CHAPTER XXX.
THE FLIGHT AND THE RESCUE
The terrors of the night on which Emilia fled to escape from her traducers produced an indelible effect upon her mind. Often in afterlife, when the brief gleam of sunshine she was destined to enjoy had died away, did she reflect with shudders upon the experiences of those few pregnant hours. From the moment of her departure until sunrise flooded the land with light, but brought only a deeper anguish to her soul, there was an interval of darkness lasting barely seven hours, but it seemed to her that it might have been seven times seven, so heavily charged were the minutes with black woe. Feeble as she was, and fragile as was her frame, she travelled a surprising distance during these interminable hours. When, compelled by exhaustion to rest, she had so far recovered as to be able to proceed, she ran with fleet foot to make up for lost time, until, breathless and panting, she came to a standstill, and caught at the nearest object for support, generally a fence or the branch of a tree. Sometimes she caught at shadows and fell, and lay supine awhile, to rise again in ever-growing despair and continue her flight; but moral forces are powerless against the forces of physical nature, and shortly after sunrise her strength gave way, and now when she fell she was unable from exhaustion to rise. She might have been able to continue her flight for still a brief space, had she not been climbing a hill, the exertion of which completely overpowered her. The spot upon which she fell commanded a view of a river. It stretched to the north and south of her, and in its waters were mirrored the gorgeous splendors of the rising sun. She did not see it at first, for it came into view only at the point she had reached; lower down the hill it was not visible to sight.
Presently, opening her eyes, she saw the jewelled shadows playing on the surface, and they so distressed her-yearning as she was for peace and rest-that her eyelids drooped, and she turned her head to avoid a picture which in happier circumstances she would have gazed upon with delight. But she knew the river was there.
For full half an hour she lay with her eyes closed, struggling with a horrible temptation. Then she turned to the water, struggled into a sitting posture, and gazed with wild eyes upon it. Not voluntarily and of her own free will; some evil spiritual power within her compelled her to do so.
It was quieter now. The gorgeous colors had died out of the skies and the river was in repose. "Come," it whispered, "come to my embrace, and end your woes." But the strong religious instinct within her enabled her to struggle with the frightful suggestion. "No, no!" she murmured, feebly putting her hands together. "Help me, dear Lord, to avoid the crime!" Her appeal did not banish the silent voices which urged her to seek oblivion, and, in oblivion, peace. How the struggle would have ended it is difficult to say, had not her fate been taken out of her own hands.
There came to her ears the crack of a whip and the sound of a human voice urging horses up the hill. She bowed her head upon her lap to hide her face from the stranger who was approaching her.
He was an old man in charge of a wagon and a team of horses. The cattle were willing enough, and fresh for their day's work, and it was only from habit that their driver was shouting words of encouragement to them. They reached the summit of the hill, and the wagoner, merciful to his beasts, eased them a bit. It was then his eyes fell upon the form of Emilia. He approached her and laid his hand upon her shoulder. She shivered and shrank from his touch. At this human contact, the first she had experienced since her flight from the house of the maiden sisters, there seemed to come upon her a more complete consciousness of the shame and degradation into which she had been thrust. That it was unmerited mattered not. It clung to her, and was proclaimed in her face. How, then, could she raise her head to meet the gaze of any human being?
"In trouble, my lass?" asked the wagoner, kindly. With but an imperfect observation of her, he knew that she was young.
Emilia made no reply, but let her shoulder droop, so that his hand might not touch her.
"Can I help you?"
No sound, and now no further movement, from the hapless girl. He lingered a moment or two longer, and then slowly left her. Giving the word, his team began to descend the hill. But at the bottom of the descent, with a level road before him, he pulled up his cattle again, and turned with sad eyes to the spot where he had left Emilia, who was hidden from his sight.
