CHAPTER VIII.
WHAT FOLLOWED THE REVELATION OF BETRAYAL--A GLEAM OF HOPE FOR ELEANOR HILL--A RELATIVE FROM CALIFORNIA, A PROJECTED VOYAGE, AND A DISAPPOINTMENT--ONE MORE LETTER--THE BROKEN THREAD RESUMED--CARLTON BRAND'S FAREWELL, AND A SUDDEN ELOPEMENT.
Eleanor Hill should of course have left the house of her guardian, that hadproved such a valley of poison to her girlhood, the very moment when shemade that discovery of her final and complete betrayal. But then, strictlyspeaking, she should have left it long before; and the same compliantspirit that had once yielded, could yield again. Pity her who will--blameher who may--she bowed beneath the weight of her own helplessness andremained, instead of fleeing from the spot that very night and shaking offthe dust of her feet against it, even if she begged her bread thereafterfrom door to door. Not with what she should have done, and not with whatsome others whom we have known would have done under the circumstances,have we to do. She remained. Not the same as she had been before--Dr.Philip Pomeroy knew and felt the difference; and yet submissive andapparently unrepining. Not the same in cheerfulness, as Miss Hester feltand deplored: she spoke less, seldomer went out, even when stronglytempted, and spent much more time in the solitude and silence of her ownroom.
It is not for us to put upon record precisely what passed between theguardian and his ward in the months that immediately followed thatrevelation; as unfortunately at that point information otherwise completeand uninterrupted, is defective for a considerable interval. It is beyonddoubt that in the breast of Eleanor Hill fear and hatred had taken theplace of love towards the man whom she had once idolized--that the sense ofshame weighing upon her had become every day heavier and lessendurable--and that she would have fled away at any moment, but from thefact that she was utterly helpless, pecuniarily and in any capacity forearning her own subsistence, and that she believed in the probability ofDr. Philip Pomeroy putting in force the cruel threat he had made, andpublishing her shame to the world, distorted to suit his own purposes, themoment she should have quitted his abode and his guardianly "protection!"
With reference to the wishes and intentions of Dr. Philip Pomeroy himself,it is not much more easy to form any accurate calculation. That he did notwish to follow the example set him by so many unscrupulous traffickers infemale virtue, and drive away at once from his presence the woman whoselife he had poisoned, is only too certain. That he had no intention ofmaking her legally his own by marriage, his own tongue had declared. Itonly remains to believe that he held towards the poor girl some sort oftiger mixture of love and hate, which would not consent to make her happyin the only manner which could secure that end, and which yet would notconsent to part with her at any demand or upon any terms. Other than shewas, to him, she could not be: as she was, she seemed to minister to someunholy but actual need of his nature; and he held her to himself with anevil tenacity which really seemed to afford a new study in psychology.Circumstances were close at hand, calculated to show something of thecompleteness of the net drawn around the feet of the young girl, even ifthey did not clearly point out the hand drawing the cord of continuedrestraint.
Miss Hester Pomeroy died suddenly in the winter of 1860, alike guiltlessand ignorant of the evil which had taken place under the roof which ownedher as its mistress, regretted by her brother with as much earnest feelingas he had the capacity of bestowing upon so undemonstrative a relation, andsincerely mourned by the forced dweller beneath that roof, to whom herpresence had been a protection in the eyes of the world, and to whose cruellot she had furnished more alleviations than she had herself capacity tounderstand.
With this death, the introduction of a mere housekeeper to take the placewhich she had so worthily filled, the additional loneliness which wasinevitable when a hired stranger occupied her room, and the certainty thatthe last excuse of propriety for her remaining was removed,--it may besupposed that the struggle in the mind of the poor girl began anew, andraged with redoubled violence. The desire to be freed from the presence andthe power of her destroyer had by that time grown to be an absorbingthought, ever present with her, and worthy of any possible sacrifice togive it reality. Any _possible_ sacrifice: to poor Eleanor Hill, sacrificeswhich many others would have embraced without a moment's hesitation, seemedliteral madness. The certainty of penury and the probability of open shamepressed her close; and she could not shake off the double fetter. Hertyrant would give her no release; and she succumbed to her living deathonce more.
