Marion Arleigh's Penance Part 1

Marion Arleigh's Penance.

by Charlotte M. Braeme.

CHAPTER I.

Three o'clock on a warm June afternoon. The great heat has caused something like a purple haze to cloud over the deep blue of the sapphire sky. There is not one breath of wind to stir the leaves or cool the flushed faces of those whose duties call them out on this sultry June day. Away in the deep green heart of the broad land broad streams are flowing; in the very heart of the green woods there is cool, silent shade; by the borders of the sea, where the waves break with a low, musical murmur, there is a cooling breeze; but here in London on this bright June afternoon there is nothing to lessen the white, intense heat, and even the flowers exposed for sale in the streets are drooping, the crimson roses look thirsting for dew, the white lilies are fading, the bunches of mignonette give forth a fragrance sweet as the "song of the swan in dying," and the golden sun pours down its flood of rich, warm light over all.

Three o'clock, and the express leaves Euston Square for Scotland at a quarter past. The heat in the station is very great, the noise almost deafening; huge engines are pouring out volumes of steam, the shrill whistle sounds, porters are hurrying to and fro. The quarter-past three train is a great favorite--more people travel by that than by any other--and the platform is crowded by ladies, children, tourists, commercial gentlemen. There are very few of the humbler cla.s.s. Ten minutes past three. The pa.s.sengers are taking their places. The G.o.ddess of discord and noise reigns supreme, when from one of the smaller doors there glides, with soft, almost noiseless step, the figure of a woman.

She wore a long gray cloak that entirely shrouded her figure; a black veil hid her face so completely that not one feature could be seen. When she entered the station the change from the blinding glare outside to the shade within seemed to bewilder her. She stood for a few moments perfectly motionless; then she looked around her in a cautious, furtive manner, as though she would fain see if there was any one she recognized.

But in that busy crowd every one was intent on his or her business; no one had any attention to spare for her. She went with the same noiseless step to the booking office. Most of the pa.s.sengers had taken their tickets; she was one of the very last. She looked at the clerk in a vague, helpless way.

"Where to, ma'am?" he asked, for she had only said, "I want a ticket."

"Where to?" she repeated. "Where does the train stop?"

"It will stop at Chester and Crewe."

"Then give me a ticket for Crewe," she said, and, with a smile on his face, the clerk complied. She took the ticket and he gave her the change. She swept it into her purse with an absent, preoccupied manner, and he turned with a smile to one of his fellow-clerks, touching his forehead significantly.

"She is evidently on the road for Colney Hatch," he observed. "If I had said the train would stop at Liliput, in my opinion she would have said, 'Give me a ticket for there.'"

But the object of his remarks, all unconscious of them, had gone on to the platform. With the same appearance of not wishing to be seen, she looked into the carriages.

There was one almost empty; she entered it, took her seat in the corner, drew her veil still more closely over her face, and never raised her eyes.

A quarter past three; the bell rings loudly. There is a shrill whistle, and then, slowly at first, the train moves out of the station. A few minutes more, and the long walls, the numerous arches, are all left behind, and they are out in the blinding sunlight, hurrying through the clear, golden day as though life and death depended upon its speed. On, on, past the green meadows, where the hedgerows were filled with woodbines and wild roses, and the clover filled the air with fragrance; past gray old churches whose tapering spires pointed to heaven; past quiet homesteads sleeping in the sunshine; past silent, quaint villages and towns; past broad rivers and dark woods. Yet never once did the silent woman raise her eyes, never once did she look from the windows at the glowing landscape that lay on either side. Once, and once only, she caught a glimpse of the golden sunlight, and she turned away with a faint, sick, shuddering sigh.

Her fellow-pa.s.sengers looked wonderingly at her. She never moved; her hands were tightly clasped, as one whose thoughts were all despairing: Once a lady addressed her, but she never heard the words. Silent, mute, and motionless, she might have been a marble statute, only that every now and then a quick, faint shiver came over her.

On through the fair, English counties, and the heat of the sun grew less. The birds came from their shelter in the leafy trees and began to sing; the flowers yielded their loveliest perfumes, and the sweet summer wind that blew in at the carriage windows was like the breath of Paradise.

Still she had neither spoken nor moved. Then the train stopped, and the sudden cessation from all sound made her start up suddenly, as though roused from painful dreams.

"Have we--have we pa.s.sed Crewe?" she asked.

And then her fellow-pa.s.sengers looked wonderingly at her, for the voice was like no other sound--no human sound; it was a faint gasp, as of one who had escaped a deadly peril, and was still faint with the remembrance of it.

