CHAPTER XXIV.
SLANDER
Later in the day Mrs. Seaton was informed that a gentleman was waiting to see her. Entering the room she saw Gerald Paget. She received him as usual with a frown, of which he took no notice. By this time he was hardened to the coldness of her receptions of him. Besides, he had prepared himself for the interview, and knew pretty well what he intended to say to her.
"I thought, Mr. Paget," she said, "that I had made you understand it is not my wish to encourage your visits to any of my servants."
"I did not inquire for any of your servants," he said, very politely, "but for you."
"What have you to say to me?"
"Something to the point-presently. First, however, I must correct you in a misconception into which you appear to have fallen. My visits to this house have been quite open, and have not been made to a servant."
"Indeed! To whom, then?"
"To a lady who accepted the position of governess to your children. It is not usual to call these gentlewomen servants."
"I decline," said Mrs. Seaton, "to enter into any argument with you on the point. I know the exact position of persons in my employ and the proper titles to give them. You are a young man, and have much to learn."
"I am aware of it, Mrs. Seaton; you, also, have something to learn. But I would impress strongly upon you the fact that Miss Braham is a lady, and-your equal."
"By no means-but I shall not argue. Oblige me by coming at once to the purport of your visit to me."
"The purport is a grave one, Mrs. Seaton, and I shall be sorry if the result is not satisfactory to you. A few days ago I addressed a letter to Miss Braham, which has not reached her hands."
"What has that to do with me?" Mrs. Seaton asked this question without flinching. She had received the letter, read it, and if she had any fear of consequences she did not show it. Her manner was rather scornful than guilty.
"A great deal I should say," replied Gerald. "It is no light matter to purloin a letter addressed to another person."
"Purloin, sir!"
"That is the word I have used, and intended to use. I wish to know what you have done with that letter?"
"I have done nothing with it. No such letter was ever left at this house to my knowledge."
"What if I set afoot an inquiry which would prove that to be not the truth?"
Mrs. Seaton rang the bell. "I must request you to leave the house," she said.
"I will do so in a minute or two. I happen to know that your letter-box is kept locked, and that no one opens it but yourself. I regret to be compelled to say to a lady that it is a wicked and cowardly action to appropriate a letter not addressed to herself. Of such an action you have undoubtedly been guilty. May I inquire if the letter I refer to is still in existence?"
"You may inquire what you please, sir, but I shall make no reply to your insults. I presume you have obtained certain information from Miss Braham.
"Yes, she informed me that she had not received a letter I wrote to her."
"She informed you," said Mrs. Seaton, with a venomous look. "When?"
"This afternoon."
"I understand. You and she are in the habit of meeting in secret outside my house. Such conduct is infamous, and now that I have positive knowledge of such proceedings I shall know how to act. Mr. Paget, we are speaking here in private, with no listeners to report what is said. Let me advise you to be careful as to what you say or do about this imaginary letter of yours. The young person you refer to may have a good name to lose, and it will be foolish on your part to set a lady of my standing in society against her. Mud will stick, Mr. Paget, never mind, by whom it is thrown, but when it is thrown by a lady or gentleman of repute it will stick all the closer. I learn, too late, that you have used my house as an assignation house-"
"You are stating what is false," cried Gerald, indignantly.
"As an assignation house," repeated Mrs. Seaton, with a malicious smile. "Having discovered your baseness-for you are no gentleman, Mr. Paget, and the other person implicated is no lady-there is only one course open to me. That course I shall pursue. If you do not leave my presence instantly I shall send for the police to remove you."
With that, the venomous woman threw open the door, and Gerald Paget, dismayed and discomfited, took his departure.
"A nice mess I have made of it," he thought, as he walked ruefully from the house, without venturing to look back. "What on earth made me beard the lioness in her den? The lioness! Not at all. There is something of nobility in that breed, and Mrs. Seaton hasn't a particle of nobility about her. She is a serpent. Her fangs are poisonous. How will she act toward Emilia? Mud will stick, she says. But what does it matter if Emilia loves me?"