Months longer of weary waiting for deliverance, every spark of love diedout from her heart, and yet soul and body alike enslaved. Oh, God of allthe suffering!--how often has this been, with no visible hand to deliver,with no pen to chronicle! Months, and then came what seemed the opportunityof the poor girl's life.
It will be remembered that Nicholas Hill, at his dying hour, spoke of hisonly relatives, and even those removed by several degrees, residing on thePacific coast. One of these, William Barnes, a distant cousin, and a man offorty, who owned a comfortable ranch near Sacramento, came on to the Eastin the summer of 1861, bringing his wife, and in one of his visits toPhiladelphia casually heard of the whereabouts of the orphaned daughter ofhis relative. Within a day or two following he pursued his information bydriving out to the Schuylkill and calling upon Eleanor, in the absence ofthe doctor as it chanced. Half an hour's conversation satisfied thelarge-hearted Californian that the young girl was unhappy, from whatevercause; ten minutes more drew from her the information that all the propertyleft her by her father had melted away in unfortunate speculations, thoughof course they won no way towards the other and more terrible secret; andthe next ten minutes sufficed him to offer her a home, as a relative andcompanion to his wife, at his pleasant ranch in the Golden State. Girlswere scarce in California, he said; girls as handsome as Eleanor werescarce in any quarter of the globe; and if she would accept his invitationthey would astonish all his neighbors a little, on their arrival out, whileshe could select at will among fifty stalwart fellows, with plenty ofmoney, any day when she might fancy a husband.
Here was hope--here was deliverance. How eagerly Eleanor Hill grasped at itcan only be known by the wretch who has once been so nearly drowned thatthe last gasp was on his lip, and then found a helping hand stretched outfor his rescue--or that other wretch who has wandered for hours over atrackless waste and then found a landmark at the moment when he was readyto lie down and die! William Barnes was to leave New York on his return toCalifornia within a fortnight: he would inform his wife of the arrangement,and she would be delighted with the thought of finding a companion; and onthe morning of the sailing of the steamer Eleanor would appear, to fill thestate-room already engaged.
Somewhat to the surprise of the escaping prisoner, and immeasurably to herjoy, when that evening, with an expression on her lip that was nearer totriumph than any which had rested there during all the four years of hersinful slavery--Dr. Philip Pomeroy neither threatened her with poverty norexposure as he had before done (perhaps because he felt that when under Mr.Barnes' protection the former would be beyond his power and the latter oflittle consequence in a State so far removed as California) nor evenseriously opposed her accepting the offer made her. At last, then, thecruel heart had relented, her shameful dependence was at an end, and thereformation of her life could find its late beginning.
Three days later came a letter from New York, from William Barnes,reiterating what had been said personally, and accompanied by theindorsement of the arrangement by Mrs. Barnes. The last shadow of doubt,then, was removed out of the way, and the young girl's moderatepreparations for removal went on with new vigor. One hundred dollars inmoney was all that she asked of her guardian for these preparations, andthat sum was accorded without hesitation or comment. On the morning of thesailing of the steamer she left Philadelphia by the early train, the doctorhimself bringing her down to the depot in his carriage, and bidding hergood-bye with a word of kind regret, and a kiss which seemed chaste enoughfor that of a brother. Her small array of
baggage had preceded her, and wasno doubt already within the hold of the vessel that was to bear her to thePacific, to a renewed life, and an opportunity of gathering up the brokenthreads of lost happiness.
