CHAPTER XII.—THE DOWNFALL OF PRIDE.
Invention is ashamed,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;
But tell me then ’tis so;—for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it, th’ one to th’ other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviour,
That in their kind they speak it.
--Shakespere.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.
--Ibid.
The night of the great and last party at Grahame’s mansion in the Regent’s Park was, in the anticipation of Mrs. Grahame, to have proved a crowning triumph of calculation. Upon this night she expected the Duke of St. Allborne to propose to her daughter, Margaret. He did propose, and his offer was accepted, but not in accordance with Mrs. Grahame’s plan. This night of splendid triumph, as it was to have been, proved to her a night of horror. The presence of Lester Vane threw her into a state of nervous apprehension and agitation, for fear that he would disclose the conduct and disappearance of her daughter, Helen. She observed, however, with as much gratification as she could feel in such a condition of flurry and alarm, that the Duke maintained a position close to Margaret during the early part of the evening, and devoted himself to her. She saw them retire into the garden, and she believed her hopes would be fulfilled. She had no conception of what was about to happen.
The music played joyously, the dancers whirled around in festive enjoyment, and the absence of Lester Vane for a time gave to Mrs. Grahame’s perturbed mind great relief; but Lester Vane again returned, and in spite of her manouvres he contrived to elude the proximity to him which she strove to keep up. She was, however, once more soothed by seeing him depart. Shortly, however, after he had gone she noticed a decided movement in her guests; one by one they disappeared, and rapidly too. In corners of the handsome saloon groups gathered and stood whispering, until she approached them; then they separated, and coolly bowed to her as they passed, but they unmistakeably at the same time left the house.
Evangeline approached her, and whispered to her—
“What has happened to Margaret, mamma? and why do some of these haughty people speak in terms of contempt of her?”
A flash of lightning seemed to dart through Mrs. Grahame’s brain. The blood rushed back to her heart; her eyes seemed filled with blood; she gazed with hazy vision round the room—to do so was a tremendous effort, but, though it had slain her, she must have done it.
Margaret was not present, nor the Duke of St. Allborne. They must have been absent hours.
“Send your papa to me, Eva!” exclaimed Mrs. Grahame, in a broken, guttural voice.
“Papa has not been in the room for a long time,” she replied; “he quitted before Margaret went into the garden with the Duke.”
“Send servants into the garden, and bid your sister return instantly hither; let her know her absence has occasioned remark.”
Mrs. Grahame staggered to a seat as she spoke, and Evangeline quitted the saloon to obey her.
The unhappy woman sat alone—sick, dizzy, agonised.
After all, a volcano existed beneath the surface of ice.
No one came and sat down by her; her guests appeared to shun her. She heard one heartless woman exclaim, “A cold night for a journey, even with love to warm it.” She heard a man say, “I don’t dislike the spirit which made her go off with such éclat!” and another utter a taunt in reference to the boldness of St. Allborne. She had a dim comprehension of what it all meant, but was powerless to act. She was transfixed by a whirl of thoughts—horrifying thoughts; she lost consciousness of what was going on about her; she seemed to be burdened by a frightful nightmare, which, while it presented the most horrible visions to her distracted eyes, refused her the power to move a limb—she appeared frozen to her seat.
She was at length restored to the no less horrible reality, by Evangeline—who, rousing her by her tearful embrace, pointed out to her the fact that every guest was gone; that the most active search had failed to discover Margaret, and that Mr. Grahame was not in the house, though no one had seen him leave it.
Mrs. Grahame fell down in a swoon, and was borne to her bed insensible.
The next day she was a raving maniac, and subsequently the most terrible delirium gave place to a babbling idiocy.
Still nothing was heard of Mr. Grahame, nor Margaret, nor Helen. Evangeline alone had the trial to endure. She had the aid of a physician, and that of Mrs. Truebody, the nurse to her mother—that was all. Her father did not return. A week elapsed; still he came not, nor came there any communication from him.
