A Whisper In The Dark Part 14

She only bowed her head, and without a word or look for his young wife he rushed from the room. Then Mrs. Leicester was herself again, and sweeping disdainfully past Agnes' drooping form, she turned to Marion, saying haughtily: "Miss Earle, my house has been made a stage long enough, where you may play the queen. Oblige me by leaving it at once, and taking with you your friend, for much as I admire the skill with which you have entrapped my son into this shameful marriage, believe me neither he nor I will ever accept, or disgrace our home with the presence of the wife you have thrust upon him."

Marion's eyes lit, but she answered calmly with a glance of pity and contempt, that stung the proud woman more deeply than her words could have done.

"Madam, your son's wife will never ask the shelter of your roof unless he claims her, as I trust he one day will; then you may feel some remorse for this most cruel deed. I have played out my part, not as a queen I trust, but as a Christian woman, and I only ask of those who witness my last act, to remember that when the lady and the mother cast forth that poor girl with scorn, the actress-at whom she sneered-taught by her own human errors, pitied the outcast, and remembering a divine example, comforted and took her in."

And with the little child upon her breast, and the forsaken mother on her arm, Marion pa.s.sed through the sympathizing throng, stately and calm, as if no bitter pain and desolation were lying heavily at her brave heart.

She did it well, for she was "only an actress."

Three years had pa.s.sed since that unhappy bridal, and Robert Leicester had not claimed his wife. She still dwelt under Marion's roof, finding her only happiness in her boy and the love of that true friend.

Friends had warned and enemies had sneered, but Marion heeded neither, and kept the forsaken mother and child safe in the shelter of her honorable home, answering both friends and foes by a few simple words, which silenced them forever.

"Let him who is without sin cast the first stone."

And so they lived, two solitary women bound together by one sorrow and one love.

Mrs. Leicester, meeting with heavy losses, left the city soon after her son's strange marriage, and for three long years no tidings had been heard of them.

Agnes had written to her husband once, but receiving no reply felt that she was deserted, and patiently waited, hoping for happier times to come.

Marion sat in the pleasant garden of her country home. The air was full of summer music, and Agnes' little son played in the sunshine at her feet. The wind idly fluttered the leaves of her neglected book, for her eyes were fixed upon the little face which daily grew more like the one she remembered well.

Time had pa.s.sed lightly over Marion's head, bringing a riper beauty and a deeper experience. The first, last love of her life, abandoned as a hope, crushed as a pa.s.sion, living only as a quiet grief and a pure remembrance, still kept its watch as guardian of her heart.

No bitter memories soured the gracious sweetness of her nature, no discontent darkened her brave spirit; she poured strength and happiness within herself, and led a tranquil, cheerful life, with Agnes and her son.

Marion's reverie was broken by old Janet, who came hurrying down the path exclaiming: "Oh, Miss, a poor gentleman has just fainted in the hall; he asked for you, and before I could answer he fell like one dead; I've sent Joe for the doctor, but do you come and see what can be done for him."

Bidding the child to stay among the flowers, Marion hastened in, to recognize in the unconscious stranger her lover, Robert Leicester.

"Thank heaven he has come at last, though it be only to die near us," she murmured to herself, holding fast the icy hand.

Then with quiet energy she gave all necessary directions for the sick man's comfort.

When Dr. Murrey arrived, he found his patient recovering from the death-like swoon, but already delirious with the fever burning in his veins, and Marion hovering over him, resolute and calm, though hara.s.sed by fears that filled her with the deepest anxiety.

"This is no place for you, my dear Miss Earle," said the doctor, turning from the sick man to the eager woman at his side. "This fever is contagious, and you must not expose yourself. I trust it is not too late. Send Mrs. Leicester and her boy away, and take all proper precautions yourself, and we will have nurse Clay to take charge of the poor gentleman."

"Nurse Clay is with her sick daughter, sir, and no other woman in the village would risk her life for an utter stranger. This gentleman is Mrs. Leicester's husband, and for her boy's sake she must not see him; but I have no fear, and I shall not leave him till the danger is past, or he needs human help no longer."