The steamer, the old Northern Light, of such varying fortunes, was to sailat two. At half-past twelve, the carriage containing Eleanor Hill dasheddown to the foot of Warren Street, among all that crush of carriages,baggage-wagons, foot-people with valises and carpet-bags, idlers,policemen, pickpockets, United States Mail vans, weeping women, whiningchildren, and insatiate shakers of human hands, that has attended thedeparture of every California steamer since the first ploughed her oceanway towards the land of gold. Mr. Barnes had promised to meet her at thegangway or on shipboard, but neither on the dock nor on deck could shediscover him. One o'clock was long past, and Eleanor had grown sick atheart under the idea that some mistake as to the steamer must have beenmade, when from the gangway she saw a carriage drive up and her newprotector alight from it. He was assisting out a lady who could be no otherthan his wife; and the young girl, fairly overjoyed, ran down the plank tomeet and welcome them. The lady, who was just starting up the plank asEleanor reached the foot of it, did not notice her, but continued herascent: William Barnes did see her, and allowing his wife to proceed alone,he seized her arm and drew her hurriedly away down the pier, and beyondear-shot. Eleanor noticed that his face seemed flushed, and his wholedemeanor agitated; but she was far from being prepared for the startlingintelligence that burst from his lips, interlarded with oaths andexpressions of honest indignation. The generous-hearted Californian was, intruth, very nearly beside himself with shame and mortification. Eleanorcould not accompany his wife and himself to California, after all! And thestory of the disappointment, though a little mixed up with those energeticexpressions and once interrupted by the necessity of the enraged man'spausing to throw into the dock a package of fruit which his wife had justbeen purchasing for her comfort on the voyage (the porter who brought itbeing very nearly included in that sacrifice to Neptune), the story, inspite of all these hindrances, was far too quickly told; and every word,after the first which revealed her fate, fell upon the heart of the poorgirl as if it had been the blow of a hammer smiting her living flesh.
Up to that morning--the Californian said--his wife had seemed not onlywilling to accept Eleanor's society, but highly pleased at the prospect.Her ticket had been bought and various presents selected by Mrs. Barnes'own hands, for the comfort of their guest on the route and in her new home.That morning, and not more than two hours before, the weather in thematrimonial horizon, never entirely reliable in the latitude of Mrs.Barnes, had changed entirely. On coming into the hotel from some businesscalls, among them a visit to the Post Office (though Mr. Barnes thought,very naturally, that the latter place could have nothing to do with thesudden barometric variation)--she had suddenly declared to him that "hemight as well go down to the office and countermand the order for MissHill's ticket and save the money; as if she [Miss Hill] went to Californiawith him on the steamer that day, she [Mrs. Barnes] would not stir one stepbut stay in New York." Inquiry and even demand had failed to secure anyexplanation of this strange and sudden veering of the marital weathercock;and expostulation and even entreaty, with full representations of thecontemptible position in which he would be placed by any change in thearrangements at that hour, had failed to secure any modification of thesentence. She wanted no strangers in her house, or in her company on boardship; and she would not have any--that was flat! If Eleanor Hill went toCalifornia, _she_ remained! A full-blown domestic quarrel, lasting withdifferent degrees of gusty violence for nearly an hour, had been theresult; and that other result had followed which nearly always follows whenhusband and wife commence discussion of any matter seriously affecting thefeelings (or whims) of the latter--the husband had succumbed, thearrangement had been definitely broken off, and the state-room which theyoung girl was to have occupied was no doubt by that time in the occupancyof a man with a red beard, long boots, a broad hat and a gray blanket!
Poor Eleanor Hill!--it seemed too hard, indeed--this being plunged backagain into the pit of helpless sin and self-reproach, at every effort madefor extrication!