This man had a history-as what man has not? – and it is probable that Emilia was saved from suicide by the remembrance of the most dolorous experience in his life. He was nearer seventy than sixty years of age, but he was strong and lusty still, and his heart had not been soured or embittered by trouble. The story of his special grief is a common one enough, and can be narrated in a few words. He was a married man, and his old wife was waiting at home for him, five and thirty miles away. Children had they none, but thirty years ago they had a daughter, who left them secretly upon the persuasion of a scoundrel. The villain took her to London, and after she had enjoyed a brief spell of false happiness she found herself deserted and friendless. In her despair she crept back to the home of which she had been the joy, but she had not the courage to enter it and beg for forgiveness. Her body was discovered in a river hard by, and in her pocket a letter to her parents, relating her story, and praying them to think kindly of her. That is all.
It was the memory of this daughter that caused the wagoner to turn toward Emilia. Perhaps the poor girl was in a strait similar to that of his own lost child. Had she met a kind heart, had a helping hand been stretched out to her, she might have been saved to them, might have been living at this very day to comfort and cheer her aged parents. He would make another effort to ascertain the trouble of the lonely girl who had shrunk from his touch. Up the hill he climbed, having no fear for his horses, who would only start again at the sound of his voice.
Emilia had risen to her feet, and her trembling hands were extended to the river, as though to push it from her, while her form swayed toward it. He saw her face now, and his heart beat with pity for her. It may have been fancy, but he fancied he saw in her a resemblance to his lost child. So engrossed was Emilia in the terrible struggle that was raging in her soul that she was not aware she was observed until the wagoner seized her arm, and said,
"My dear, let me help you in your trouble."
It was like the voice of an angel who had come to her rescue. She threw her arms about him, and cried, in a voice of exhaustion:
"Save me, save me!"
"It's what I've come for, my dear," said the wagoner, holding her up. "Where is your home?"
"Home!" she echoed, hysterically, "I have none! I am alone in the world-alone, alone!"
"No father or mother?"
"None."
"No friends?"
"None-not one."
"What can I do for you?"
"Take me from the river. Hark! Do you not hear what it is whispering to me? I am exhausted; my strength is gone, and I can no longer resist. If you leave me here I shall die!"
"But you do not know where I am going."
"It does not matter. Anywhere, anywhere, so that I can have rest. Hide me-hide me! Oh, my heart, my heart!"
Upon this she burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and the good wagoner saw that she was not in a fit state to answer further questions. Endeavoring to calm her, he assisted her down the hill to where his team was standing, but before they reached it she swooned. It was not an easy task to lift her into the shelter of his wagon, but he managed it, and made up a bed of straw upon which he laid her. Then he started his horses again, and was careful to avoid ruts, in order not to jolt his fair guest too roughly. He had the whole day before him, and it would do if he reached his home before night. Now and again he mounted the wagon to look at Emilia, and was concerned that he could obtain no coherent words from her. The poor girl's trials had produced their effect upon her weak frame, and she was fast relapsing into delirium. All that he could distinguish in her feverish mutterings were the words, "I am innocent, I am innocent! I have done no wrong. God will speak for me!" Even these pathetic utterances came from her at intervals, and he had to piece them together. Her youth and beauty deeply impressed the kind-hearted man, and he did not regret the course he had taken. In the middle of the day he arrived at a village, and gave his horses two hours' rest. He utilized these two hours by hunting up a doctor, who, feeling Emilia's pulse and putting his hand on her hot forehead, said, "She is in a high state of fever. The only thing you can do is to get her home as quickly as possible." He believed her to be the wagoner's daughter, and he gave the old man a draught which Emilia was to be persuaded to take, should she have an interval of consciousness before they reached their journey's end. The wagoner's anxiety now was to get home as soon as possible, and the roads being good he put his horses to a trot. At six o'clock in the evening the journey was over, and the team stood at the door of his cottage. His old wife ran out to greet him, and he rapidly explained to her what he had done, and why he had done it.
"Was it right, mother?" he asked.
The tears rushed to her eyes. It was thirty years since he had addressed her by that endearing term, and she thought, as he had thought, of the daughter they had lost in the time gone by. There are memories that never die.
"Quite right, John," murmured the old woman, and together they carried Emilia into their cottage and laid her upon a bed. There the wagoner left his wife to attend to the young girl; he had his horses to look after, and when this was done he returned to the cottage, to find Emilia undressed and in bed, with the old woman standing by her side.
