Chapter Eighty Four.
Playing Confessor.
I was not without suspicion as to the motive of her complaisance: in fact, I understood it. Despite the declamatory denial she had given to its truth, my defence of Wingrove, I saw, had made an impression upon her. It had no doubt produced pleasant reflections; and rendered myself indirectly an object of gratitude. It was natural that such kindness should be reciprocated.
My own intent in “confessing” the girl was twofold. First, on Wingrove’s account: for, notwithstanding all that had been said and done, her love for him might have passed. If so, instead of that happy reunion of two loving hearts, which I had anticipated bringing about, I should be the witness of a most painful interview.
Without further delay, I entered upon the theme. My interrogatories were answered with candid freedom. The answers proved that what the Mexican had told me was true to the letter.
“And did your father force you to this marriage?”
The reply was given hesitatingly. It was in the affirmative. “He did.”
“For what reason did he so?”
“I could never tell. The man had some power over him; but how or in what way, I knew not then, nor do I now. My father told me it was a debt—a large sum which he owed him, and could not pay. I know not whether it was that. I hope it was.”
“You think, then, that Stebbins used some such means to force your father’s consent?”
“I am sure of it. My father told me as much. He said that by marrying Stebbins I could save him from disgrace, and entreated, rather than forced me to it. You know, sir, I could not ask why: he was my father. I do think that it was not his wish that I should have that man; but something threatened him.”
“Did your father know it was a false marriage?”
“No, no; I can never think so. I am sure the villain deceived him in that, as he did me. Oh! father could never have done so! People, I believe, thought him wicked, because he was short with them, and used rough language. But he was not wicked. Something had crossed him; and he drank. He was at times unhappy, and perhaps ill-tempered with the world; but never with us. He was always kind to sister and myself—never scolded us. Ah! no, sir; I can never think he knew that.”
“He was aware that Stebbins was a Mormon—was he not?”
“I have tried to believe that he was not—though Stebbins afterwards told me so.” I well knew that he was aware of it, but said nothing.
“His saying so,” continued she, “proves nothing. If father did know of his being a Mormon, I am sure he was ignorant of the wickedness of these people. There were stories about them; but there were others who contradicted these stories, and said they were all scandal—so little does the world know what is true from what is false. I learnt afterwards that the very worst that was said of them was even less than the truth.”
“Of course, you knew nothing of Stebbins being a Mormon?”
“Oh! sir, how could I? There was nothing said of that. He pretended he was emigrating to Oregon, where a good many had gone. Had I known the truth, I should have drowned myself rather than have gone with him!”
“After all, you would not have obeyed your father’s will in the matter, had not something else arisen. At his solicitation, you gave your consent; but were you not influenced by the incident that had occurred in the forest-glade?”
“Stranger! I have promised you I would conceal nothing; nor shall I. On discovering the falsehood of him who had told me he loved me, I was more than mad—I was revengeful. I will not deny that I felt spite. I scarcely cared what became of me—else how could I have consented to marry a man for whom I had neither love nor liking? On the contrary, I might almost say that I loathed him.”
“And you loved the other? Speak the truth, Marian! you have promised to do so—you loved Frank Wingrove?”
“I did.”
A deep-drawn sigh followed the confession.
“Once more speak the truth—you love him still?”
“Oh! if he had been true—if he had been true!”
“If true, you could love him still?”
“Yes, yes!” replied she, with an earnestness not to be mistaken.
“Love him, then, Marian! love him still! Frank Wingrove is true!” I detailed the proofs of his loyalty from beginning to end. I had learnt every circumstance from Wingrove himself, and was able to set them forth with all the circumstantiality of truth itself. I spoke with as much earnestness as if I had been suing in my own cause; but I was listened to with willing ears, and my suit was successful. I even succeeded in explaining that sinister kiss, that had been the cause of so much misfortune.