There is a legend told of the great well in the court-yard of one of theold English castles, at the period of the Parliamentary wars, which comesinto mind when the cruel facts of her life are remembered. Sir Hugh, theCavalier, had seen his castle surprised, taken and sacked by theCromwellian troopers, guided and led on by a roundhead churl who owed himgratitude instead of ill-service--had been wounded and made prisoner, whilethe females of his family were maltreated and the pictures that made halfhis ancestral pride stabbed and hacked in pieces by the ruffians who couldnot enough outrage the living members of his race. Then the tide of fortunehad turned; he had once more regained his strong-hold, with manly armsaround him, and those of his dear ones who had not perished by outrage andexposure, once more under his sheltering hand. Then the recreant roundheadneighbor fell one day into his hands, and the cruel blood of the Normanancestors who had begun _their_ robbery and rapine on English soil atHastings, rose up in the breast of Sir Hugh and made him for the time avery fiend of revenge. The great well had been ruined by the corpses throwninto it at the sacking of the castle; and into that well, in spite of hisstruggles, he had the poor wretch lowered by his retainers, then the slightrope cut away and the victim left to cling to the slippery stones at theedge of the water thirty feet below, unable to climb them, too desperate tosink, and wailing out his cries for mercy, while a huge lamp, lowered byanother rope, showed the whole terrible spectacle to the pitiless eyes thatdared look down upon it. Then another rope was lowered by the greatwindlass, within reach of the struggling wretch, and he was allowed toseize hold upon it and climb a little way from the water, under the beliefthat his tyrant had at last relented and that he was to be allowed to savehimself after that dreadful trial. Then, when he had climbed for a few feetfrom the black ooze beneath him, the rope was lowered away and the poorwretch again submerged, to shriek, and wail, and climb again, and to beagain dropped back at the moment of transient hope, until the weariedfingers could cling and climb no longer and the life thus outraged and thelight which had revealed that sad refinement upon cruelty went horribly outtogether! And how much less cruel was Fate, thus standing guard over thelife of Eleanor Hill and dropping her back again into her own shame atevery attempt which she made to escape from it or to rise above it,--thanthe grim and grizzled old Sir Hugh who had been made a human fiend by hispast wrongs and the bandit blood of his race?
There was genuine regret blended with the anger and shame on the honestface of William Barnes, as he made that confession which dashed all thehopes of the young girl,--that he _dared not_ take her to California. Butwho shall describe the expression of hopeless sorrow and despondency whichdwelt upon hers at that moment? Yet despondency was unwise as struggle wasunavailing. This, too, must be borne, as a part of the penalty of--no, wecannot write the word "guilt"--the penalty of being unfortunate and abused!The Californian took the privilege of blood, to urge the acceptance of sucha sum from his well-filled wallet as would enable her to replace theclothing and other articles in her trunks, then too late to remove from thehold of the vessel,--bade her good-bye and sprung on board just as the lastcall was given. The poor outcast mustered courage to speak to a hackman asthe steamer moved away that she had so lately hoped was to bear her to amore hospitable land and a better life; and half an hour later she wasspeeding back towards Philadelphia on the Camden and Amboy boat; withstrange thoughts running through her mind but happily finding no lodgmentthere, that under some circumstances of desertion and despair there couldnot be such a terrible crime in slipping quietly overboard and going to adreamless sleep in the cool, placid water.
Had Eleanor Hill possessed that energy the want of which has been so manytimes before deplored, she would have sought out another home, though inthe most miserable alley of the overcrowded city, before returning yetmore disgraced to that
place of misery once abandoned. But she lacked thatenergy, and perhaps her coming life was foredoomed, as the past had been.That night the bars of her cage closed again upon her. Dr. Philip Pomeroyreceived her in all kindness, with some expressions of pleased surprise anda few sharp epithets hurled at the man who could be weak enough to changehis mind in that manner at the bidding of a woman. But there was somethingin his tone and demeanor which left the girl in doubt whether he was reallyso much surprised as he pretended; and later developments were rapidlyapproaching which made the doubt more tenable.
Among the acquaintances formed by Eleanor Hill in the early days of herresidence under the roof of Dr. Pomeroy, had been the family of RobertBrand, which the doctor visited (as he did many others in the neighborhood)both as friend and medical attendant. In those days she had been visited byElsie Brand and her brother, and had visited them in return. Gradually allintimacy between Elsie and herself had ceased, as that great change, knownonly to herself and two others, affected the whole tenor of her life. Butthe friendship at that time formed with Carlton Brand had never weakened,and it perhaps grew the stronger from the hour when each became satisfiedthat no warmer personal interest would ever rise in the breast of theother. Perhaps Carlton Brand, to some extent a man of the world, and aclose student of character by virtue of his profession, may have formed hisopinions, long before 1861, of the relations existing between the doctorand his ward; but if so, he had not a thought of blame or any depreciationof respect for the poor girl on account of it; and during all those years,if he indeed harbored such suspicions, he had no means of verifying them,for Eleanor Hill's lips had been and remained quite as closely sealed tohim as to others.