A few days more, and Mr. Jukes made his appearance as representative of the Sheriff of Middlesex. Mr. Grahame had put in no appearance to the writs with which he had been served. Judgment went by default, and execution was obtained. Mr Jukes levied, and placed both Nutty and Sudds in possession.
Evangeline did not understand what it meant; and, in her distress, she thought of Charles Clinton. She wrote to him, and made an assignation with him; for she feared, she knew not wherefore, to ask him to come to the house.
The appointment was kept, and she told him all. She implored him to advise her how to act, and to explain to her how it was that strange, dirty men, could force themselves into the house, stay there, and it was not in her power to call in policemen and have them turned out. He made all clear to her; assigned the reason of the flight of her father to his fear of arrest for debt, or want of moral courage to face the disgrace of his fall being proclaimed to the world. He explained to her that, in a few days, the whole contents of the mansion would be sold, and that she and her mother would be turned, homeless and penniless, into the street. He counselled her to write to the wealthiest of her near relatives, lay bare all the facts, and ask them to come forward to assist her in her cruel and unhappy condition. He undertook to manage to delay the return of the writ of execution until she could get an answer; and, with soothing words and sanguine prophecies, with earnest entreaties to keep a good heart, he accompanied her to her home, and parted with her under a promise to meet again as soon as her application to her Scotch relations was answered.
In three days she received it. There was no delay in the reply. The cold-hearted and selfish, who spontaneously refuse to help those in distress, are usually prompt in announcing their purpose. Evangeline received a reply, expressing great surprise and indignation at what had happened, and, under the circumstances, at the application. If Mr. Grahame had not thought fit to provide for his children in his prosperity, it was not to be expected that his relations would do so in their distress. The writer lamented the events but hoped it would terminate less unfavourably than she had expected &c., &c.
She wept bitterly when she read the note; it almost broke her heart. She was frightened to distraction at the prospect before her. What could she do, not alone for herself, but for her most miserable parent?
She met Charley again; she could not speak to him, but sank upon his breast and wept. She seemed to him as a bird nestling in his bosom. Surely, he thought there is no worldly distinction between us now; and he would upon the impulse have pressed her to his heart.
No!
She was still as much his superior by birth and therefore by station as she had ever been. Her affliction instead of levelling her, he perceived, ought to elevate her in his respect. Now, least of all, was a time for him to break through the barrier which conventional usages placed between them; and he bowed to the dictates of his honour no less than his conscience, and his manner to her became more deferential and respectful than ever.
He listened, when she could speak, to her sorrowful communication silently; and he read the letter she handed to him with a bitter smile of contempt. Then he said to her—
“I at least have better news for you. I have communicated with the plaintiff in the suit against your father. I have stated to him the very, very painful position in which you are placed, and I urged upon him to delay for a short time the last proceedings in this unhappy affair. In a kind and feeling letter, I have his instructions to keep everything as it is until further notice. I am not to permit a single article in the household to be touched. I am to remove one of the men, and the one remaining is to be placed where he will not be seen; and I am further directed personally to see that the terrible condition of Mrs. Grahame is not injured by anything that may hereafter occur.”
Evangeline pressed his hand warmly. “Your intelligence is welcome indeed,” she said, with emotion; “I feared that we should be cast upon the wide world to perish, with no pitying soul to hold forth a hand to save us.”
“Yes, one—I hope one,” said Charley, gently. “Who?” she asked, in simple surprise.
He hesitated for a moment, and then he replied in a low tone, which gradually grew earnest—
“I could not have seen you placed in so distressful a position without proffering my humble aid. I would have done my best to have secured you from the worst pangs of friendless privation. My dear, dear sister Lotte would have welcomed you, and shared her home with you. It would have been a long remove from the splendour of your own, but in the sincerity of heart, and the earnestness of desire to make you happy, to have been found within its walls, it would at least have equalled it.”