He allowed himself to be carried away by his enthusiasm. He was young, impulsive, honest, and straightforward. Grand weapons in honorable warfare, but when is war honorable? The world, with its hidden snares and pitfalls, lay before him and Emilia, in whose pure souls faith and love shone radiant. How would it fare with them when pitted against envy, greed, and malice? Here was Mrs. Seaton, ready to defame and blacken; and travelling swiftly toward them was the beggar and spendthrift, Leonard, the man of selfish pleasure.
CHAPTER XXV.
LOST, OR SAVED?
Some three hours after Gerald's departure from the house, Emilia was summoned into the presence of Mrs. Seaton. When she received the message she was preparing for bed; it was night, and a heavy rain was falling.
"I have sent for you," said Mrs. Seaton, gazing at the young girl with pitiless eyes, "for the purpose of putting an immediate end to a disgraceful state of affairs. On the day I consented to take you upon trial, I informed you that I could give you no wages until I was satisfied that you would suit me. Is that correct?"
"You said," replied Emilia, "that you could give me none for the first month, and that, if we suited each other, you would arrange terms afterward."
"You have been here nearly seven weeks, and no terms have been arranged."
"That is true, madam."
"The fact being that we do not suit each other."
"I fear it is so."
"In which case-the basis of any terms whatever being suitability-no wages are due to you up to this date. Legally you are entitled to nothing."
"You know best, madam."
"I have allowed you to remain in my house in the hope that certain doubts I entertained would be dispelled. I regret to say they are not dispelled. However, I shall not charge you for your board and lodging."
Emilia bowed her head. Utterly inexperienced as she was, she had not the least doubt that Mrs. Seaton was putting the case fairly, and that she could really be called upon to pay for the food and shelter she had received.
"Ordinarily," continued Mrs. Seaton, "one would expect gratitude for such kindness. I do not. Be kind enough to sign this paper."
Upon the table lay a written document which, with Emilia's signature to it, would free Mrs. Seaton from any possible liability. In the last sentence of the artfully-worded release, Emilia acknowledged that she left Mrs. Seaton's house and service of her own accord. The young girl took the pen which Mrs. Seaton held out to her, and was about to sign when the elder lady said,
"I wish you to read and understand what you are signing. I shall not put it in your power to say that I took advantage of your youth and inexperience-for that is the way you would put it, I expect."
Emilia's eyes were blurred with tears, and although she took the paper in her trembling hands, she could not read what was written thereon.
"It is perfectly correct, is it not?" asked Mrs. Seaton.
"Yes, madam," replied Emilia, faintly, glad of the opportunity of hiding her distress of mind, "if you say it is."
"Of course. You will observe that it places you in an unexpectedly favorable position. Leaving my service of your own accord will make it easier for you to obtain another situation, if such should be your desire. Wait a moment. I should like your signature to be witnessed."
She rang the bell, and a maid appeared, a new servant who had arrived only that evening.
"I rang for you, Jane, to witness Miss Braham's signature to this paper. You can write?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am."
"Miss Braham has read the document, and perfectly understands its terms. That is the truth, is it not, Miss Braham?"
"Yes, madam," said the helpless girl.
"You hear, Jane? Now, Miss Braham, you can sign it if you wish."
Emilia wrote her name, and Jane wrote hers as witness, proud of the confidence reposed in her. Then Mrs. Seaton gave the new servant some whispered instructions, and she left the room.
Had Emilia's agitation allowed her, she could not have failed to notice that while Jane was in the room Mrs. Seaton's voice was kind and considerate, in striking contrast to the tone in which she spoke when they were alone.
"And now, Miss Braham," said Mrs. Seaton, folding up the paper and pocketing it with an air of triumph, "you will leave my house at once."
"At once, madam!" exclaimed the bewildered girl.
"This instant. I will not allow you to remain in it another hour. As the mother of a family I have a duty to perform. Your presence here is a contamination."
"I will not answer your insults, madam," faltered Emilia, "but it is night and rain is falling-"
"That is not my affair. You are well known, and can easily find lodgement with some of your friends-"
"I have none. You surely cannot be so cruel as to drive me away at such an hour."