Between Dr. Philip Pomeroy and the lawyer had always existed, since theyoung girl had been an inmate of the house, an antagonism which could notwell be mistaken. No open rupture had taken place, in the knowledge of anyacquaintance of either; but they never met without exchanging looks whichtold of mutual dislike and distrust. Within the three years between 1858and 1861 that antagonism, as even the unobservant girl could see, hadmarkedly increased, so that even in his own house the doctor, when he cameupon him, seldom addressed a word to his unwelcome guest. Had she knownthat in the investigations which followed the failure of the DunderhavenCoal and Mining Company, in the later days of the great commercial crash of1857-8, Carlton Brand had been one of the counsel employed to prosecutethat great swindle in which her own fortune had been swallowed up withhundreds of others,--had she known this, we say, she might have imaginedsome reason for this increase of dislike which was certainly not foundedupon jealousy. But she would not have guessed, even then, one tithe of thecauses for deadly and life-long hatred which lay between two men ofcorresponding eminence in two equally liberal professions. It is notpossible, at this stage of the narration, to explain what were thosecauses, eventually so certain to develop themselves.
On the eve of her attempted transit to California, of which we have alreadyseen the melancholy failure, Eleanor Hill wrote but one letter of farewell,and that letter was addressed to Carlton Brand. On her way homeward fromher great disappointment, she paused in the city to drop a pencil notewritten on board the steamboat; and that was also to Carlton Brand,informing him of her return. No reply was made to the latter note, forthree days: then the lawyer called upon her one day during the professionalabsence of the doctor. He had been absent, at the city of New York andstill farther eastward, for more than a week previous. He had returned fromthe commercial metropolis only the day before, and had taken the veryearliest moment to acknowledge the reception of her missive and to expresshis sympathy in her disappointment--perhaps something more.
After a few moments of conversation on that unfortunate affair, the lawyerremarked that he had chanced to stop at the same hotel in New York,patronized by Mr. Barnes and his wife, and having some recollection of theface of the former, from old Philadelphia rencontres, had made theacquaintance of both. He had known nothing whatever of the intention ofEleanor to accompany them to the Pacific coast, or even that anyrelationship existed between herself and William Barnes. But Mrs. Barneshad "cottoned to him" a little, apparently, he had been the possessor of afew spare hours, and he had become her companion and escort on some of hershopping excursions when Mr. Barnes was otherwise employed. He had been herescort on the morning of the day on which she sailed, and after her returnfrom the Post-office had been present at her opening of several letters,over one of which she fell into a storm of rage requiring an apology forsuch an exposure before a comparative stranger. As a part of that apology,she had handed him the letter, bearing the Philadelphia post-mark; andinadvertently, as he then supposed, but providentially, as he afterwardssaw reason to believe, he had kept the letter in his hands, dropped it intohis pocket with his newspaper, and forgotten to return it until he hadparted from the enraged woman and left the hotel. It was only after hisreturn to Philadelphia and reception of the two notes advising him ofEleanor's intended departure and her disappointment, that he had been ableto connect that letter with any one in whom he possessed a personalinterest.
Eleanor Hill had been gradually growing paler during this recital; and shewas chalky white and almost ready to faint, when at that stage the lawyerpaused and handed her a letter taken from his pocket, with the inquiry, "ifshe knew that handwriting." The letter was very brief, but very expressive,and ran as follows--the words being faithfully copied from the shamefuloriginal, lying at the writer's hand at this moment:
PHILADELPHIA, ---- --, 1861.