Evangeline again pressed his hand, but her heart was too full to speak.
“I shall see you at your own abode to-morrow morning, Miss Grahame,” he said; “and be assured, so far as lies in my power, every effort to remove all trace of the presence of the individuals whose office is so offensive shall be made, so that, however unhappy the circumstances may be which still surround you, that annoyance shall be withdrawn from you.”
“I can never forget your kindness, Mr. Clinton,” murmured Evangeline. “I cannot hope to repay it but by offering up my prayers for your welfare and your happiness.”
As the last word escaped her lips, Evangeline was struck by the thought that the task of administering to that happiness would be delightful to the happy, happy woman to whom it would be entrusted. She sighed. Oh! that it might be her lot. But no! The frowns of fortune were upon their house, and she had but to look forward to a life of secret sorrow, passed in tending her mother through all the miserable phases of her terrible affliction, which the most eminent physicians had pronounced incurable.
She sighed again and cast her sweet eyes upon Charley. Ah! it was impossible for him to misunderstand the soft, dreamy expression of that gaze, but it was equally impossible for him to forget or abuse the confiding trustfulness she had reposed in him; therefore he preserved towards her still the same respectful, gentle deference he had shown hitherto.
There might perhaps, he thought, come a time when he could speak to her without impropriety the true language of his heart—could address her in the fervent terms which his deep devotion for her would be sure to suggest, but until that time she was to him a young and gentle lady in affliction, who in full confidence in his honour had applied to him for counsel and direction; and he revered his honour too religiously to evade its stern dictates at the promptings of a passionate love—even though there was the temptation of a sweet, yielding, loving nature, which saw not the wide gap in their social grade with the same eyes as he did to aid those promptings. No! he curbed his strong inclinings and contented himself—a melancholy content it was—with the reflection that if events favoured his wishes he should propose to her and wed her in honour, fairly anticipating the felicity which would possibly attend such an union. If, however, fate decided against him, he would devote himself only still closer to the abstruse study of the law; strive to make a happy lady of Lotte, and die a bachelor—for marry another than Evangeline he resolved never to do.
Conducting Evangeline like a preux chevalier attending a high-born dame to her castle home, he left her within sight of it, so that he might know she regained it unmolested; then he turned slowly away to go home and dream all kinds of lovely things about her.
Every day after this he visited the abode of Evangeline to carry out the instructions of Nathan Gomer. During one of these visits, while seated talking to Evangeline, who was looking tenderly into his clear, dark eyes, and listening in deep attention to the words which fell from his lips—not that they were of themselves of much interest, but there was a tone in the voice which uttered them that had a music in her ear far surpassing that ever given by instrument—the door suddenly opened and the rustling of silk was heard.
Both looked up; and Evangeline, with a cry of passionate joy, leaped from her seat and threw herself into the arms of a lady who stood upon the threshold.
“Helen!—dearest Helen!” she cried, with intense emotion; “Helen, Helen, such affliction, such trouble has befallen——”
She hid her face, sobbing upon her sister’s shoulder.
Charley glided at once out of the room; and the two sisters, after the first burst of emotion was over, sat down, and then Evangeline related, interrupted only with hysteric sobs, all that had happened, dwelling upon the mysterious absence of her father, of whom not a single trace had been discovered, though every effort had been made, and upon the pitiable condition to which their mother had been reduced.
Helen, in the midst of their talk, rose up, and said, with a strong inspiration of her breath—
“Evangeline, I will see my mother now. Lead me to her.”
Evangeline took her hand, and together they entered the darkened chamber where the wreck of the proud woman lay in hopeless imbecility.
Helen grew pale as ashes as she entered the room. Her heart throbbed painfully. She found herself face to face with old Mrs. Truebody; and, as the good old creature started and wrung her hands, she felt her breath come and go in short hysteric gasps.