As she spoke, there was a light in Marion's eye and a glow upon her cheek which told more eloquently than words the earnestness of her resolve, and the joy her perilous compa.s.sion would afford her.

In vain the good doctor sought to intimidate and dissuade-she would not yield, and soon won an unwilling consent from him to be allowed to stay.

The child was sent to its mother with a message from Marion, forbidding her to return from the friendly neighbors where she chanced to be, till all danger was over.

Agnes, trusting all to Marion, obeyed her in this as in everything, and lived upon the tidings that came hourly from her husband's room, to allay her fears.

Marion set her house in order; released the timid servants from their posts, keeping only old Janet, and then in the darkened room sat down to her long watch beside the pillow of the suffering man, who never knew her, though he called upon her day and night, imploring her to pardon him, and give him back his wife and his own dear little child.

A long night and a day pa.s.sed since the wild voice echoed through the lonely house, and Marion still sat beside the bed, bathing the burning head that found no ease upon its tender resting-place, or lifting a cooling draught to parched lips that could not thank her for her patient and untiring care.

The shaded lamp was lit, and its soft light fell on Marion's anxious face; tears such as she had seldom shed were falling fast, and broken words of love and sorrow mingled with her whispered prayers.

A slight sound startled her, and looking up she saw a grey-haired woman standing on the threshold. Wild-eyed and wan was the face that watched her from the gloom, travel-stained and poor were the garments that covered the tall figure bending towards her, and there was a world of stifled fear and anguish in the voice that cried to her: "Where is my son?"

Marion, pointing silently to the head upon her bosom, beckoned the wanderer in, and yielded up her place to the poor mother, who looked fearfully into the eyes that had no recognition in them, and listened to the voice that could not welcome.

A sudden thought roused Marion, as she stood aside watching that sad meeting, and drawing near, she said: "Dear madam, he was brought to me unconsciously, and has never known me since. Forgive me for seeking to banish you from your son, but it is not safe for you to stay-there is danger of contagion."

"Danger?" echoed Mrs. Leicester; "then why are you here?"

"Because I could not leave him to a stranger's care, his mother was not here, his wife must live for her boy, I have neither child nor mother to lament my loss; I loved him once, and therefore I am here."

With a sudden impulse, Mrs. Leicester stretched her hand to Marion, and kissed the beautiful, mild face that smiled so cheerfully amid the danger and the gloom. Then, as if ashamed of the unwonted emotion, she said, with a proud humility that showed how much the effort cost her- "Miss Earle, I once turned you from my home. Can you pardon my discourtesy, and for my son's sake shelter me a short time in your own?"

"Yes, Madam, I can freely pardon all the past; for, as I once foretold, your son has come to claim his wife. By his sad wanderings I have learned the remorse and penitence that led him here, and for Agnes' sake I can forgive a far greater wrong than you have ever done me."

And Marion proved the truth of her words, for no daughter could more anxiously forestall a mother's needs than she. Abating nothing of her own quiet dignity, she paid a respectful deference to her guest's wishes, which soon won its way to the proud woman's heart, grown softer through the sharp discipline of poverty and pain.

The three years which pa.s.sed so quietly in Marion's home had been years of suffering to mother and son. Too proud to ask help from friends, they went among strangers, to conceal their poverty. Unused to labor, life had been a sore struggle to them both, and had taught them stern lessons for which both were made humbler and wiser.

For his mother, Robert labored patiently at any work he could obtain. For her son, Mrs. Leicester put away her pride and plied her needle as diligently as the poor seamstress she had so often pitied.

They might have been happy in spite of their fallen fortunes, but for the bitter thoughts that haunted the son, who in his hour of trouble learned compa.s.sion for the grief of others.

The loss of Marion's love he could have borne, but Marion's esteem he longed to win again, and would have come to claim his wife had it not been deterred by his mother's entreaties.

She never gave him the letter Agnes generously sent, and suppressed the few her son insisted upon writing, thus convincing him that Agnes and Marion would not forgive, and had cast him off forever.

