"I have visited my husband's grave," she said.
"My dear brother Gerald's grave," he said in correction. "I said my husband's grave," she repeated.
"And I replied, my dear brother Gerald's grave."
There was a dark, stern look in his eyes, and she did not have the courage to come straight to the point.
"I believe you to be my friend," she said.
"I did not wish to distress my poor brother," he rejoined.
"Then you deceived me by professing what you did not feel?"
"I have no explanation to give."
"Yet you have remained here with me during my long illness."
"I had a duty to perform."
"Was it not out of love that you have stayed with me?"
"It was not."
She strove to look at him steadily, but her eyes wavered; his were unflinching.
"On the last day I saw my dear husband-What is the meaning of that gesture?" For Leonard had put up his hand with scornful motion.
"Your assumption of innocence and indignation does not deceive me; it will deceive no one who knows you. Go on. On the last day you saw my dear brother-"
"I had reason to believe," she continued, "that I had won the respect, if not the affection, of those around me, strangers though they were. I passed through a dangerous illness, and have been mercifully spared. I thank God humbly for it. Recovering, I am met with coldness whichever way I turn. People avoid me. Why?"
"Search your own heart for the answer."
"I have questioned my heart, and find none. I have done no wrong."
"You have singular ideas of morality. Is living with a man as his mistress a virtuous act?"
"Great God! How dare you speak those words to me?"
"Because they are true. People avoid you because the truth is known. Spare hysterics; they will not help you. You are not fit to associate with virtuous women."
"How dare you, how dare you? Gerald and I were man and wife."
"You never were. You and my dear, fond brother-dear to me, weak though he was-were never married. With his death ended your life of deceit. You were Gerald's mistress, not his wife."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
"ONLY YOU AND I, DARLING, ONLY YOU AND I."
The horror of this infamous statement so completely overwhelmed her that she lost the power of speech. The room swam before her; in her excitement she had risen to her feet, and her slight form swayed like a reed in the throes of a pitiless storm. Presently Leonard spoke again, and his voice brought some clearness to her distracted mind; but every word he uttered cut into her heart like a sharp knife.
"If you are not sufficiently composed to hear what it is my duty to say, I will leave you and come again in an hour."
She motioned to him to remain, and her trembling hands then stretched themselves toward a bottle of water on the table. He poured some into a glass, which he placed close to her. Rallying a little she managed to raise the glass to her lips, and to drink, the cold draught revived her fainting senses.
"Speak," she said. "Say what you have to say."
"Had my brother lived," said Leonard, "the time would have come when he would have been compelled to make the disclosure himself. Being gone, the duty which was his devolves upon me. It may be that he would have righted the wrong he did you, for he was weak and easily prevailed upon. I do not seek to excuse him, and it is certain that he acted as he deemed best when he deceived you. Are you attending to me? Shall I go on?"
"Yes," she gasped, "go on."
"When you were lying at death's door in the village to which you had flown, the name of which you probably remember-" He purposely paused here, to afford her an opportunity of answering him.
"I do not remember it," she said. "If I heard it, it has gone from me. My mind was a blank."
"He was informed by the doctor," continued Leonard, with guilty satisfaction, "who attended you that there was only one means of restoring your reason, and that was to make you his wife. It was then he conceived the idea of a sham marriage ceremony. It must be clear to you, as it is to every person gifted with common-sense, that it was not possible for you to marry him or any man in your state of mind. No minister would have sanctioned such a marriage, and you could not, therefore, be married in church. It was easy for Gerald to devise a mock civil marriage, and to carry you away immediately to a foreign country in order that you should not discover the deception. You have been witness of the love which existed between him and me; his death is to me an irreparable loss. I endeavored to dissuade him from his purpose, but he would not listen to me: weak and amiable as he was, he had a soul of obstinacy when his mind was strongly set, and my words of counsel fell upon ears which were deaf to all the arguments I could use. I saw that there was a danger that the strong love we had for each other might be sapped if I thwarted him, and I could bear anything but that. My dear, dear brother! His spirit is with me day and night, and I forgive him for the action, although many would condemn him for it. Now, perhaps, you can understand why you are looked upon with disfavor here in this place-with something more than disfavor, indeed, with repugnance. They regard your presence as a shame and a scandal, and young girls are enjoined by their parents to avoid you. Since my dear Gerald's death the true story of your relations with him has in some way become known. It is not unlikely that he himself confided it to some person, perhaps to the village priest; and, to speak plainly, your position here is a little worse than it was in your native town in England, from which you had to fly. It is out of a feeling of kindness to you that I tell you it will be best for you to leave as soon as possible. The simple people will not tolerate you among them, and they may show their feelings toward you in a more practical manner than they have yet done. To enable you to escape I have a proposition to make to you, if you care to listen to it."
