CHAPTER XI.
HONORA.
"But I did not pass it. A sound struck my ear. It was that of asmothered sob, and it came from the room where I had first seen MissDudleigh. Instantly a vision of that sweet form bowed in misery struckupon my still palpitating heart; and moved at a grief I knew to be wellnigh as bitter as my own, I stopped before the half-closed door, andgently pushed it open.
"Miss Dudleigh at once advanced to meet me. Tears were on her cheeks,but she walked very firmly, and took my hand with an inquiry in her softeyes that almost drove me distracted.
"'What shall I do?' I cried to myself. 'Tell this woman to beware, orleave her to fight her battles alone?' No answer came from my inmostsoul. I was appalled by her weakness and my own selfishness, and bowedmy head and said nothing.
"'A strange ending to the hopes of this day,' were the words thatthereupon fell from her lips. 'Is--is--Marah ill, or did one of herstrange moods overtake her?'
"'I do not understand Miss Leighton,' I replied. 'The time I have spentin the study of her character has been wasted. I shall never undertaketo open the book again.'
"'Then,' she faltered, and an absolute terror grew in her eyes, 'you aregoing to leave her. She is going to be free, and--' The white cheeksgrew scarlet. She evidently feared that she had shown me her heart.
"Affected, but irresolute still, I took her hand and carried it to mylips.
"'Let me thank you,' said I, 'for glimpses into a nature so noble andwomanly that I am saved in this hour from cursing all womankind.'
"Ah, how she sighed.
"'You are good,' she murmured. 'You have deserved a better fate. But itis the lot of goodness and truth ever to meet with misappreciation anddisdain. Here, here, only,' and she struck her breast with her clenchedright hand, 'lie the rewards for honesty, long-suffering, andtenderness. In the world without there is nothing.'
"Tears, which I could not restrain, welled up to my eyes. I could neverhave wept for my own suffering, but for hers it seemed both natural andreal. Ah, why had she thrown the treasures of her heart away upon afool? Why had she given the trust of her heart to a villain? I opened mylips to speak; she saw his name faltering on my tongue, and stopped me.
"'Don't!' she breathed. 'I know what you would say and I cannot bear it.I was motherless, fatherless, almost friendless, and I relied upon thewisdom of an aunt, whose judgment was, perhaps, not all that it shouldhave been. But it is too late now for regrets. I have launched my boat,and it must sail on; only--you are an honest man and will respect myconfidence--was it Mr. Urquhart I saw on the outskirts of the crowdto-day?'
"I bowed. I knew she had not asked because she had any doubts as to thefact of his being there, but because she wanted to see if I hadrecognized him and owed any of my misery to that fact.
"'It was he,' said I, and said no more.
"The mask fell from her countenance. She clasped her hands together tillthey showed white as marble.
"'Oh! we are four miserable ones!' she cried. 'He--'
"It was my turn to stop her.
"'I would rather you did not say it,' I exclaimed. 'I can bear much, butnot to hear another person utter words that will force me to think ofthe dagger I carry always in my breast. Besides, we may be mistaken.' Idid not believe it, but I forced myself to say it. 'She declares he isnothing to her, and if that is so, you might wish to have kept silent.'
"'She says! Ah! can you believe her? do you?'
"'I must--or go mad.'
"'Then I will believe her, too. I am so slightly tied to this world thathas deceived me, that I will trust on a little while longer, even if mytrust lands me in my grave. I had rather die than discover deceit whereI had looked for honesty and gratitude.'
"I was a coward, perhaps, but I did not try to dissuade her. Though shewas fatherless and motherless, and loverless and friendless, I let hergrasp at this wisp of hope and cling to it, though I knew it would neverhold, and that her only chance for happiness was passing from her.
"'If he were not poor,' she now breathed rather than whispered, 'I wouldfind it easier to rend myself free. But he has nothing but what lies inmy future, and if I should make a mistake and do injustice to a man thatis merely suffering under a temporary intoxication, I should rob him ofhis only hope, without adding one chance to my own.'
"I bowed, and made a movement toward the door. I could not stand muchmore of this strain.
"'You are going?' she cried. 'Well, I cannot keep you. But that dagger!You will promise me to throw it away? You do not need it in defense, andyou do not want to kill me before my time.'
"No, no; I did not want to kill her. Grief was doing that fast enough;so I thought at that time. Shuddering, but resolute, I drew the tinysteel from my breast and laid it in her hand.
"'It is all I can give you to show you my appreciation of yourgoodness.' And not trusting myself to linger longer lest I should takeit again from her hand, I went out and walked hastily from the house.
"If you asked me what road I took, or through what streets I passed, orwhose eye I encountered in my next hour's walking through the town, Icould not tell you. If jeers followed me, I heard them not; if I was therecipient of sympathizing looks and wondering conjectures, they were alllost upon eyes that were blind and ears that were deaf. I did not evenfeel; and did not realize till night that I had been wandering for hourswithout my cloak, which I had left in the carriage and forgotten to takeagain when I went out. The first knowledge I had of my surroundings waswhen I found an obstruction in my path, and looking up, saw myself infront of my own door, and not two feet from me, Edwin Urquhart."
The Forsaken Inn: A Novel Page 11
