mar riage record of Allan Douglas and Virginie Varens. Not a word pa.s.sed Diana's lips, but with the moan of a broken heart, she covered up her face, and slowly, tremulously, the voice at her side went on: ”You see here the date of that mysterious journey to Paris, from which he returned an altered man. There, too, is his private seal. That long lock of hair, that stained slipper, belonged to Virginie; and though he said he had never seen her, the lie cost him an effort, and well it might, for I sat there before him, and I am Virginie.”
Diana's hands dropped from her pallid face, as she shrunk away from her companion, yet gazed at her like one fascinated by an awful spell.
”Hear my story, and then judge between us,” the voice continued, so melancholy, yet so sweet that tears came to the listener's eyes, as the sad story was unfolded. ”I am of a n.o.ble family, but was left so poor, so friendless, that but for a generous boy, I should have perished in the streets of Paris. He was a dancer, his poor earnings could not support us both. I discovered this, and in my innocence, thought no labor degrading that lessened my great debt to him. I, too, had become a dancer. I had youth, beauty, health and a grateful heart to help me on. I made money. I had many lovers, but Victor kept me safe, for he, too, loved, but in secret, till he was sure I could give him love, not grat.i.tude. Then Allan came, and I forgot the world about me; for I loved, as only a girl of seventeen can love the first man who had touched her heart. He offered me his hand and honorable name, for I was as well born as himself, and even in my seeming degradation, he respected me. We were married, and for a year, I was as happy as an angel. Then my boy was born, and for a time I lost my beauty. That cooled Allan's waning pa.s.sion. Some fear of consequences, some late regret for his rash act, came over him, and made him very bitter to me when I most needed tenderness. He told me that our marriage had been without witnesses, that our faith was different, and that vows p.r.o.nounced before a Catholic priest alone were not binding upon him. That he was weary of me, and having been recalled to Scotland, he desired to return as free as he went. If I would promise solemnly to conceal the truth, he would support the boy and me abroad, until I chose to marry; that I must destroy the record of the deed, and never claim him, or he would denounce me as an impostor, and take away the boy. Miss Stuart, I was very ignorant and young; my heart was broken, and I believed myself dying. For the child's sake, I promised all things, and he left me; but remorse haunted him, and his peace was poisoned from that hour.”
”And you? You married Colonel Vane?” whispered Diana, holding her breath to listen.
”No, I have never married, for in my eyes, that ceremony made me Allan's wife, and I shall be so till I die. When most forlorn, Colonel Vane found me. He was Allan's friend; he had seen me with him, and when we met again, he pitied me; and finding that I longed to hide myself from the world, he took me to India under an a.s.sumed name, as the widow of a friend. My boy went with me, and for a time, I was as happy as a desolate creature could be. Colonel Vane desired to marry me; for, though I kept my promise, he suspected that I had been deceived, and cruelly deserted, and longed to atone for his friend's perfidy by his own devotion. I would not marry him; but when he was dying, he begged me to take his name as a s.h.i.+eld against a curious world, to take his fortune, and give my son the memory of a father when his own had cast him off. I did so; and no one knew me there except under my false name. It was believed that I had married him too soon after my first husband's death, to care to own it at once, and when I came to England, no one denied me the place I chose to fill.”
”O, why did you come?” cried Diana, with a tearless sob.
”I came because I longed to know if Allan had forgotten me, if he had married, and left his poor boy fatherless. I saw him last winter, saw that you loved him, feared that he would love you, and when I learned that both were coming here, I resolved to follow. It was evident that Allan had not forgotten me, that he had suffered as well as I; and perhaps if he could bring himself to brave the pity, curiosity and criticism of the world, he might yet atone for his deceit, and make me happy. We had met in London; he had told me to remember my vow; had confessed that he still loved me, but dared not displease his haughty family by owning me; had seen his boy, and reiter ated his promise to provide for us as long as we were silent. I saw him no more till we met here, and this explains all that has seemed so strange to you. It was I who entered his room, but not to juggle with the ring. He invented that tale to account for the oiled lock, and whatever stir might have been overheard. I went to implore him to pause before he pledged himself to you. He would not yield, having gone too far to retract with honor, he said. Then I was in despair; for well I knew that if ever the knowledge of this pa.s.sage in his life should come to you, that you would feel as I feel, and regard that first marriage as sacred in G.o.d's eye, whatever the world might say. I gave him one more opportunity to spare you by the warning I whispered in the park. That has delayed the wrong, but you would have yielded had not other things roused suspicion of me. I had decided to say no more, but let you two tangle your fates as you would. Your appeal this morning conquered me, and I have broken every vow, dared every danger, to serve and save you. Have I done all this in vain?”
”No; let me think, let me understand-then I will act.”
For many minutes they rolled on silently, two pale, stern-faced women, sitting side by side looking out before them, with fixed eyes that saw nothing but a hard task performed, a still harder one yet to be done. Diana spoke first, asking, sharply: ”Do you intend to proclaim your wrong, and force your husband to do you justice?”
”No, I shall not ask that of him again, but I shall do my best to prevent any other woman from blindly sacrificing her happiness by marrying him, unconscious of my claim. For the boy's sake I have a right to do this.”
”You have. I thank you for sparing me the affliction of discovering that man's perfidy too late. Where is your boy, Mrs. Douglas?”