MADAM:--I have accidentally learned that arrangements have been made by your husband and yourself, to take a young lady back with you to your home in California, on your return. When I tell you that I knew your husband and his family many years ago, you will understand my motive for taking part in what is apparently none of my business. If the report is true, that you do so intend, you have been shamefully deceived and imposed upon. The young lady, whose name I need not mention, has been for years the mistress of the man with whom she is living; and you can judge for yourself the policy of introducing such a person into your household. I have no means of judging whether your husband is or is not acquainted with the real character of the lady; but any doubt on that subject you can have no difficulty in solving for yourself. I have preferred to address you instead of him, with this warning, because in the event of his really being aware of all the circumstances, any communication to him would of course never have reached your eyes. With the highest esteem and regard for yourself, for your husband and his family, I am (only concealing my real name, for the present, from motives which I hope you will readily appreciate,) yours, obediently,
D. T. M.
"My God!--yes, I know that handwriting!" sobbed Eleanor Hill, covering hereyes with both hands, after glancing over the precious epistle.
"So I feared!" said Carlton Brand.
"Oh, how can any man be so cruel!" continued the poor girl.
"How could he dare to utter such a falsehood?" said the lawyer, glancingclosely at the young girl meanwhile. Her face, that had the moment beforebeen pale, was now one flush of crimson, and it seemed as if the very veinswould burst with the pressure of shamed and indignant blood. Carlton Brandsaw, and if he had before doubted, he doubted no longer. He spoke notanother word. But the instant after, at last goaded beyond all endurance,Eleanor Hill started to her feet, and said:
"Carlton Brand, I believe that I have but one friend in the world, and youare that friend. I have tried to keep my shame from you, because I couldnot bear to forfeit your good opinion. You know all, now, but do notbelieve me guilty and wicked! That man--"
"I do not believe you guilty, Eleanor, whatever may be the errors intowhich you have been dragged by that worst devil out of torment!" heinterrupted her.
"Expose that man to the world, then, or kill him! Do not let my shame sta
ndin the way! I can bear any thing, to see him punished as he deserves, forthis last cruel deed!" The girl was for the moment beside herself, and shelittle thought, just then, what was the penalty she braved! It seemed thatCarlton Brand better appreciated the peril, or that some other weightyconsideration chained his limbs and his spirit, for his was now the flushedface, and he made none of those physical movements which the avengerinevitably assumes, even if beneath no other eye than God's, when hedetermines upon a course of action involving exposure and possible danger.He seemed to tremble, but not with anxiety: his was rather the quiver ofinertiae than any nobler incitement.
"Expose him?--kill him?" he gasped rather than said. "You do not know whatyou ask, Eleanor! I cannot!--dare not--"
"_Dare_ not?" echoed Eleanor Hill, her face that had ordinarily so littlepride or courage in it, now expressing wonder not unmingled with contempt.For the first time, she saw the countenance of that man who had seemed toher almost a demi-god, convulsed with pain and shame; and the sad wonderthat was almost pity grew in her eyes, as within a moment after, moved byher confidence and assured by it that he need fear no danger of betrayal,Carlton Brand entrusted her with the secret of that skeleton in his mentalcloset which made him powerless against the bold, unscrupulous anddetermined Philip Pomeroy. Each had the most dangerous confidence of theother, then; and each realized, if nothing more, a certain painfulsatisfaction in knowing that the burthen was not thenceforth to be borneentirely without sympathy. But to neither did there appear any hope ofunravelling a villany which seemed to both so monstrous.
All this took place in the summer of 1861, it will be remembered; andbetween that time and the period at which we have seen Eleanor Hillkneeling piteously before Nathan Bladesden and afterwards greeting CarltonBrand with such a sympathy of shame and sorrow,--nearly two years hadelapsed. During that time Carlton Brand had seemed to gather more and moredislike of the physician, and, as must be confessed, more and more positivefear of him; while Dr. Pomeroy had more than once treated poor Eleanor withpositive bodily indignity for daring to receive his visits at all, thoughhe was the last of all her old acquaintances who kept up the least pretenceat intimacy. Finally, for months before the June of 1863, the lawyer hadceased to make any visits to the house, except at times when he knew thedoctor to be absent; and then he stayed but briefly at each infrequentcall, while one of the female servants, who was devoted to Eleanor, hadconfidential orders from her to keep watch for the sudden coming of thedoctor, so that this man, who seemed born to be a Paladin, could skulk awayby one door or the other and avoid a meeting! A most pitiable exhibition,truly!--but the record must be made a faithful one, even in this melancholyinstance.