With a strong effort she drew the curtain aside and beheld the white, pinched, and drawn features of her mother screwed up into a smile—such a smile! Anything more terribly vacant it is impossible to conceive. Her eyes, divested of all expression, roamed to and fro without any apparent object. She gibbered, and babbled, and clutched at the bedclothes with her fingers. Sometimes she nodded her head, and then a short, screeching laugh would be heard.
Helen, with a burst of anguish, fell upon her knees, and said, in accents of acute mental suffering—
“Mother! mother! look upon me—speak to me—I am Helen, your penitent child, come back to strive to compensate you for the pangs and shame I have occasioned you. Mother! for mercy sake recognise me! See, I am Helen—she of whom you were so proud, and who so crushed all the hopes you raised. Look at me; speak to me; if only to spurn me; but speak to me, mother—in the name of Heaven’s holy charity, speak to me!”
Mrs. Grahame at the sound of her voice, turned her head, but she only laughed vacantly, and nodded, and screeched again.
Helen wept frantically. She took her mother’s hand and kissed it wildly. She bent over her and caressed her in the throes of the deepest emotion, but without eliciting one single token of recognition.
Mrs. Truebody at length came forward and took Helen by the arm and waist—
“I pray you to retire, my dear young lady,” she said, speaking with firmness. “You are unintentionally only doing ill. Your unhappy mother is beyond all power of recognition. There is only one hope of a restoration of her senses, and that will be immediately preceding the moment when Heaven pleases to call her hence. Now you are disturbing and making her feverish, because she cannot understand your actions or comprehend your grief. You are injuring your own health, when its preservation is needful, and you are afflicting your dear young sister beyond her power to endure it. Pray, pray exert your self-command. I do assure you, Mi—madam, that your best fortitude and courage are needed now.”
With one agonised look at the expressionless face of her mother, Helen turned to depart. She caught Evangeline in her arms and kissed her tear-bedewed cheeks with fervent earnestness, and then, with her arm folded around her waist, she quitted the chamber. Not a word or look at Mrs. Truebody. She could not trust herself to say a word to her now. She had not forgotten her. She had prepared a suitable reward for her; but at this moment the sight of her face raised too many unhappy recollections for her to be able even to speak to her.
Once more alone in the sitting room, Helen inquired of Evangeline where her sister Margaret was, and upon what plea she had quitted the scene of affliction.
Evangeline simply recounted the circumstances connected with the mysterious elopement with the Duke of St. Allborne, and expressed her wonder that Margaret should not have stopped at home, and been married in the proper and usual fashion. Helen, with burning cheeks and suffocating emotion, rose up and paced the room, placing her hands upon her beating temples. Suddenly she turned round and said—
“Where was Malcolm, that he did not follow them?”
“Malcolm told me that the Honorable Mr. Vane advised him not to do so. He said that it was a mere romantic flight to Gretna Green, and that it would all come right at last.”
“Villain! atrocious villain!” muttered Helen; and then said, sharply, “but where is Malcolm now? Why should he, my poor Evangeline, have deserted you in this dreadful crisis?”
“He is in prison!” returned Evangeline, with, a shudder. “A gentle’—I—I mean it was explained to me that he had incurred debts and did not pay them, and therefore the creditor, by help of the law, put him into prison until he can make some arrangement.”
Helen clasped her hands.
“This is an abject fall for pride, indeed!” she exclaimed, with bitterness.
As her eye fell upon Evangeline’s sweet, artless face, in gratitude that at least she had escaped the heavy visitations which had fallen on the other members of her family, she observed that her skin—so rarely delicate and white in its accustomed aspect—was suffused with crimson, and that she seemed strangely confused.
“It was explained to me,” suddenly recurred to Helen, as a sentence Evangeline had uttered with some embarrassment. Then it flashed through her mind that she had found her tête-à-tête with a young and handsome man, whose face she did not at the moment recognise—like as he was, in his general contour, to Lotte Clinton.
A pang went to her heart. What! was not even her simple, innocent sister to be saved?