"I am prepared for anything you may say. The paper you have signed fully protects me from any base statements you may make when you are no longer under my roof. You have no friends? Why, there is Mr. Paget. Do you think I have been blind to your goings on? Assignations, secret meetings, under my very eyes. Go to him. I have no doubt you know where to find him."
"Madam!"
"Oh, you may madam me as much as you like; it will not alter my determination. Ah, Jane" – to the new servant who entered the room-"have you locked the door of the room which Miss Braham occupied?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And brought her box down?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Give me the key of the room. That will do, my good girl; I do not require you any more. Go down-stairs and get your supper. Leave the door open." The merciless woman waited until Jane had reached the basement and was out of hearing; then she spoke again. "If you cannot take your box with you to-night, you can send for it in the morning, but once out of my house you do not enter it again. Go immediately, or I will send for the police."
She advanced toward Emilia, who retreated in affright; step by step she hounded the poor girl to the street door, which she threw open. The next moment Emilia was standing alone in the dark and gloomy night.
Dazed and horrified, she felt as if her senses were leaving her; she pressed her hands over her eyes, and cowered to the walls for protection. But a friend was near.
Restless with love's fever, Gerald, heedless of the rain-for what is so slight a thing to one who loves as he did? – was hovering about the house in which his darling lived. He looked up at the windows, and choosing one as the window of Emilia's room, gazed at it with fervor, making of it a very heaven-a heaven to be glorified by her presence. "To-morrow," he mused, as he paced slowly up and down on the opposite side, "I will ask her plainly to be my wife. She is unhappy-she told me so-and it must be because she is living with such a wicked woman. Yes, I will ask her to-morrow. She loves me, I am sure of it. It is only that she is poor and I am rich. What of that? It will make it all the better for us-a thousand times better than if she were rich and I were poor. Then we might never come together. Dear Emilia, sweet Emilia, the sweetest, dearest, most beautiful on earth! I love her, I love her, I love her!"
Thus ecstatically musing, he saw the street-door suddenly opened and as suddenly and violently shut, and a figure thrust forth, as if in anger. He had no idea that it was Emilia; the thought was too barbarous to be entertained; but out of curiosity he crossed the road and went up to it.
"Good God!" he cried; "Emilia!" and caught her up in his arms.
"Oh, Gerald, Gerald!" she sobbed, and lay there, helpless and almost heartbroken, and yet with a sweet sense of comfort stealing upon her great grief.
What mattered rain and darkness? She had called him Gerald, and he knew for a surety that he was loved. He kissed her, and she did not resist, but lay, sobbing more quietly now, within the sanctuary of his loving arms.
Ecstasy at being permitted to embrace her enthralled him for a time, but presently he begged her to explain the meaning of her being thrust at such an hour from Mrs. Seaton's house. Before she could render it the street-door was opened quietly and slowly, and a woman's face peered out-Mrs. Seaton's.
"I thought as much," cried the stony-hearted woman, with a laugh. "A pretty pair!" and then the door was closed again, and only the sound of the falling rain was heard.
With a feeling of burning indignation Gerald looked down upon the white face of his dear girl. Her eyes were closed; her arms hung loose at her side; she had fainted.
He was thankful that the street was deserted and that there were no witnesses near, for he had sense enough to know that Emilia's reputation was at stake.
"You fiend," he muttered, with a dark glance at Mrs. Seaton's house. "You abominable fiend!" And then he called softly, "Emilia, Emilia! Look up, my darling. We are safe now, and we will never part."
His voice, but not the words he spoke, reached her senses. She opened her eyes, and clung more closely to him, murmuring,
"For Heaven's sake, take me from this place."
"Come, then," he said, supporting her. It was not until they had traversed two or three streets that Gerald began to feel perplexed. Where should he take her? He had no lady friend to whom he could apply and who would be willing to receive Emilia. It would be dangerous to her character to go to an hotel. The hour, the circumstances, Emilia's agitated state, were all against them. She was too weak to speak for herself; upon him devolved the responsibility of providing for her, of protecting her, and he was conscious that anything he might say to strangers would do her more harm than good. There was already a danger that she was being compromised. Some persons had passed them in the streets, and dark as was the night, they could scarcely fail to see that his arm was round her waist and that she was clinging to him. Now and then sobs escaped from her overcharged heart. A few of the people they met turned and looked after them, and Gerald heard one laugh. It went through him like a sharp knife. If he could only get her safely housed before she was recognized! But he was by no means sure that this danger had been averted. Certainly two men who had passed them were men he knew.