"We must have a doctor, John," she said, and away he went for one.
The report was not favorable; Emilia was prostrate, and now that the strain was over a dangerous reaction had set in. The doctor gave it as his opinion that she would not be well for weeks, and so it proved. But long before she was convalescent Gerald, accompanied by Leonard, made his appearance, and thus the unfortunate girl had near her one enemy and three friends. Which side would triumph in the end?
CHAPTER XXXI.
LIGHT SHINES THROUGH THE DARK CLOUDS
Leonard cursed his ill luck, cursed Gerald for his infatuation, cursed Emilia for stepping in to spoil his plans, cursed the wagoner and his wife for their kindness toward her-in short, cursed everything and everybody except himself, whom he regarded as the person who was being wronged in the affair. But he wore a constant smile upon his lips, his words were honey, and the consideration he expressed for Emilia was perfect in its way. Sometimes when he spoke of her it was in a choked voice, and he was certainly successful in deceiving everyone around him. His one hope now was that Emilia would die, and could he have done so without risk to himself, he would cheerfully have given her a cup of poison to bring about that consummation.
Gerald's great grief was that Emilia did not recognize him. Indeed, she knew no one. Even when she was able to move about her mind was a blank. She allowed him to take her hand in his, and to retain it, but to the tender pressure of his fingers she made no response. They took woodland rambles together, hand in hand, and she gathered wild flowers which she arranged afterward in the cottage. She listened to all he said, nodding her head gently from time to time in a manner which made his heart beat with hope that she understood what he was speaking of. Of course the subject-matter, when originated by Gerald, was personal. He dilated upon his love for her, and explained again and again how it was that he had not come to her the day after the fire; and when he finished she gazed at him with a pitiful smile on her lips and a vacant look in her eyes, which proved too well that his words had fallen upon ears insensible to their meaning. Upon abstract matters she was more intelligent. She loved the animals about the cottage, and the dumb creatures loved her and obeyed her least motion; she loved the flowers that were gathered, but Gerald observed with pain that she tended with care only those she gathered herself. When he gave her any she accepted them gently, but presently they dropped from her hand, and she made no effort to pick them up. "I have wrecked her reason," he groaned. "Monster that I am, I have ruined my dear girl's life!" As for Leonard, he derived some satisfaction from what was transpiring. "She is drifting into a confirmed idiot," he thought. "It is not so good as getting rid of her altogether, but I am grateful for small mercies."
It had been arranged between Gerald and Leonard that a certain secrecy should be observed in their proceedings. Leonard did not exactly know how this would be to his advantage, but he had a dim idea that it might be so turned, and that at all events it would be better than making a full disclosure of all that had transpired. When Leonard mooted the plan Gerald asked what would be the good of it, and Leonard answered:
"My poor boy! What a simpleton you are, and how little you know the world. It is the publicity of the thing that has driven Emilia to the injudicious course she has pursued, for I do not disguise from you that it would have been far better for her had she remained to face matters boldly."
"It was impossible she should do so," said Gerald. "My dear girl's nature is far too sensitive and delicate to cope with such snakes in the grass as Mrs. Seaton."
"Granted; but although there would have been suffering, I still maintain it would have been the better course. I repeat that it is the publicity of the unfortunate affair that has directed her movements. Would she have run away, had she not been found in your house?"
"No, she would have had no motive for doing so."
"Exactly; and the motive that urged her on was the publicity of the thing. You would only be adding to her unhappiness by making affairs still more public. Scandal is a feminine bird with a thousand pairs of wings, my boy, and she would fly here, and render Emilia's life intolerable. There is nothing that people enjoy so much. Every man's door flies open when she knocks, and if it should chance to remain shut the jade creeps in through the crevices. Emilia would not thank you if she discovered that it was through you she was being pursued by the wretched innuendoes circulated by Mrs. Seaton. Let sleeping dogs lie. And bear in mind that Emilia has made things a hundred times worse by running away from her enemies."
"How so?"