To escape! Had it come to that? Was it to be ever her fate to fly from unmerited shame, to be oppressed and hunted down? But it was not of herself alone she thought; her unborn babe appealed to her. A life of duty lay before her. It was merciful that this view of the position in which she stood came to her aid; otherwise her great despair might have driven her to the last desperate expedient of those wretched mortals to whom life has become a burden too hard to be longer endured.
"What is your proposition," she asked, faintly.
"My brother had a regard for you," said Leonard, "and when the time had arrived when, supposing that he had lived, he would have been compelled to separate himself from you, he would most likely have made some provision for you. I stand in his place, and I do loving honor to his memory by acting as he would have done. You shall not face the world in poverty, and besides, you shall not have the power to say that you have been first betrayed and then cast forth penniless. I will provide for you, and will undertake to pay, through a lawyer whom I shall appoint, a sum of two pounds a week so long as you lead a respectable life and say nothing to my dear brother's hurt. You may live where you like, but I would advise you to choose some other country than England. There the story of your shame would cling to you, would follow you everywhere. Away from England no one would know, and life would be easier for you. Do you accept?"
"Leave me to myself," said Emilia. "I will send for you presently."
"I will wait below," said Leonard; "but do not be long in deciding, or I may change my mind."
Alone with her grief and her shame, Emilia, by a supreme effort of will, forced herself to calmness. The solemn sense of responsibility imbued her soul with strength. She was no longer a girl, dependent upon others for counsel, for guidance, for love. Not a friend in the world had she, but a helpless being would soon be lying at her breast who would claim from her all that it was in the power of a loving woman to give. A new life lay before her. How would she commence it?
She strove for a few minutes to bring the past back to her mind, but it presented itself to her in pictures so blurred and indistinct that she relinquished the effort. Up to the point of her being driven from Mrs. Seaton's house everything was clear, but her memory was gone upon all that had occurred afterward until she found herself with Gerald in a foreign land. The names of places, the names of people with which and whom she had been associated within that interval were completely blotted out. She did not doubt the base story which Leonard had related. Had she and Gerald been legally married he would have placed in her hands the certificate which proved her a lawful wife. The fatal omission proved Leonard's story to be true. Not a word about their marriage had ever passed between Gerald and herself during their honeymoon. He, with his careless easy nature, living with Emilia a life of sweetest happiness, left everything to the future; he had thought it wisest, too, to allow a long time to elapse before reviving memories which had brought Emilia so much sorrow; she would regain her full strength, she would be better able to think of the past. This was not known to Emilia; she could only decide upon her future action by what was within her cognizance.
She felt no bitterness toward Gerald. He had, no doubt, acted for the best, and had imposed upon her by a mock ceremony of marriage, in order that she might be restored to health and reason. Would it have been better that she had died? No. Her child would soon be in her arms, bringing with it hope, and light, and peace perhaps. But the child must not open her eyes among those who knew her unhappy mother's story. The duty to the unborn which Emilia had to perform must be performed elsewhere. Gerald's brother was right in advising her to choose some other country than England in which to reside. But she had to think of his offer to provide for her.
The moment she set her mind upon the subject she indignantly rejected the offer. It was too late to remedy the errors of the past into which she had been unwittingly led, but there should be no bridge between the past and the future. Even had she been willing to entertain the offer, it had been made in terms so insulting that no woman of decency could have accepted it without covering herself with shame. "You shall not have the power to say that you have been first betrayed and then cast forth penniless." The provision, then, assumed the shape of a bribe. And it was to be paid so long as she led a respectable life-a tacit admission that hitherto her life had been disreputable within her own knowledge. No, she would reject the offer, and would, with the labor of her own hands, support herself and child.
At this point of her musings the landlord of the inn unceremoniously entered the room.
"I wish you to leave my house to-day," he said.
