Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (16 page)

 
          
“I
know everything,” Earl answered, with an expression that made her quail; then a
daring spirit rose up in her, as she remembered more than one secret, which she
now felt to be hers alone.

 
          
“Not
everything, my cousin; you are keen and subtle, but I excel you, though you win
this victory, it seems.”

 
          
So
cool, so calm she seemed, so beautifully audacious she looked, that Earl could
only resent the bold speech with a glance, and proceed to prove the truth of
his second assertion with the first.

 
          
“You
suffered the sharpest poverty, but Victor respected your helplessness, forgave
your treachery, supplied your wants as far as possible, and when all other
means failed, left you there, while he went to earn bread for you and your boy.
Virginie, I never can forgive him my cousin’s death, but for his faithful,
long-suffering devotion to you, I honor him, sinner though he was.”

           
She shrugged her shoulders, with an
air of indifference or displeasure, took off the widow’s cap, no longer needed
for a disguise, and letting loose the cloud of curls that seemed to cluster
round her charming face, she lay back in her chair with all her former graceful
ease, saying, as she fixed her lustrous eyes upon the man she meant to conquer
yet, “I let him love me, and he was content. What more could I do, for I never
loved him?”

 
          
“Better
for him that you did
not,
and better for poor Allan
that he never lived to know it was impossible for you to love.”

 
          
Earl
spoke bitterly, but Virginie bent her head till her face was hidden, as she
murmured, “Ah, if it were impossible, this hour would be less terrible, the
future far less dark.”

 
          
He
heard the soft lament, divined its meaning, but abruptly continued his story,
as if he ignored the sorrowful fact which made her punishment heavier from his
hand than from any other.

 
          
“While
Victor was away, you wearied of waiting, you longed for the old life of gaiety
and excitement, and, hoping to free yourself from him, you stole away, and for
a year were lost to him. Your plan was to reach
France
, and under another name dance yourself into
some other man’s heart and home, making him your shield against all danger. You
did reach France, but weary, ill, poor, and burdened with the child, you failed
to find help, till some evil fortune threw Vane in your way. You had heard of
him from Allan, knew his chivalrous nature, his passion for relieving pain or
sorrow, at any cost to himself, and you appealed to him for charity. A piteous
story of a cruel husband, desertion, suffering, and destitution you told him;
he believed it, and being on the point of sailing for
India
, offered you the place of companion to a
lady sailing with him. Your tale was plausible, your youth made it pathetic,
your beauty lent it power, and the skill with which you played the part of a
sad gentlewoman won all hearts, and served your end successfully. Vane loved
you, wished to marry you, and would have done so had not death prevented. He
died suddenly; you were with him, and though his last act was to make generous
provision for you and the boy, some devil prompted you to proclaim yourself his
wife, as soon as he was past denying it. His love for you was well-known among
those with whom you lived, and your statement was believed.”

 
          
“You
are a magician,” she said suddenly. “I have thought so before; now I am sure of
it, for you must have transported yourself to
India
, to make these discoveries.”

 
          
“No—
India
came to me in the person of a Hindoo, and
from him I learned these facts,” replied
Douglas
, slow to tell her of Victor’s perfidy, lest
he should put her on her guard, and perhaps lose some revelation which in her
ignorance she might make. Fresh bewilderment seemed to fall upon her, and with
intensest interest she listened, as that ruthless voice went on.

 
          
“Your
plan was this: From Vane you had learned much of Allan’s family, and the old
desire to be my lady’ returned more strongly than before. Once in
England
, you hoped to make your way as Colonel
Vane’s widow, and if no safe, sure opportunity appeared of claiming your boy’s
right, you resolved to gain your end by wooing and winning another
Douglas
. You were on the point of starting with
poor Vane’s fortune in your power (for he left no will, and you were prepared
to produce forged papers, if your possession was questioned in
England
), when Victor found you. He had traced you
with the instinct of a faithful dog, though his heart was nearly broken by your
cruel desertion. You saw that he could not serve you; you appeased his anger
and silenced his reproaches by renewed promises to be his when the boy was
acknowledged, if he would aid you in that project. At the risk of his life,
this devoted slave consented, and disguised as an Indian servant came with you
to
England
. On the way, you met and won the good graces of the Countess Camareena;
she introduced you to the
London
world, and you began your career as a lady under the best auspices.
Money, beauty, art served you well, and as an unfortunate descendant of the
noble house of Montmorenci, you were received by those who would have shrunk
from you as you once did from the lock of hair of the plebeian French danseuse,
found in Allan’s bosom.”

 
          
“I
am noble,” she cried, with an air that proved it, “for though my mother was a
peasant, my father was a prince, and better blood than that of the Montmorencis
flows in my veins.”

 
          
He
only answered with a slight bow, which might be intended as a mocking obeisance
in honor of her questionable nobility, or a grave dismissal of the topic.

 
          
“From
this point the tale is unavoidably egotistical,” he said, “for through Lady
Lennox you heard of me, learned that I was the next heir to the title, and
began at once to weave the web in which I was to be caught. You easily
understood
what was the mystery of my life
, as it was
called among the gossips, and that knowledge was a weapon in your hands, which
you did not fail to use. You saw that Diana loved me, soon learned my passion
for her, and set yourself to separate us, without one thought of the anguish it
would bring us, one fear of the consequences of such wrong to yourself. You
bade her ask of me a confession that I could not make, having given my word to
Allan’s mother that her son’s name should not be tarnished by the betrayal of
the rash act that cost his life. That parted us; then you told her a tale of
skillfully mingled truth and falsehood, showed her the marriage record on which
a name and date appeared to convict me, took her to the boy whose likeness to
his father, and therefore to myself, completed the cruel deception, and drove
that high-hearted girl to madness and to death.”