"No," replied a gentleman; "we have not reached Crewe yet. They are stopping for water, I should imagine. This is supposed to be one of the most out-of-the-way villages in England. It is called Redcliffe."

She gave one look through the open windows. There, behind the woods, a little village lay stretched and half hidden by the thick green foliage.

"I want to get out here," she said, in the same faint voice.

Her fellow-travelers looked at each other, and their glances said plainly, "There is something strange about her; let her go." A gentleman called the guard, and the woman, whose face was so carefully veiled, put something in his hand that shone like gold.

"Let me get out here," she said, and without a word he unlocked the door, and she left the carriage. Those who remained behind breathed more freely after she had gone. That strange, mute presence had had a depressing effect on them all.

She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but made her way quickly to the green fields, where the golden silence of summer reigned.

She walked there with hasty steps, looking behind her to see if she were pursued.

She opened the white gates and went into a field where the tall trees threw a deep shade. She sat down then, or, rather, flung herself on the ground with a vehement cry, like one who had suffered from a deadly pain without daring to murmur--one loud cry, and, from the sound of it, it was easy to tell that it came from a broken heart. She bowed her head against the rugged bark of a tree, and then fell into a deep slumber.

The wearied limbs seemed to relax. To sleep as she did she must have been watching long.

When she opened her eyes again the afternoon had gone and the shadows of evening were falling. It was still bright and warm, but she shivered like one seized with mortal cold.

She rose and made her way to the quiet little village. It was almost out of the world, so completely was it hidden by the trees and hills. She reached the quiet little street at last. She looked at the windows of the houses, but the notice she wanted to see was not in any of them. At the end of the street she came to a narrow lane that led to the woods; half-way down the lane was a small cottage half buried in elder trees.

In the window hung a small placard--"Rooms to let." She knocked at the door, which was opened by a kindly-looking elderly woman.

"You have rooms to let?" said the faint, low voice. "I want two."

Then followed a few words as to terms, etc., and the transaction was concluded.

"Shall my son fetch your luggage?" asked the landlady, Mrs. Hirste.

"I have no luggage," she replied; then seeing something like a doubtful expression on the kindly face, she added; "I will pay you a month's money in advance."

That was quite satisfactory. Mrs. Hirste led the way to a pretty little parlor, which she showed with no little pride.

"This is the other room," she said, throwing open the door of a pretty white chamber. "And now, is there anything I can get for you?"

"No," replied the strange, weak voice. "I will ask when I want anything; for the present I only desire to be alone."

Mrs. Hirste withdrew, and her lodger immediately locked the door. Then she threw off the gray cloak and thick veil.

"I am alone," she said--"alone and safe. Oh, if my wretched life be worth grat.i.tude, thank G.o.d! thank G.o.d!"

She repeated the words with a burst of hysterical weeping. She knelt by the little white bed and buried her face in her hands. Deep, bitter sobs shook her whole frame; from her white lips came a low moan that betokened anguish too great for words. Then, when the pa.s.sion of grief had subsided and she was exhausted, she rose and stood erect. Then one saw how superbly beautiful she was, although her face was stained with tears.

She was still young, not more than three-and-twenty; her figure was of rarest symmetry; when the great world knew her it had been accustomed to say that her figure resembled that of the celebrated Diana for the Louvre; there was the marvelous, free-spirited grace and matchless perfection.

She had the face and head of a young queen, a face of peerless beauty; a white, broad brow that might have worn a crown; eyes of the dark hue of the violets, with long fringes that rested on a cheek perfect in shape and color; brows straight, like those of a Greek G.o.ddess; lips sweet and proud--they were white now, and quivering, but the beauty of the mouth was unchanged.

So she stood in all the splendor of her grand loveliness. There is over her whole figure and face that indescribable something which tells that she is wife and mother both, that look of completed life.

The hands, so tightly clasped, are white and slender. There is no attribute of womanly loveliness that does not belong to her.

After a time she went to the window. Great crimson roses, wet with dew, and odorous woodbine peeped in as she opened it. The night-wind was heavy with the perfume of the sleeping flowers, the golden stars were shining in the sky, and she raised her pale, lovely face to the radiant heavens.

"My G.o.d!" she prayed, "take pity on me, and before I realize what has happened, let me die!"

"Let me die!" No other prayer went from her lips, although she sat there from sunset until the early dawn of the new day flushed in the glorious eastern skies.

While she sits there, with that despairing prayer rising from the depths of her despairing heart, we will tell the story of Marian Arleigh's penance.