She smiled sadly. This was the second time in her young life that she had been undeservedly thrust forth upon the world. But she ventured a gentle remonstrance.
"Give me till to-morrow," she pleaded, "and I will go. It is so sudden, and I am not prepared."
"I have nothing to do with that," he said roughly. "You must go to-day."
"If it must be," she said, resignedly, "I must submit. Will you kindly ask Mr. Leonard Paget to come to me?"
Needless to say that this cruel move had been prompted by the villain with whom Emilia was presently once more face to face.
"Have you reflected upon my offer?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied. "I cannot accept it."
He shrugged his shoulders, but not exactly at his ease. Did the rejection mean that she intended to fight for her rights? This might prove awkward. Her next words reassured him and made him jubilant again.
"I prefer to depend only upon myself, and to get my own living."
"How? Where?"
"I am well educated, and may be fortunate enough to obtain a situation as governess in a family or school where a knowledge of English is desirable. I thank you for your advice as to my future place of residence, and I shall remain abroad. I have no friends in England-nor, indeed, anywhere," she added, with a pitiful sigh, "and I never wish to see it again."
"The landlord informs me," said Leonard, "that he has given you notice to leave the inn immediately."
"He has been here with the same unkind order. Of course I must go."
"Of course: He has a right to send people away of whom he does not approve. What will you do? No one else in the village will give you shelter. I have made myself responsible for the expenses you have incurred since my dear brother's death."
"That is hardly just," said Emilia, "as I have no claim upon you; but my purse is empty. I must go away before night." She paused a moment or two before she resumed. "Things have been removed from my room during my illness which I might sell, and thus be enabled to take my departure. I am not strong enough to go away on foot."
"Everything belonged to my brother."
"I do not dispute that."
"Would it not be sensible on your part to reconsider your determination. Accept the offer I have made to you."
"I cannot." Her eyes fell upon the rings on her finger-the wedding ring which Gerald had placed there, and the diamond ring which he had given her. With a lover's extravagance he had purchased one of considerable value. Leonard knew the price he had paid for it, one hundred guineas. "These," said Emilia, pathetically, "are my own."
"I lay no claim to them," said Leonard, ungraciously.
"But they are really my own?"
"Consider them so."
She removed the diamond ring from her finger. "Is there any person in the village who will purchase this of me?"
"No one rich enough. I will do so, if you wish."
"I humbly thank you. Give me what you like for it."
"I will give you a thousand francs," said Leonard, with a sudden fit of generosity.
"But I do not want more than it is worth," said Emilia, with a joyful flush. A thousand francs! It meant a safe escape from a place where she was avoided; it meant sufficient to pay for a few weeks' board and lodging.
"We will say it is worth that."
"You are most kind," said Emilia, giving him the ring. "And I can pay what I owe the landlord."
"You cannot do that out of a thousand francs. Try and be a little sensible, and say nothing more about it. After all, it was Gerald who brought you here, and the responsibility, which was his, is now mine. Here is the money. You will give me a receipt for it? Otherwise I should not be able to account for my possession of a ring you have always worn upon your finger."
"Kindly write out the receipt," said Emilia, "and I will sign it."
Leonard wrote the receipt, which Emilia signed.
"This will not do," he said. "You have signed it in a name which does not belong to you."
She had signed "Emilia Paget." She shuddered at Leonard's remark.
"How else should I sign it?"
"In the name which is your own," said Leonard, tearing up the paper, and writing another; "Emilia Braham."
He placed the fresh receipt before her, and with trembling fingers she affixed the name, "Emilia Braham." Leonard exulted. Here was a proof which he had not thought of obtaining. Being dated, it might serve as an open admission that Emilia, living with his brother, was quite aware that she was not his wife. The confession and the renunciation were of her own doing.
"Can I do anything more for you?" he asked.
"Yes. Get me a carriage, and accompany me out of the village. I need protection from insult."
"You shall not be insulted. I promise it. How long will you be getting ready?"
"I shall be ready in less than an hour."
Her preparations for departure helped to divert her mind from the grief which oppressed it. Into one trunk she packed what belonged to her. She would have liked to take the desk, inlaid with silver, of Indian manufacture, which she had regarded as her own, but it had been removed with other articles which she believed were hers. She made no complaint; even to herself she did not repine; she submitted to everything, her only wish being to find herself in a place where she was unknown. All was ready when Leonard came to tell her that the carriage was waiting.