Steadily she spoke; and when her lips p.r.o.nounced the name she had hoped to make her own, a stern smile pa.s.sed across her white face, and left a darker shadow behind. Mrs. Vane touched her lips with a warning gesture, saying pitifully, yet commandingly: ”Never call me that until he gives me the right to bear it openly. You ask for my boy; will you come and see him? He is close by; I cannot be parted from him long, yet must conceal him, for the likeness to his father would betray me at once, if we were seen together.”
Turning down a gra.s.sy lane, Mrs. Vane drove on till the way became too narrow for the carriage. Here they alighted, and climbing a wooded path, came to a lonely cottage in a dell.
”My faithful Jitomar found this safe nook for me, and brings me tidings of my darling every day,” whispered Mrs. Vane, as she stole along the path that wound round the house.
Turning a sharp corner, a green, lawn-like bit of ground appeared. On a vine-covered seat sat an old French bonne, knitting as she nodded in the sun. But Diana saw nothing but a little figure tossing b.u.t.ter-cups into the air, and catching them as they fell, with peals of childish laughter. A three-year-old boy it was, with black curls blowing round a bold, bright face, where a healthful color glowed through the dark skin, and brilliant eyes sparkled under a brow so like that other, that she could not doubt that this was Allan's son. Just then the boy spied his mother, and with a cry of joy ran to her, to be gathered close, and covered with the tenderest caresses.
There was no acting here, for genuine mother love transformed Mrs. Vane from her usual inexplicable self into a simple woman, whose heart was bound up in the little creature whom she loved with the pa.s.sionate fondness of an otherwise cold and superficial nature.
Waving off the old bonne when she would have approached, Mrs. Vane turned to Diana, asking: ”Are you satisfied?”
”Heaven help me, yes!”
”Is he not like his father? See, the very shape of his small hands, the same curve to his baby-mouth. Stay, you shall hear him speak. Darling, who am I?”
”Mama, my dear mama,” replied the little voice.
”And who is this?” asked Mrs. Vane, showing a miniature of Douglas.
”O, papa! when will he come again?”
”G.o.d only knows, my poor baby. Now kiss mama, and then go and make a pretty daisy chain against I come next time. See, love, here are bonbons and new toys, show them to Babette. Quick, let us slip away, Miss Stuart.”
As the boy ran to his nurse, the ladies vanished, and in silence regained the carriage. Only one question and answer pa.s.sed between them, as they drove rapidly homeward.
”Diana, what will you do?”
”Go to-morrow, and in silence. It is all over between us, forever. Mrs. Vane, I envy you, I thank you, and I could almost hate you for the kind yet cruel deed you have done this day.”
A gloomy darkness settled down on her altered face; despair sat in her eyes, and death itself could not have stricken hope, energy and vitality out of it more utterly than the bitter truth which she had wrung from her companion.
George Lennox and Douglas were waiting at the door, and both ran down to help them alight. Diana dragged her veil over her face, while Mrs. Vane a.s.sumed an anxious, troubled air as the carriage stopped, and both gentlemen offered a hand to Miss Stuart. Putting Earl's aside with what seemed almost rude repugnance, she took George's arm, hurried up the steps, and as her foot touched the threshold of the door, she fell heavily forward in a swoon. Douglas was springing toward her, when a strong grasp detained him, and Mrs. Vane whispered, as she clung to his arm tremblingly and pale: ”Do not touch her; she must not see you; it will kill her.”
”Good heavens! what is the cause of this?” he asked, as Lennox carried Diana in, and help came flocking at his call.
”O, Mr. Douglas, I have had an awful drive! She terrified me so by her wild conversation, her fierce threats of taking her own life, that I drove home in an agony. You saw how she repulsed you, and rushed away to drop exhausted in the hall; imagine what it all means, and spare me the pain of telling you.”
She spoke breathlessly, and glanced nervously about her, as if still in fear. Earl listened, half bewilderingly at first, then, as her meaning broke upon him, his dark cheek whitened, and he looked aghast.
”You do not mean that she is mad?” he whispered, recalling her fierce gesture, and the moody silence she had preserved for many days.
”No, O no, I dare not say that yet; but I fear that her mind is unsettled by long brooding over one unhappy thought, and that the hereditary taint may be upon the point of showing itself. Poor girl!”
”Am I the cause of this outbreak? Is our disagreement the unhappy thought that has warped her reason? What shall I, what ought I to do?” Earl asked, in great distress, as Diana's senseless body was carried up the stairs, and her aunt stood wringing her hands, while Lady Lennox despatched a servant for medical help.
”Do nothing but avoid her, for she says your presence tor tures her. She will go to-morrow. Let her leave quietly, and when absence has restored her, take any steps toward a reconciliation that you think best. Now I must go to her, do not repeat what I have said. It escaped me in my agitation, and may do her harm if she learns that her strange behaviour is known.”
Pressing his hand with a sympathizing glance, Mrs. Vane hurried in, and for an hour busied herself about Diana so skilfully, that the physician sent all the rest away, and gave his directions to her alone. When recovered from her faint, Diana lay like one dead, refusing to speak or move, yet taking obediently whatever Mrs. Vane offered her, as if a mutual sorrow linked them together with a secret bond. At dusk she seemed to fall asleep, and leaving Gabrielle to watch beside her, Mrs. Vane went down to join the others at a very quiet meal.
Chapter VI.
A Dark Death
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