She sat her down and questioned Eva closely; she elicited from her a confession of all the clandestine meetings she had granted to Charles Clinton with the purpose of learning tidings of her sister, or of obtaining guidance and counsel under the great affliction with which the whole household was overwhelmed.
Helen wiped the clammy moisture from her brow and moistened her parched lips. She fixed her gaze upon Evangeline’s still crimsoned features and her downcast eyes, and then placing her cold hand upon her sister’s, and clutching it firmly, she said—
“Eva, you love this man!”
A thousand thousand thoughts rushed through Eva’s mind. Love him! in truth she did with her whole heart, her whole soul! Her cheeks burned more fiercely than ever. She threw herself upon her sister’s neck and hid her face, but did not utter a word.
Helen felt as if she should swoon away, but she conquered, by a powerful effort, her sudden sickening faintness, and releasing her sister’s arms from about her neck, she bade her be seated, and herself set the example.
She again took Evangeline’s hand in her own, and pressed it.
“Eva, darling,” she said, with fervent impressiveness, “I ask you—I implore you—to confide in me; to be truthful and unreserved. I will not judge you harshly; be this the proof. I have erred, sinfully, shamefully erred, and my grievous error has brought with it no light punishment. Listen! Like you, I was by accident thrown into the society of one who was personally and strikingly handsome, and whose tone of thought it seemed to me closely resembled my own in all things. As we were then situated, to have been constantly in each other’s society in the presence of friends would have excited remark. We were both young and sensitive, and were desirous of evading the jests of those by whom we were surrounded, especially as observations respecting our liking for each other were floating about among those who were eager to make most thoughtless use of them. As, however, we had a fondness for each other’s society, we eluded what we feared by contriving clandestine meetings. Alas! alas! Eva, the dreadful consequences of those secret meetings; the promptings of passion and love for each other, cast, in one fatal moment, the rules of purity and innocence aside, and I became the victim of my selfwill; a victim of that departure from truth and clear integrity which commits no action the light of day may not shine upon. Clandestine meetings forced upon me a dreadful secret; clandestine meetings made me fly my home; clandestine meetings plunged me into trial and affliction; horrors of which you can have no conception. Oh, my dear, dear Eva! by the mercy of Heaven, I have been relieved from the worse consequences of my sin and from the madness of an ignoble pride; let me implore you, upon my knees, no more to consent to a secret interview with anyone in man’s form again. What it may be necessary for him to say or you to hear, should be said, after he, in the face of all who are deeply interested in your welfare, has frankly acknowledged his affection for you and honourably asked permission to address you, that he may win and wear you before the whole world; then, indeed, he is worthy of your love; then, indeed, may you in secret listen to the ardent whispers of his passion. But oh, Eva, dear! not till then—not till then.”
Eva, still embarrassed and confused, only wept, and, in so doing, yet more affrighted Helen. She stole her arm about her waist, and said to her, in a low, soft voice—
“You love this person, Eva, whoever he may be, that I see; now tell me, darling, how and when he first declared his love for you, and induced you to give him your heart?”
Eva looked up a little surprised.
“He never declared any love for me Helen, dear,” she replied, faintly. “He does not love me; it is not likely he would.”
“Not love you?” asked Helen, with surprise.
“Oh, no!” she answered, “he never breathed one word about love to me.”
“But how has he treated you?” inquired Helen, with an astonished look.
“Gently and respectfully; oh, so very respectfully so painfully respectfully, Helen,” replied Evangeline, with more animation. “In all innocence, I am sure I arranged with him to meet me. I—I don’t think he asked me to do so—I am sure I do not recollect that he did. No, I was so very, very anxious to learn tidings of you, that, in fear of papa, I think I said I would come where I could hear what he had to communicate unheard by any one but myself. He always met me and treated me as one, oh, so far superior to himself; and now that we have all been thrown into such deep distress, he is yet more deferential and respectful than ever. Not distant, Helen, but as if he thought me a princess now, if I had been a lady before. Nay, he would not have deserted me and mamma, though we had have been thrust forth by the cruel officers into the street, for he said he would have provided a home for us”——
“A home!” echoed Helen, hoarsely; she believed the realization of her fears was coming now.
