The Forsaken Inn Part 21

OCTOBER 22.

A month ago, if any one had told me that I would not only walk of my own free will into the secret chamber, but take up my abode in it, eat in it and sleep in it, I would have said that person was mad. And yet this is just what I have done.

The result of my first vigil was unexpected. I had looked for--well, I hardly know what I did look for. My antic.i.p.ations were vague, but they did not lead me in the right direction. But let me tell the story. After I had installed my guests in their new apartment, I informed them that I would have to say good-by for a season, as I had an affection of the eyes--which was true enough--which at times compelled me to shut myself up in a dark room and forego all company. That I felt one of these spells coming on--which was not true--and that by a speedy resort to darkness and quiet, I hoped to prevent the attack from reaching its usual point of distress. Mademoiselle Letellier looked disappointed, but madame ill disguised her relief and satisfaction. Convinced now beyond all doubt that she had some plan in mind which made her dread my watchfulness, I made such final arrangements as were necessary, and betook myself at once to my new room. Once there, I moved immediately into the dark chamber, and walking with the utmost circ.u.mspection, crossed to the wall adjoining the oak parlor, and laying my ear against the opening into that room, I listened.

At first I heard nothing, probably because its inmates were still. Then I caught an exclamation of weariness, and soon some words of desultory conversation. Relieved beyond expression, not only because I could hear, but because they talked in English, I withdrew again into my own room.

The most difficult problem in the world was solved. I had found the means by which I could insinuate myself, unseen and unsuspected, into the secret confidences of two women, at moments when they felt themselves alone and at the mercy of no judgment but that of G.o.d. Should I learn enough to pay me for the humiliation of my position? I did not weary myself by questioning. I knew my motive was pure, and fixed my mind upon that.

Several times before the day was over did I return to the secret chamber and bend my ear to the wall. But in no instance did I linger long, for if the two ladies spoke at all it was on trivial subjects, and in such tones as indicated that neither their pa.s.sions nor any particular interests were engaged. For such talk I had no ear.

"It will not be always so," I thought to myself. "When night comes and the heart opens, they will speak of what lies upon their minds."

And so it happened. As the inn grew quiet and the lights began to disappear from the windows, I crept again to my station against the part.i.tion, and in a darkness and atmosphere that at any other time in my life would have completely unnerved me, hearkened to the conversation within.

"Oh, mamma," were the first words I heard, uttered in English, as all their talk was when they were moved or excited, "if you would only explain! If you would only tell me why you do not wish me to receive letters from him! But this silence--this love and this silence are killing me. I cannot bear it. I feel like a lost child who hears its mother's voice in the darkness, but does not know how to follow that voice to the refuge it bespeaks."

"Time was when daughters found it sufficient to know that their parents disapproved of an act, without inquiring into their reasons for it. Your father has told you that the marquis is not eligible as a husband for you, and he expects this to content you. Have I the right to say more than he?"

"Not the right, perhaps, mamma. I do not appeal to your sense of right, but to your love. I am very unhappy. My whole life's peace is trembling in the balance. You ought to see it--you do see it--yet you let me suffer without giving me one reason why I should do so."

The mother's voice was still.

"You see!" the daughter went on again, after what seemed like a moment of helpless waiting. "Though my arms are about you, and my cheek pressed close to yours, you will not speak. Do you wonder that I am heart-broken--that I feel like turning my face to the wall and never looking up again?"

"I wonder at nothing."

Was that madame's voice? What boundless misery! what unfathomable pa.s.sion! what hopeless despair!

"If he were unworthy!" her daughter here exclaimed.

"It you could point to anything he lacks. But he has wealth, a n.o.ble name, a face so handsome that I have seen both you and papa look at him in admiration; and as for his mind and attainments, are they not superior to those of all the young men who have ever visited us? Mamma, mamma, you are so good that you require perfection in a son-in-law. But is he not as near it as a man may be? Tell me, darling, for in my dreams he always seems so."

I heard the answer, though it came slowly and with apparent effort.

"The marquis is an admirable young man, but we have another suitor in mind whose cause we more favor. We wish you to marry Armand Thierry."

"A shop-keeper and a revolutionist! Oh, mamma!"

"That is why we brought you away. That is why you are here--that you might have opportunity to bethink yourself, and learn that the parents'

views in these matters are the truest ones, and that where we make choice, there you must plight your troth. I a.s.sure you that our reasons are good ones, if we do not give them. It is not from tyranny--"

Here the set, strained voice stopped, and a sudden movement in the room beyond showed that the mother had risen. In fact, I presently heard her steps pacing up and down the floor.

"I know it is not tyranny," the daughter finished, in the soft tones that were so great a contrast to her mother's. "Tyranny I could have understood; but it is mystery, and that is not so easily comprehended.

Why should you and papa be mysterious? What is there in our simple life to create secrecy between persons who love each other so dearly? I see nothing, know nothing; and yet--"

"Honora!"

The word struck me like a blow. "Honora!" Great heaven! was that the name of this young girl?

"You are giving too free range to your imagination. You--"

I did not hear the rest. I was thinking of the name I had just heard, and wondering if my suspicions were at fault. They would never have called their child Honora. Who were these women, then? Friends of the Dudleighs? Avengers of the dead? I glued my ear still closer to the wall.