"Where do you wish to go?" he asked.
"It does not matter," she replied, "so long as I am among strangers."
He named a town at a distance of eighteen or twenty miles, and she said it would do as well as any other. Soon they were at the door of the inn, about which were assembled the usual idlers. The carriage which Leonard had procured was a closed one, and he assisted Emilia into it, saying that he would sit by the driver. She appreciated the act, and believed it proceeded from thoughtfulness; it was her desire to be alone with her thoughts.
The driver was a long time starting; he fidgeted with his horses, with his reins, with the harness, and then he fortified himself with half a bottle of red wine. No one approached Emilia while he was thus employed; no one breathed "farewell," or gave her a kind look. But when at length the driver took his seat on the box, with Leonard beside him, and was gathering up his ragged reins, the landlord's daughter passed the open window of the carriage, and furtively threw something in. It fell into Emilia's lap, and she, with eyes suddenly overflowing, and lips convulsed with emotion, covered it with her handkerchief, lest it should be taken from her. Then with a shout, the driver set his horses in motion, and they commenced their journey.
Emilia lifted her handkerchief. In her lap lay a little bunch of flowers, tied together with string, attached to which was a piece of paper, and written upon the paper the words, "From his grave." She pressed the flowers to her breast, to her lips, and murmured a prayer of thankfulness. The sense of the deep and irreparable wrong which Gerald had inflicted upon her passed away, and she thought of him only as one to whom she had given her heart and the full measure of her love. He was her child's father; better to think of him with love and kindness, which would soften her heart, than with harshness and bitterness, which would harden it. It would help to smooth the roads of the future she was to pass in the loving companionship of her child. "Only you and I alone, darling," she murmured; "only you and I!"
How kind of the young girl to send her away with this token of pity and sympathy. "Heaven bless her for it!" thought Emilia. "Heaven brighten her life, and save her from misery!" Had Emilia possessed a nature which would have hardened under such sufferings as she was enduring, the young girl's simple offering would have humanized and softened it. No wonder, then, that with a nature as sweet as ever woman was blessed with, she looked upon the flowers from Gerald's grave as an angel's gift, sent to her as a divine solace and strengthener. "I will be strong," she thought. "A duty of love is mine to perform, and I will perform it in humbleness and gratitude."
From time to time Leonard came to the door of the carriage and asked if he could do anything for her. She gently declined his offers of refreshment, and said she needed nothing. He did not press his attentions upon her, and she gave him credit for a kindness of heart to which he had no claim.
It was ten o'clock at night when they reached the town to which Leonard was conveying her. The carriage drew up at the door of at hotel of some pretension, and there Leonard had no difficulty in obtaining accommodation for Emilia. He told her he did not intend to pass the night at the hotel, and she was grateful to him.
"To-morrow I shall return," he said. "Shall I say good-by to you now or then?"
"Now," she replied.
"Very well. Good-by." He hesitated a moment, and then offered her his hand.
She hesitated, also, before she accepted it. From him she had received information of the blow which had dishonored her; could she touch his hand in friendship? No, not in friendship, but why should she be sullen and churlish? He had done her no direct wrong, he had even shown her consideration and kindness. To refuse his hand would be a bad commencement of the new life. She held out hers, and he took it in his cool palm.
"You are still resolved not to accept my offer?" he asked.
"I am resolved."
"I will not endeavor to prevail upon you, for I see your mind is made up."
"It is. You cannot turn me."
He gazed at her in surprise. There was a firmness in her, voice, a new note he had not heard before.
"Is it your intention," he asked, "to come back to England?"
"I shall never set foot in England again," she said.
"Neither from that determination can anything turn me."
"It is a wise resolve. I promise to keep your secret." She turned from him, saying in a low tone, "I shall be grateful if you never speak of me."
"I promise not to do so. And you on your part should never mention my name or my dear brother's."
"I will never do so. He is dead to me. You will be, when you pass out of this room."
"I should tell you," he said, lingering still a moment, "that I have entered your name in the hotel book as Emilia Braham."
"I should have done so myself. It is the name I shall bear for the future."
"Being your right one. Well, good-by."
"Good-by," she said.
So they parted, to meet again-when?