Mrs. Leicester, in her humbled state, could not bring herself to ask pardon or relief from those she had wronged, and so they struggled on till Robert, worn out with unaccustomed labor and the grief that preyed upon him, yielded to the uncontrollable desire that possessed him, and in his mother's absence wandered away to find Marion, caring only to be forgiven, and set free from the burden of remorse that oppressed him.

All this Marion had learned from his unconscious lips, and Mrs. Leicester's inadvertent words. She never spoke of it to her guest, nor made inquiries into her past life-the worn and aged face told the sad history, and the altered manner showed that misfortune had softened the high spirit that was once so pitiless and stern.

Day and night the two women kept their watch in the sick-room, learning to know each other better, and drawn closer by the one anxiety that possessed them both.

"If your son wakes conscious from his death-like sleep, he is safe-if not, be prepared, dear madam, for the worst. I shall not leave you, so take heart, for I predict a favorable change," and with a cheerful smile old Dr. Murrey stole into the anteroom to guard the sleeper's rest.

Twilight faded into evening, evening deadened into night, and still the marchers, like pale images of patience, sat beside the quiet bed.

Marion, with folded hands and eyes that never left the white face on the pillow, prayed for the wavering life as it had been her own. Mrs. Leicester, from the deep shadow of the parted curtains, watched her long and keenly, reading the unconscious countenance like an open book, and musing bitterly within herself of the wrong she had done her.

"I thought her ambitious, loving my boy only for the high place to which he could lift her, but now I know she loved him for himself, and for the right gave him up. I see lines in her tranquil face that only a great sorrow could have left, a sorrow she has conquered, but can never forget. I hated and despised her, and she has repaid me thus. G.o.d forgive me for the wrong I did her n.o.ble nature, and spare my son that we may both atone for the injustice we have done her."

And Mrs. Leicester kept her word.

Night waned slowly, and the grey dawn came stealing in. A single ruddy gleam shot across the sky and shone into the room. Marion pointed to the ray as a blessed omen, and as if awakened by the light, the sleeper's eyes unclosed and looked into her own.

"Marion here, then all is well," he murmured feebly, with a faint smile of recognition, and then sank again into a healthful slumber.

Marion covered up her face, remembering nothing but her great grat.i.tude, until she felt Mrs. Leicester's arms about her, and the mother's tears upon her cheek. No words were uttered, but heart spake to heart, and the silence was eloquent with the forgiveness so generously bestowed, so humbly received.

Robert Leicester, a pale shadow of his former self, sat in the sunny garden waiting for the wife he once cast so cruelly from him. As she had longed and watched for him, he now longed and watched for her, forgetting even the quiet figure at her side, who looked wistfully upon him with eyes dimmed by long vigils for his sake.

A child's voice broke the summer stillness, and at the sound Marion arose, and with a solemn beauty shadowing her quiet face, laid her hands on Robert's bended head, saying earnestly- "G.o.d bless you in your happiness, dear friend, and send you a fair future to atone for your sad past. Be a true husband to my sister Agnes, a wise father to your little child, and sometimes think of Marion."

"How can I forget you, the good angel of my life," cried Robert fervently. "Where are you going, Marion? You were with me by my bedside, in my darkest hour-why leave me in the brightest I have ever known?" he asked, as she turned away with the solemn light still shining in her wistful eyes.

She only answered: "It is better so," and stole away.

But from a distant nook she watched him still, forgetting the dizzy pain that dimmed her sight, and the fierce flame that burnt and throbbed in every vein. Watched, till she saw his mother place Agnes in the shelter of her husband's love, till she saw the grey head bent tenderly above the little golden one, and the divided family united once again. Then, with a blessing on them all, she went silently away to lie down upon the bed from which she never rose again.

Her fortune was left to Agnes' son. Her summer home to Mrs. Leicester, with the hope that she might "love it for the giver's sake." Then having bestowed all she possessed to give, her life, her love, and earthly wealth, as she had lived, she died, "quiet; amid gra.s.s and flowers and charitable deeds," and this home was Marion's monument-a n.o.ble one, though she was but an ACTRESS.