"She has left them in possession of the field, and therefore in the position of victors. I am not speaking from my heart, but with the usual worldly tongue, which I most heartily despise, when I say that Emilia's flight is in itself an admission of guilt. It is really so, Gerald. She has piled difficulty upon difficulty, and you must not assist her in the work. Her sensitive nature, yes, I grant you all that, but it is for the man to be strong and wise, and to let his actions be guided by a cool brain."
"You are a true counsellor, Leonard. But for you Heaven knows to what a pass we should be driven. Still it sounds cruel."
"We must be cruel only to be kind, dear boy. The people in these parts are like people in our own town, like people all over the world. There isn't a pin to choose between them. So for your Emilia's sake we will be mum."
So it was settled. Had Leonard had his wish, their names would have been concealed and they would have adopted others; but to this Gerald would not consent. Leonard was secretly exultant, although, as has been said, he did not exactly know how it would be of advantage to him. But he did know that secrecy would make matters worse for Emilia instead of better, and that when her acquaintances became aware of the plan adopted-as become aware they should if the necessity arose-it would place another weapon in their hands against her.
Thus six weeks passed, and Emilia remained in the same condition. Leonard wondered for how much longer they were going to stop. The quietude of the place palled upon him; there were no amusements, no society, and Gerald being with him, he was compelled to be on his best behavior. He longed for the busy world and its pleasures and excitements. He ventured to speak to Gerald about their stay.
"I shall not leave," said Gerald, "until Emilia is better, or until we are married."
This staggered Leonard. "Surely," he said, "you have no notion of marrying her while she remains as she is?"
"If it were possible," said Gerald, very seriously, "I should not hesitate. Leonard, my dear brother, you are my superior in every way, but at least in this affair I know what is right. Leave me here to myself, then. Why should I condemn you to a life which must be intolerably dull to you? You have already assisted me in a manner which no other man in the world could or would have done, and to my last hour I shall be grateful to you."
"I shall not leave your side," said Leonard, pressing his hand, "until you drive me from you."
"That will be never," said Gerald, affectionately. "Leonard, with your worldly wisdom, can you suggest any plan by which Emilia's mind could be restored to her?"
"None, my dear boy."
"The doctor who attends her," said Gerald, in a musing tone, "is a worthy gentleman, but there may be cleverer than he to be found in cities."
"So far as I can see," said Leonard, much disturbed by this observation, "he has done all that is possible in such a case."
"There will be no harm in my having a conversation with him. I shall go at once."
"I am with you, Gerald, if you want me."
"I always want you, my dear brother. Let us go."
They found the doctor, an elderly gentleman, at home, and he received them politely, but not exactly with cordiality. They fell immediately into conversation about Emilia, but both Leonard and Gerald observed that the doctor expressed himself with marked reserve. At length he seemed to arrive at a certain resolution, and, with a significant look at Leonard, he said:
"Would you mind leaving your brother and me in private a while?"
"Not at all," replied Leonard, somewhat startled. "If there is any particular reason for it."
"I have a particular reason," said the doctor, "or I should not request it."
"What do you say, Gerald?" asked Leonard.
"The doctor wishes it," said Gerald.
Leonard rose, and went to the door. Gerald ran after him into the passage and whispered, "I will tell you everything that passes, Leonard. You must not be hurt."
"Nothing can hurt me that is for your good," said Leonard. "I will walk up and down the street, and wait till you come out." He was furious with the doctor. "Officious fool!" he muttered when he was outside. "What mischief will he be up to?"
"Now," said the doctor, when Gerald rejoined him, "I can speak more freely. I have nothing whatever to say against your brother-"
"Nothing can be said against him," interrupted Gerald, warmly.
"It is pleasant to see the affection that exists between you," remarked the doctor; "but he is not the young lady's lover."
"No," said Gerald, "I am."
"It is for that reason," said the doctor, with a slight frown, "that I desire to confer with you alone. Young gentleman, it is my intention to speak very plainly to you. You are the young lady's lover, you declare. Her honorable lover, may I ask?"
"Her honorable lover," replied Gerald, "as I am a gentleman."
"Declared and accepted?"
"Declared and accepted."
"Have you any objection to my saying what is in my mind?"
"Not the slightest."