Since Eleanor Hill's return from her temporary Hegira, for a long period,so far as the eye could see no change had taken place in the relationsexisting between the "guardian" and his "ward." Perhaps he treated her withmore coolness than of old; and she may have been more habitually silent,while she had become a virtual recluse and seldom passed beyond the doorsof that fated dwelling. Whatever the weakness which the fact may have shownon her part, whatever of persistent evil on his,--the old intimacy of crimehad been maintained, though the love once existing in the breast of theyoung girl had long changed to loathing, and there was every reason tobelieve that the ignobler passion urging on her destroyer had quite as longbefore become satiety.
This up to a certain period. One day during the winter of 1862, NathanBladesden, a Quaker merchant of the city, gray-headed, eminentlyrespectable and a widower, had found occasion to call at the residence ofDr. Pomeroy. In the host's absence he had been received by his ward; andthe blind god, ever fantastic in his dealings, had smitten the calm, strongman with a feeling not to be overcome. He had called again and again,sometimes in the doctor's absence and sometimes when he was at home; butthe object of his pursuit had evidently been Eleanor Hill. His visits hadseemed to be rather pleasing than otherwise to the master of the house, whocould not fail to see towards what they tended; and that he did see andapprove had seemed to be evident from his entire withdrawal of himself fromEleanor's private society, from the time of the second visit. The poorgirl's heart had leaped with joy, at the possibility of union with a nobleman, that should finally remove her from her false position and make herpast life only a sad remembrance; and those precisians may blame her whowill, while all must sorrow for the circumstances which seemed to renderthe deception necessary,--that she had not shuddered, as she possiblyshould have done, at the idea of marriage without full confidence. Twomonths before, while April was laughing and weeping over the earth, thegrave, unimpeachable man, who already held so much of her respect and couldso easily induce a much warmer feeling of her nature,--had asked her to behis honored wife and the mistress of his handsome house in the city; andthe harrassed girl, the goal of a life of peace once more in sight, hadanswered him that she would be his wife at any moment if he would consentto accept the remnant of a heart which had been cruelly tortured and tomake no inquiries as to a past which must ever remain buried. To theseterms the Quaker had consented; this had been Eleanor Hill's betrothal; andwith such a redeeming prospect in view had her life remained, until thatfatal day of June when the knowledge that her whole secret was betrayedburst upon her in the presence and the reproaches of Nathan Bladesden. Whatpassed between them has already been recorded, at a stage of this narrationantecedent to the long but necessary resume just concluded; and we haveseen how, only a few minutes after, Carlton Brand held in his hand theletter of her second denunciation, and what were his brief but burningwords as he commenced reading.
"Curse him! He deserves eternal perdition, and he will find it!"
He read through the letter without speaking another word, though there wereoccasional convulsive twitches of his face which showed how his heart wasstirred to indignation by the perusal.
"You are sure, are you not?" Eleanor asked, when he had finished.
"Just as sure as I was in the other case. The deed is the most black anddamning that I have ever known; and if I had before been an infidel Ishould be converted by the knowledge that such an incarnate scoundrel mustroast in torment!"
"And what am I to do?" asked the girl, with that helpless and irresoluteair which is so pitiable.
"Heaven help us both! I do not know!" was the reply, with the proud headdrooping lower on the breast than it should ever have been bowed by anyfeeling except devotion.
"I cannot remain here after this!" she said. "Can you not take me away--dosomething for me? Does the--do the same obstacles stand in your way thatstood there two years ago?"
"No--not the same, but worse!" answered the lawyer, bitterly. "Oh, therenever was a child so helpless as I am at this moment. I have wealth, but Icannot use it for your benefit without exposing you to final and completeruin in public opinion. And for myself--poor Eleanor, I pity you, Godknows I do, but I pity myself still worse. I came to tell you that I amgoing away this very day,--that I shall not again set foot within myfather's house--perhaps never again while I live,--that my spirit iscrushed and my heart broken."
"What has happened? tell me! The old trouble, Carlton?" asked the younggirl, in a tone of true commiseration.