As for Emilia, happily or unhappily for herself, she noticed nothing. This terrible crisis had completely prostrated her, and all that she was conscious of was that she was under the protection of an honorable man, and had escaped from the oppression of a vile woman.
Something must be done, and done soon. They could not walk the streets the whole night. Every moment added to the dangers of the position.
"Emilia, will you listen to me?"
"I am listening, Gerald."
It was as if she had called him so all her life; and, indeed, in the purest innocence, she had often murmured his name in secret to herself. He was thrilled with ineffable happiness.
"You understand what I am saying to you, Emilia?"
"Yes."
"It is very late."
With sudden terror she cried, "You will not leave me, Gerald? You will not desert me?"
"No, indeed. Do not be afraid. I am yours forever, in truth and honor. But we must be prudent."
"I will do whatever you bid me, Gerald. I have no friend in the world but you."
In his honor and honesty lay her safety. Well was it for her that she had by her side a man like Gerald.
"Where did you live before you went to Mrs. Seaton?" She shuddered at the name, and answered, "In Grafton Street," and mentioned the number.
They were nearly a mile from the house, and in Emilia's weak state it took them more than half an hour to get there, but weak as she was she did not complain of fatigue. She was content so long as Gerald was with her. There was no cessation in the rain, which still fell steadily.
There was not a light to be seen in any of the windows of the house. Gerald knocked, but knocked in vain. In despair he turned away, and Emilia walked patiently with him.
Then it forced itself upon him that there was still the alternative of endeavoring to obtain a room for her in a respectable hotel. To conduct her to one of doubtful repute was not to be thought of. It was close on midnight when they reached the hotel he had in his mind. He did not venture to take her inside the building with him. Her swollen eyes, her death-white face, her dishevelled hair, her clothes soaked with rain, would have ensured failure. Besides, until he was sure of a shelter for her, he did not care to expose her to the prying eyes of strangers.
He explained to her what he was about to do, but he was doubtful whether she quite understood him. All she said was:
"I do whatever you bid me, Gerald. I have no friend in the world but you."
She had spoken these words many times, and no appeal could have been more plaintive. The pity of it was that every time she uttered them her voice had grown fainter.
"Wait here for me, Emilia. I will not be gone long. If anyone speaks to you do not answer them."
"You will come back to me, Gerald?"
"Yes, surely, my darling."
He was fated not to succeed. His lame explanations, his stumbling words, his references to "a young lady in an unfortunate position," his statement that it would be rendering him a personal obligation, ensured failure. The lady manager of the hotel shook her head, and said she could not accommodate his friend "under such circumstances," adding that she was surprised he should ask her to do so.
He rejoined Emilia, whose fingers tightened upon his arm as she murmured:
"You have come back!"
They had not walked fifty yards before her strength gave way. Again she fainted, and but for his support would have fallen to the ground. Hailing a passing cab he, with the assistance of the driver, lifted her into it, and gave the man instructions to drive to his house. With a covert smile the man mounted to his box, and drove in the given direction.
The house in which Gerald lived was that his parents had occupied. He had been loth to leave it until the arrival of his half-brother Leonard, when he had decided to discuss their future movements with him. He had had a sincere affection for Leonard, and relied greatly upon his judgment. Most of the servants had been dismissed; only two remained, a housekeeper and a maid, and these attended to the young gentleman's wants. They were in the habit of retiring early to bed; Gerald had a latchkey with which he let himself in when he came home late. Thus, in the present emergency, a certain privacy was ensured.