"You love her honorably. Therefore you would do much to restore her to health?"
"I would give all I possess in the world. I would sacrifice my life for her dear sake."
"You are rich?"
"I am very well-to-do."
"Have you a thousand a-year?"
"Three, at least, and funds in hand besides."
"What is the young lady's income?"
"She has none."
"She is poor, then?"
"Yes."
"And friendless?"
"With the exception of ourselves and two good maiden ladies who have known her only for a day, she has no friends."
"Nor family-parents, I mean, brothers and sisters?"
"She has none."
"Your frank answers make my task easier, but at the same time do not remove my doubts. I am taking the liberty of an old man, for I am old enough to be your grandfather. The young lady interests me greatly, and all that I know of her I have learned from the good people who, perfect strangers to her, have taken her to their bosoms with as much sincerity and almost as much affection as if she were a child of their own."
"God bless them for it!"
"They have told me all they know. It is very little. Shortly after being taken into their hospitable house, you and your brother present yourselves. You are not related to her in any way-interrupt me if I am wrong-and you at once place yourself on terms of loving intimacy with her. You walk with her, hand in hand, you conduct yourself as a lover toward her. Your behavior places her in an equivocal position-I have no hesitation in saying so much-and I, an old-fashioned gentleman, with old-fashioned notions of honor, regard your proceedings with disfavor. The restoration of her health is placed in my hands, and I, a physician of some experience, find in the patient herself obstacles which it is out of my power to surmount. You two gentlemen do not assist me in the least; you give no information concerning her which may assist me in the duty devolving upon me as a professional man. For there is here some mental disturbance, the result of a severe shock, I judge to her heart and feelings, of which I am in complete ignorance, and which renders me practically powerless. Nevertheless, the interest she has created in me causes me to make a study of the case, and I have a vague notion that I could find a road to a cure if I were in possession of the particulars of her history. Control your excitement."
But Gerald was not to be restrained. He started to his feet, and bending toward the doctor, said, in his most earnest tone:
"Doctor, there is no fee you can name which I should deem too high if you can restore the mind of my dear girl."
"My fee," said the doctor, dryly, "is half-a-crown a visit, medicine included, and the poor young lady is in no position to pay even so small a bill."
"I am responsible for everything."
"From you, as matters stand, I should decline to accept a penny. You are acquainted with the story of the young girl's life?"
"I am."
"I have no right to force your confidence. If you choose to confide in me, I may be able to do as I have said."
"I will tell you everything unreservedly," said Gerald, "on the understanding that it does not pass your lips to another person."
"Let it be so," said the doctor, after a little pause, "for the young lady's sake."
"It is for her sake," said Gerald, "that I exact the pledge of secrecy."
Then he began the story, and related it faithfully, down to the smallest detail. It occupied him some time, but the doctor did not once interrupt him, but kept his eyes fixed upon Gerald's face, his own growing brighter and brighter as the young man proceeded. The story finished, there was silence for a minute or two, during which the doctor sat with his head resting in his hand.
"Is there hope, doctor?" cried Gerald, the first to speak. "Tell me, is there hope?"
"There is," replied the doctor, removing his hand. "The road is open to you if you will take it."
"Does it, then, depend upon me?" exclaimed Gerald.
"Upon you, and upon no other man. It is my firm belief that from the moment you take her in your arms and whisper the word, 'Wife,' the cure will be commenced. The windows of her mind, of her heart, will be opened for the light, and it will shine upon her soul, which will leap up exultant in the knowledge that she stands purified in her own eyes and in the eyes of the world. The stain that now lies upon her, the heartless, merciless, unjust degradation which has been forced upon her, have weighed her down, have clouded her mind. And let me tell you that God has been merciful in this visitation. Had she recovered her reason, and with her reason, the consciousness of her shame, she might have gone mad from the horror of it. She is in your hands now, not in mine."
He spoke solemnly, but no less solemnly than Gerald when he said, "As I deal by her, may I be dealt by! how can I atone quickly for the unconscious suffering I have inflicted upon her? Is a marriage in church possible?"