"Yes, the old trouble, and worse!" was the reply, followed by a rapidrelation of the events of the morning, and concluding with these hopelesswords: "An hour since, I parted with the woman I loved and hoped to make myown. To-morrow my name may be a scoff and a by-word in the mouth of everyman who knows me. I cannot and will not meet this shame, which is nothidden like your own, but will be blown abroad by the breath of thousandsof personal acquaintances, and perhaps made the subject of jest in thepublic newspapers. Think how those who have hated and perhaps fearedme--criminals whom I have brought to justice and thieves whom I have foiledin their plunderings,--will gloat over the knowledge that I can troublethem no more--that I have fallen lower, in the public eye, than they haveever been! I am going away, where no man who has ever looked upon my faceand known it, can look upon it again!"
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The tone in which Carlton Brand spoke was one of utter despondency andabandonment. There was nothing of the sharp, vigorous ring of that speechwhich contains and declares a purpose: the words fell stolid and lifelessas hung the head and drooped the arms of the utterer in her presence withwhom he held a sad community of disgrace.
"I understand you, and I believe that your lot is even worse than my own!"said Eleanor Hill, after a moment of silence. "You do right in going away,and you could not help me if you stayed. Nothing can help me, I suppose. Donot think of me any more. I can bear what is to come, quite as well as Ihave borne all that is past!" She had been nodding her head mechanicallywhen she commenced speaking, and at every nod it sank lower and lower untilthe face was hidden from the one friend whom she was thus losing beyondrecall.
At that moment there was a rapid foot on the stairway above, and the houseservant whom Eleanor had managed to keep in her interest spoke quickly atthe door.
"If you please, Miss, doctor's carriage is coming through the gate from theDarby road. Thought you would like to know it." And as rapidly as she hadcome down, she ascended again to her employment in the attic.
"Oh, Carlton, you must not be seen here, now!" exclaimed the poor girl, herface all fright and anxiety, and herself apparently forgotten. Something inthat look and tone smote the heart of Carlton Brand more deeply than it hadever been smitten by the sorrow and disgrace of his own situation; and withthat feeling of intense compassion a new thought was born within him."Yesterday I could not have done it--to-day I can!" he muttered, so lowthat the girl could not understand his words; then he said aloud, andspeaking very rapidly:
"I cannot meet him, and you shall not! Throw something on your head andover your shoulders, quick; and come with me!"
For one instant the young girl gazed into his face as if in doubt andhesitation; but the repetition of a single word decided her:
"Quick!"
A glow of delight and surprise that had long been a stranger to her face,broke over it; she ran to the little bed-room adjoining the apartment inwhich they were speaking, threw on a black-silken mantle and a sober littlehat that hung there, and was ready in an instant. In another Carlton Brandhad seized her arm, hurried her out of the room, down the stairs, throughthe hall and out into the garden which lay at the north side of the houseand extended down almost to the edge of the causeway. Dr. Pomeroy wasdriving down the lane leading from the Darby road, and was consequently onthe opposite side of the house from the fugitives. Fugitives they may wellhave been called, though perhaps so strange an elopement had never beforebeen planned--an elopement over a comparatively open country in the broadlight of a summer noon, by two persons who held no tie of blood and nowarmer feeling for each other than friendship, and who had not dreamed ofsuch an act even five minutes before.
But those operations the most suddenly conceived are not always the worstexecuted. Necessity, if not genius, is often a successful imitator of thatquality. When the doctor drove up at the gate in front of the house, his"ward" and her new companion were just dodging out of the tall bean-polesand shrubbery, over the garden fence, to the edge of the meadow; by thetime he had fairly entered the house they were on the causeway andpartially sheltered by the elders that ran along it and fringed the bank ofthe singing brook; and long before he could have discovered the flight andmade such inquiries of the servants as might have directed his gaze in thatdirection, the lawyer in his strangely soiled and unaccustomed attire, andthe girl so slightly arrayed for starting out on her travels in the world,were within the circle of woods before mentioned, stretching northward tothe great road leading down to the city.
The Coward: A Novel of Society and the Field in 1863 Page 10