La Jeune; or, Actress and Woman

Editor's Note:"La Jeune; or, Actress and Woman" is one of a handful of stories in which I'm tired of that as of most other pleasures, so go your way, my boy, and leave me in peace."

"Come, Ulster, don't play Timon yet. You are lazy, not used up nor misanthropic, so be obliging, and come like a good fellow."

Fanning away the cloud of smoke from before me, I took a look at my friend, for something in his manner convinced me that he had some particular reason for desiring my company. Arthur Brooke was a handsome young Briton, of four-and-twenty; blue-eyed, tawny-haired, ruddy and robust, with a frank face, cordial smile, and a heart both brave and tender. I loved him like a younger brother, and watched over him during his holiday in gay, delightful, wicked Paris. So far, he had taken his draught of pleasure with the relish of youth, but like a gentleman. Of late, he had turned moody, shunned me once or twice, and when I alluded to the change, affected surprise, a.s.suring me that nothing was amiss. As I looked at him, I was surer than ever that all was not right. He was pale, and anxious lines had come on his smooth forehead; there was an excited glitter in his eyes, though he had scarcely touched wine at dinner; his smile seemed forced, his voice had lost its hearty ring, and his manner was half petulant, half pleading, as he stood undecidedly crushing up his gloves while he spoke.

"Why do you want me to go? Is it on your account, lad?" I asked, in an altered tone.

"Yes."

"Give me a reason, and I will."

He hesitated, colored all over his fair face, then looked me straight in the eyes, and answered steadily.

"I want you to see Mademoiselle Nairne."

"The deuce you do! Why, Brooke, you've not got into a sc.r.a.pe with La Jeune, I hope!" I exclaimed, sitting up, annoyed.

"Far from it; but I love, and mean to marry her if I can," he answered, in a resolute tone.

"Don't say that for heaven's sake. My dear boy, think of your father, your family, your prospects, and don't ruin yourself by such folly," I cried, in real anxiety.

"If you loved as I do, you wouldn't call it folly," he said, excitedly.

"Of course not, but it would be cursed folly nevertheless, and if some friend saved me from it, I should thank him for it when the delusion was over. Love her if you will, but don't marry her, I beg of you."

"That is impossible; she is as good as she is lovely, and will listen to none but honorable vows. Laugh, if you will, it's so, and actress as she is, there's not a purer woman than she in all Paris."

"Bless your innocence, that's not saying much for her. Why, my dear lad, she knows your fortune to a soul and makes her calculations accordingly. She sees that you are a simple, tender-hearted fellow, easy to catch, and not hard to manage when caught. She will marry you for your money, spend it like water, and when tired of the respectabilities, will elope with the first rich lover that comes along. Don't shoot me, I speak for your good; I know the world, and warn you of this woman."

"Do you know her?"

"No, but I know her cla.s.s; they are all alike, mercenary, treacherous, and shallow."

"You are mistaken this time, Ulster. I know I'm young, easily gulled perhaps, and in no way your equal in such matters, but I'll stake my life that Natalie is not what you say."

"My poor boy, you are far gone, indeed! What can I do to save you?"

"Come and see her," he said, eagerly. "You don't know her, never saw her beauty or talent, yet you judge her, and would have me abide by your unjust decree."

"I'll go; the fever is on you, and you must be helped through the crisis, or you'll wreck your whole life. It always goes hard with your sort."

My indolence was quite conquered by anxiety, and away we went, Brooke armed with a great bouquet, and I mentally cursing his folly in wasting time, money, and the love of his honest heart on a painted b.u.t.terfly.

We took a box, and from the intense interest we showed in the piece, both of us might have been taken for ardent admirers of "La Jeune." I had never seen her, though all Paris had been running after her that season, as it was after any novelty from a learned pig to a hero. Having been bored by her praises, and annoyed by urgent entreaties to go, I perversely set my face against her, and affected even more indifference than I really felt. I was tired of such follies, fancied my day was over, and for a year or two had felt no interest in any actress less famous than Ristori or Rachel.