"In her present state I fear not," said the doctor, "and I consider it vital that there should be no delay, for she is sinking into melancholia, from which she would never emerge. The registry office is open to you, and a marriage there is as binding as a marriage at the altar."
Gerald's joy at the suggestion was unutterable. All he could do was to seize the good doctor's hands and press them convulsively, and mutter incoherent words of gratitude. The doctor understood him, however, and smiled brightly upon him.
"One word more of advice," he said. "On the day you and my patient are married, take her away immediately. Do not tarry here an hour. Have all your preparations made, and start at once for France, or Italy, or Switzerland. Let her move among new scenes-they will help her to forget her misery, and will bring back memories of a happiness she believes is lost to her forever. There, there. Go now, and see about it. A gentleman offers you his hand."
They shook hands cordially, and Gerald hastened away.
Leonard banished the gloomy look from his face when Gerald came from the house, but when he heard what Gerald had to tell him he was seized with consternation. All his fine plans were about to be upset, and he was powerless. He recognized instantly that nothing he could say would stop the marriage, and that there was no alternative but to keep Gerald bound to him, and to do whatever was required. But fair as was his face, smooth as were his words, his heart was as the heart of a demon, and he was already at work, scheming for the future, scheming for the destruction of honest love and happiness.
Gerald found no difficulties in the way. The doctor's assistance rendered everything easy. In fifteen days from that on which he had made a confident of the good doctor Gerald and Emilia were on their way to the registry office.
"You understand, Emilia," he said. "We are to be married this morning."
"Yes, Gerald," she said softly, "I understand."
It was Gerald's wish that no one should accompany them to the office. The witnesses, of whom there were three-Leonard, the doctor, and the old wagoner-were to wait for the couple, and to make no demonstration whatever. The ceremony was to be perfectly quiet, and the registrar with a twenty-pound fee, managed this so perfectly that not a soul in the place with the exception of those present at the marriage, was aware that it was being performed.
When Emilia said to Gerald, "Yes, Gerald I understand," he looked with heartfelt hope and gladness into her face. There was already a new note in her voice; her soul was struggling to the light. They passed a poor woman with a baby in her arms and some withered violets in her hand. Emilia turned and gazed at the poor creature and the infant. Gerald took some gold pieces from his pocket and pressed them into Emilia's hand. She gave him a sweet look. The light was coming.
"Will you sell me two bunches of your violets?" said Emilia.
"Take them, my lady; two bunches for a penny."
The woman held out her hand, but Emilia, before she paid for the flowers stooped and kissed the little child. Then she dropped the gold pieces into the woman's palm.
"Oh, my God!" cried the woman, with a bewildered look, her fingers closing tightly on the gold.
As they walked along Emilia gave Gerald one of the bunches of the withered violets, which he put into his buttonhole, and she pinned the other bunch to the bosom of her dress. Then she lowered her head and touched Gerald's hand with her lips.
"My darling, my darling," murmured Gerald, with moist eyes, "may I live to brighten all your future life!"
The ceremony was performed. Gerald placed the ring on Emilia's finger. She caught her breath, and pressed her bosom with her right hand, holding out her left.
"Be brave!" whispered Gerald. "My dear wife!"
The light had come: It shone in her eyes, in her face, it irradiated her whole form. For the second time she lowered her head, and kissed the hand of her faithful lover.
In a sequestered spot, at some distance from the registry office, two carriages were waiting, one for Emilia and her husband, one for Leonard. There had been a brief parting between Emilia and the wagoner and his good wife, who had kissed her and bade her farewell. Then came Gerald's parting from those friends and from the doctor. He left with that worthy man two checks, the first being for the exact amount of the doctor's account, calculated at half-a-crown a visit-he would accept no more-the second for a substantial amount, to be given to the wagoner when the newly-married couple had departed.
"You will join us at Interlaken to-day fortnight," said Gerald aside to Leonard.
"Depend upon me," said Leonard; and so for that brief space they parted from each other.
"My wife!" said Gerald, as they rode away in the bridal carriage, "my darling wife!"
She lay in his arms, quiet and happy. Heaven's light was never sweeter than that which shone within her wakened soul.