 
          
“I
did not kill her! On my soul, I never meant it! I was terror- stricken when we
missed her, and knew no peace or rest till she was found. Of that deed I am
innocent—I swear it to you on my knees.”

 
          
The
haunting horror of that night seemed again to overwhelm her; she fell down upon
her knees before him, enforcing her denial with clasped hands, imploring eyes,
and trembling voice. But Douglas drew back with a gesture of repugnance that
wounded her more deeply than his sharpest word, and from that moment all traces
of compassion vanished from his countenance, which wore the relentless aspect
of a judge who resolves within himself no longer to temper justice with mercy.

 
          
“Stand
up,” he said. “I will listen to no appeal, believe no oath, let no touch of
pity soften my heart, for your treachery, your craft, your sin deserve nothing
but the heavy retribution you have brought upon yourself. Diana’s death lies at
your door, as much as if you had stabbed her with the same dagger that took
Allan’s life. It may yet be proved that you beguiled her to that fatal pool,
for you were seen there, going to remove all traces of her, perhaps. But in
your hasty flight you left traces of yourself behind you, as you sprang away
with an agility that first suggested to me the suspicion of Virginie’s
presence. I tried your slipper to the footprint, and it fitted too exactly to
leave me in much doubt of the truth of my wild conjecture. I had never seen
you. Antoine Dupres knew both Victor and yourself. I sent for him, but before
the letter went, Jitomar, your spy, read the address, feared that some peril
menaced you both, and took counsel with you how to delude the newcomer, if any
secret purpose lurked behind our seeming friendliness. You devised a scheme
that would have baffled us, had not accident betrayed Victor. In the guise of
Arguelles he met Dupres in
Paris
, returned with him, and played his part so well that the Frenchman was
entirely deceived, never dreaming of being sought by the very man who would
most desire to shun him. You, too, disguised yourself, with an art that
staggered my own senses, and perplexed Dupres, for our masculine eye could not
fathom the artifices of costume, cosmetics, and consummate acting. We feared to
alarm you by any open step, and resolved to oppose craft to craft, treachery to
treachery. Dupres revels in such intricate affairs, and I yielded, against my
will, till the charm of success drew me on with increasing eagerness and
spirit. The day we first met here, in gathering a flower you would have fallen,
had not the Spaniard sprung forward to save you; that involuntary act betrayed
him, for the momentary attitude he assumed recalled to Dupres the memory of a
certain pose which the dancer Victor often assumed. It was too peculiar to be
accidental, too striking to be easily forgotten, and the entire unconsciousness
of its actor was a proof that it was
so
familiar as to
be quite natural. From that instant Dupres devoted himself to the Spaniard;
this first genuine delusion put Victor off his guard with Antoine; and
Antoine’s feigned friendship was so adroitly assumed that no suspicion woke in
Victors mind till the moment when, instead of offering him a weapon with which
to take my life, he took him prisoner.”

 
          
“He
is not dead, then? You lie to me; you drive me wild with your horrible recitals
of the past, and force me to confess against my will. Who told you these things?
The dead alone could tell you what passed between Diana and myself.”

 
          
Still
on the ground, as if forgetful of everything but the bewilderment of seeing
plot after plot unfolded before her, she had looked up and listened with
dilated eyes, lips apart, and both hands holding back the locks that could no
longer hide her from his piercing glance. As she spoke, she paled and trembled
with a sudden fear that clutched her heart, that Diana was not dead, for even
now she clung to her love with a desperate hope that it might save her.

 
          
Calm
and cold as a man of marble,
Douglas
looked down upon her, so beautiful in all her abasement, and answered steadily,
“You forget Victor. To him all your acts, words, and many of your secret
thoughts were told. Did you think his love would endure forever, his patience
never
tire
, his outraged heart never rebel, his wild
spirit never turn and rend you? All day I have sat beside him, listening to his
painful confessions, painfully but truthfully made, and with his last breath he
cursed you as the cause of a wasted life, and ignominious death. Virginie, this
night your long punishment begins, and that curse is a part of it.”

 
          
“Oh, no, no!
You will have mercy, remembering how young, how
friendless I am? For Allan’s sake you will pity me; for his boy’s sake you will
save me; for your own sake you will hide me from the world’s contempt?”

 
          
“What
mercy did you show poor Diana? What love for Allan? What penitence for your
child’s sake? What pity for my grief? I tell you, if a word would save you, my
lips should not utter it!”

           
He spoke passionately now, and
passionately she replied, clinging to him, though he strove to tear his hands
away.

 
          
“You
have heard Victor’s confession, now hear mine. I have longed to repent; I did
hope to make my life better, for my baby’s sake; and oh, I did pity you, till
my cold heart softened and grew warm.
I should have given up
my purpose, repaid Victor’s fidelity, and gone away to grow an honest, happy,
humble woman, if I had not loved you.
That made me blind, when I should
have been more keen-sighted than ever; that kept me here to be deceived,
betrayed, and that should save me now.”