“Yes, with his sister Lotte—you know her well, Helen—she is very amiable, I believe; but you, who lived with her for some time, can best tell.”
Helen looked upon Eva perfectly astounded.
“This—this young man’s name is——?” she asked, pausing at the last word.
“Clinton,” replied Eva, softly.
Helen drew a long breath, rose and paced the room again. After a few turns, she took her sister in her arms, and said—
“He is worthy of your love, Eva; for I doubt not that you have won his heart”——
“Oh, Helen!”
“I think it is clear; and, in such a case, he has acted nobly. I owe a debt to his dear sister, which, though it is my intention to endeavour to acknowledge to the best of my ability, is yet one that can never be repaid; and for her loved and loving brother Charley—well, Eva, when this cloud which has settled upon our house has passed away—the storm is in its intensity now—we shall see, darling”——
There was a gentle knock at the door as she concluded; and, on the permission to enter being given, the subject of their conversation entered.
His face was pale, as though he had suffered a great shock; his mien was sad, even solemn. Both Eva and Helen noticed it; instantly, together, they exclaimed—“In Heaven’s name, what has happened?”
“I am the bearer of most distressing news to you, young ladies,” he replied, in a grave, subdued tone. “It costs me great pain to fulfil the office, but I have undertaken it, that the announcement may have nothing added to its poignancy by abrupt thoughtlessness.”
The two sisters clung to each other, and looked upon him affrighted.
“Let me prepare you,” he said, “to receive painful intelligence respecting your father.”
“Dead!” broke from Helen’s lips, with a groan.
Charley bowed his head; and the sisters burst into tears, though their lamentations bore no outward violence of gesture.
“It is not all,” said Charley, sadly; “since his mysterious disappearance an experienced detective was engaged to endeavour to find him, and, after most arduous labour, succeeded in tracing him to the vicinity of Hendon, where his body had been discovered lifeless upon the earth. Nothing was found upon him to tell who he was; and, after a coroner’s inquest was held, bills describing the body and the circumstances under which it had been found were put forth; one accidentally caught the eye of the detective, and he prosecuted inquiries in that neighbourhood. He found that interment had taken place under the direction of the parish authorities, and nothing, therefore, was left to identify the unknown but his clothes and a handkerchief. Mr. Grahame’s man has recognised them, and thus has placed beyond doubt his sad his dreadful fate.”
Both sisters were in a convulsion of grief, and Charley felt most distressed, for he knew not how to offer them consolation. But as he knew of the forged deed, and of the worst crime—the incitement of Chewkle to commit the murder of old Mr. Wilton, he could only say to them——
“Let it be some consolation to you, ladies, to know that, unhappy and dreadful as this event proves, it is better under all circumstances that it has so happened.” So, Grahame had after all died a pauper’s death and had received a pauper’s funeral. Such was the end of an imperious pride, unsustained by the principles of religion and morality.
Yet more grief for the afflicted girls.
Mrs. Truebody made her appearance abruptly in the room. She tottered rather than walked to the two sisters, yet weeping in each other’s arms. She pressed her hands lightly upon their shoulders and said, in weeping tones—-
“Dear, dear young ladies, the terrible intelligence you have just heard comes not alone—evils seldom do. The sad news I hear can but add to a grief, violent enough without it—of that I am aware, but it does not come without a consolation. If it has pleased Heaven to remove suddenly your afflicted mother from this world, it has released her also from suffering, and a calamity which must have been a grief to all who were near and dear to her. Poor, dear, afflicted young ladies, your mother is no more.”
Helen sank fainting on a chair.
Charley had already caught Evangeline in his arms, as she suddenly became bereft of all consciousness.