Under no other circumstances than these would Gerald have dreamed of taking Emilia to his house, but he was driven to a course of which he inwardly disapproved. He had no time now to consider consequences; Emilia demanded all his attention. She was still unconscious when they arrived at the house, and he was compelled to ask the assistance of the driver to carry her in. This being accomplished, he paid the man liberally and dismissed him.
They had entered without being observed; the housekeeper and the maid occupied rooms below, and Gerald supposed them to be both asleep at the time. The room into which Emilia had been carried was his favorite apartment, on the ground floor, and was somewhat daintily furnished. From a sideboard he took wine and biscuits, and from an inner room he brought towels and a basin of cold water. The fire in the grate had burned low, but he threw wood and coals on it, and it was soon in a bright blaze. Then he drew the sofa upon which Emilia was lying close to the fireplace, and stood debating with himself what he should do. Had the housekeeper been the only servant in the house he would have called her in to attend to Emilia; she had been many years in the service of his family, and he thought he could trust her; but he was sure he could not trust the maid, who was an inveterate chatterbox. Before he had decided what to do Emilia revived; struggling to her feet she gazed around in stupefaction. In as few words as possible Gerald explained what had occurred; she listened to him in silence, then sank upon the couch, and burst into a passion of tears.
"Are you angry with me, Emilia?" he asked, in deep concern. "I could do nothing else. To have kept you in the streets any longer would have been your death. Listen to the rain; it is coming down harder than ever. Here at least you are safe for a few hours. The housekeeper is asleep down-stairs. I will call her up if you wish, but there is another servant who cannot be trusted, I fear."
"If anyone sees me here I shall die of shame," said Emilia, in a low tone. "What will become of me-oh, what will become of me?"
"There is nothing to fear," said Gerald, "and no one need be aware that you are in the house. Do you not know already that I love you with all my heart and soul, and that by consenting to become my wife you will make me the happiest man in the world? The position in which we are placed has been forced upon us. No one shall have the power of placing an evil construction upon it. I will see to that. Your happiness, your honor, are in my keeping. Can you not trust me, Emilia?"
With these and other words as true and tender, he succeeded in calming her. With innate delicacy he did not press her to answer him at such an hour; he would wait till to-morrow; meanwhile he explained his plan to her. She was to occupy the room till the morning, and to lock herself in. He would find a bed elsewhere. Before the servants rose he would return to the house and make a confidant of the housekeeper; the younger servant should be sent upon a distant errand which would keep her from the house till eleven or twelve o'clock. Before that time Emilia would be settled elsewhere. Thus the secret would be preserved and the tongue of scandal silenced.
"And then, Emilia," he said, gazing upon her with ardent affection, "I will ask for my reward."
It was impossible, even if her heart were not already his, that she should fail to be touched by his delicacy and devotion. Tenderly and humbly she thanked him, and intended to say that she would give him his answer on the morrow, but love broke down the barrier of reserve. Involuntarily she held out her hands to him, and he clasped her in his arms and kissed her on her lips, and said that the embrace was a pledge of truth and constancy.
"From you, Emilia, as well as from me!"
"Yes, Gerald," she sighed; "I love you!"
So through the clouds of this dolorous night broke the sun of faithful mutual love. It might have been excused him had he lingered, but for her sake he would not.
"I shall wait in the passage," he said, "to hear you turn the key. No one will disturb you. The housekeeper does not enter this room till I ring in the morning, and I am not always an early bird. Good-night, dear love."
"Good-night, dear Gerald. Are you sure you will be able to get a bed?"
"I can get a dozen. God bless and guard you!"
They kissed each other once more, and then he left her. He waited in the passage to hear the key turned, and with a lover's foolish fondness kissed the door which shut his treasure from his sight. He listened in the passage a moment or two to assure himself that all was still and safe, and then he crept to the street-door, which he opened and closed very softly. He did not seek a bed elsewhere, having come to the determination that it would be a better security from slanderous tongues that it should be supposed he slept in his own house that night. So he made pilgrimages through the streets, ever and anon coming back to the house which sheltered his darling. But once it fatefully happened that he was absent for some thirty or forty minutes, during which period a startling and unexpected incident occurred, the forerunner of as strange a series as ever entered into the history of two loving hearts.