"We have cherished you." The mother was still speaking. "We have given you all you craved, and more than you asked. From the moment you were born we have both lavished all the tenderness of our hearts upon you.

And all we ask in return is trust." The hard voice, hard because of emotion, I truly believe, quavered a little over that word, but spoke it and went on. "What we do for you now, as always, is for your best good.

Will you not believe it, Honora?"

The last appeal was uttered in a pa.s.sionate tone. It seemed to move the daughter, for her voice had a sob in it as she replied:

"Yes, yes; but why not enlighten me as to your reasons for a course so remarkable? Most parents desire their daughters to do well, but you, on the contrary, not only wish, but urge me to do ill. A n.o.ble lover sues for my hand, and his cause is slighted; an ign.o.ble one requests the same favor, and you run to grant it. Is there love in this? Is there consideration? Perhaps; but if so, you should be able to show where it lies. I am not a child, young as I am; I will understand any reasons you may advance. Then let me have your confidence; it is all I ask, and surely it is not much, when you see how I suffer from my disappointment."

The restless steps ceased. I heard a groan close to my ear; the mother was evidently suffering frightfully.

"Papa is prosperous," the daughter pleadingly continued. "I know your decision cannot be the result of financial difficulties. And then, if it were, the marquis is rich, and--"

"Honora!"--the mother had turned. I heard her advance toward her daughter--"do you really love the marquis? You have seen him but a few times, have held hardly any intercourse with him, and at your age fancy often takes the place of love. You do not love him, Honora, my child; you cannot; you will forget--"

"Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma!"

The tone was enough. Silence reigned, broken at last by Mademoiselle Letellier saying: "It is not necessary to see such a man as he is very many times in order to adjudge him to be the best and n.o.blest that the world contains. But, mamma, you are not correct in saying that I scarcely know him. Though you will not be frank with me, I am going to be frank with you and tell you something that I have hitherto kept closely buried in my breast. I did not think I should ever speak of it to any one, not even to you. Some dreams are so sweet to brood upon alone. But the shadow which your silence has caused to fall between us has taught me the value of openness and truth. I shall never hide anything from you again; so listen, sweet mamma, while I open to you my heart, and learn, as you can only learn from me, how your Honora first came to know and appreciate the Marquis de la Roche-Guyon."

"Was it not," interrupted the mother, "at the great ball where he was formally introduced to us?"

"No, mamma."

Madame sighed.

"Girls are all alike," she cried. "You think you know them, and lo!

there comes a day when you find that it is in a stranger's hand you must look for a key to their natures."

"And is not this what G.o.d wills?" suggested the child. "Indeed, indeed, you must blame nature and not me. I did not want to deceive you. I only found it impossible to speak. Besides, if you had looked at me closely enough, you would have seen yourself that I had met the marquis before.

Such blushes do not come with a first introduction. I remember their burning heat yet. Are my cheeks warm now? I feel as if they ought to be.

But there is nothing to grieve you in these blushes. It is only the way a loving heart takes to speak. There is no wicked shame in them; none, none."

"Oh, G.o.d!"

Did the daughter hear that bitter exclamation? She did not appear to; for her voice was quite calm, though immeasurably loving, as she proceeded in these words:

"I was always a mother-girl. From the first day I can remember, I have known nothing sweeter than to sit within reach of your fondling hand.

You were always so tender with me, mamma, even when I must have grieved you or disappointed your hopes or your pride. If I were in the way I never saw it, nor can I remember, of all the looks which have sometimes puzzled me in your face, one that spoke of impatience or lack of sympathy with my pleasures or my griefs. With papa it was not always so.

No; don't stop me. You must let me speak of him. Though he has never been unkind to me, he has a way of frowning at times that frightens me.

Whether he is displeased or simply ill I cannot say, but I have always felt a dread of papa's presence which I never felt of yours; and yet you frown, too, at times, though never upon me, mamma, dear--never upon me."

A pause that was filled in by a kiss, and then the tender voice went on:

"You can imagine, then, what a turmoil was aroused in my breast when one day, while leaning from the window, I saw a face in the street below that awakened within me such strange feelings I could not communicate them even to my mother. I who had hitherto confessed to her every trivial emotion of my life, shrank in a moment, as it were, from revealing a secret no deeper than that I had looked for one half minute upon the form of a pa.s.sing stranger, and in that minute learned more of my own heart and of the true meaning of life than in all the sixteen years I had hitherto lived. You have seen him since, and you know he possesses every grace that can render a man attractive; but to me that day he did not look like a man at all, or if I thought of him as such, I thought of him as one who set a pattern to his fellows, while retaining his own immeasurable superiority. He did not see me. I do not know that I wished him to. I was quite content to watch him from where I stood, and note his lordly walk and kindly mien, and dream--oh, what did I dream that day! The memory of your own girlhood must tell you, mamma. I did not know his name; I did not suspect his rank; but from his youth I judged him to be single, from his bearing I knew him to be n.o.ble, and from his look, which called out a reflected brightness on every face he chanced to pa.s.s, I was a.s.sured that he was happy and that he was good.