The play was one of those brilliant trifles possible only in Paris; for there, wit without vulgarity is appreciated, and art is so perfect, one forgets the absence of nature. The stage represented a charming boudoir, all mirrors, muslins, flowers and light. A coquettish soubrette was arranging the toilet as she delivered a few words that put the house in good humor, by whetting curiosity and raising a laugh, in the midst of which Madame la Marquise entered, not as most actresses take the stage, but as a pretty woman really would enter her room, going straight to the gla.s.s to see if the effect of her costume was quite destroyed by the vicissitudes of a bal-masque. She was beautiful-I could not deny that, but answered Brooke's eager inquiry with a shrug and the cruel words: "Paint, dress, wine or opium."

He turned his back to me, and I devoted myself to the study of the woman he loved. She looked scarcely twenty, so fresh and brilliant was her face, so beautifully molded her figure, so youthful her charming voice, so elastic her graceful gestures. Pet.i.te and piquant, fair hair, dark eyes, a ravishing foot and hand, a dazzling neck and arm, made this rosy, dimpled little creature altogether captivating, even to one as blase as myself.

Gay, arch, and full of that indescribable coquetry which is as natural to a pretty woman as her beauty, La Jeune well deserved the sobriquet she had won.

Being a connoisseur in dress, I observed that hers was in perfect taste-a rare thing, for the costume of the Louis Quatorze era is usually overdone on the stage. But this woman had evidently copied some portrait, for everything was in keeping, coiffure, jewels, lace brocade; and from the tiny patch on her white chin to the diamond buckles in her scarlet-heeled shoes, she was a true French marquise. Even in gesture, gait and accent, she kept up the illusion, causing modern France to be forgotten for the hour, and making that comedy a picture of the past, and winning applause from critics whose praise was tame.

Through the sparkling dialogue, the inimitable by-play, romantic incident and courtly intrigues of the piece, she played admirably, embodying not only the beauty and coquetry, but the wit, finesse and brilliancy of the part. I was interested in spite of myself; I forgot my anxiety, and found myself applauding more than once. Brooke heard my hearty "Bravo!" and turned with an exultant smile.

"You are conquering your prejudices fast, mon ami. Is she not charming?"

"Very. I never questioned her skill as an actress, and readily accord my praise, for she plays capitally. But I'd rather not see her my friend's wife. Just fancy presenting her to your family."

He winced at that as his eye followed mine to the stage, which just then showed the marquise languishing in a great fauteuil before her mirror, surrounded by several fops, while her lover, disguised as a coiffeur, powdered her hair and dropped billet doux into her lap.

Fascinating, fair and frivolous as she was, how could he dream of transplanting her to a decorous English home, where her name alone would raise a storm, if coupled, even in jest, with his. He looked, sighed and sat silent till the curtain fell, then applauded till his gloves were in tatters, threw his bouquet at her feet as she reappeared, and turned to me, saying, with unabated eagerness: "Now come and see her at home; the woman is more charming than the actress. I am asked to supper, and may bring a friend with me. Come, I beg of you."

To his surprise and satisfaction I consented at once, but did not tell him what had induced me to comply. It was a trifle, but it had weight with me, and hoping still to save my headstrong friend, I went away to sup with La Jeune.

The trifle was this: After one of her best scenes she left the stage, but did not go to her dressing-room, as she must re-enter in a moment.

From our box we could command the opposite wings; a chair was placed there for her, and sinking into it, she waved away two or three devoted gentlemen who eagerly approached. They retired, and as if forgetting that she could be overlooked, La Jeune leaned back with a change of countenance that absolutely startled me. And the fire, the gayety, the youth, seemed to die out, leaving a weary, woeful face, the sadder for the contrast between its tragic pathos and the blithe comedy going on before us.

Brooke did not see her; he had seized the moment to sprinkle his flowers, already drooping in the hot air.

I said nothing, but watched that brief aside more eagerly than her best point. It was but an instant. Her cue came, and she swept on to the stage with a ringing laugh, looking the embodiment of joy.

This glimpse of the woman off the stage roused my curiosity, and made me anxious to see more of her.