“As you think best, George,” replied the brother, “but I must speak with you. My situation is more painful than yours, for suspense is added to the rest!”
“True, true. I interrupted your story, Louis. You see how selfish grief is.”
CHAPTER LVII.
THE SECRET MARRIAGE.—LOUIS GOES ON WITH HIS STORY.
“I think, George, that concentration of feeling belongs to our race. I felt when Oakley carried off the only being I could ever love, that life would thereafter be desolation to me.
“This very feeling led me to seek the society of Louisa Oakley, who remained with Mrs. Judson, and still met me as of old. She was the only person of whom I could hear tidings of my lost love, the sole link that connected me with the romance of my youth. When letters came to her from abroad, she brought them for me to read, little dreaming of the heart aches they gave me. Mrs. Judson was a proud, cold woman, full of sanctimonious reserves chilling to an impulsive young creature like Louisa. Her ideas of duty were rigid, her whole life, as she said almost in her prayers, one series of the most perfect rectitude. For any human being to suppose that she had a fault, was a proof of depraved judgment, for which she could find no possibility of excuse.
“You can imagine, brother George, that a home presided over by a woman so coldly perfect, would be a cheerless abode for an ardent, gentle girl, after a companion like Miss Judson had left it. You can imagine also, that her heart would turn for sympathy wherever it could be found.
“Louisa was incapable of concealment or dissimulation of any kind. It was not long before the conviction forced itself upon me, that, heart and soul, this young creature loved me. This was a wretched discovery, and, at first, aroused nothing but repulsion in my heart; but that which I had myself suffered came back, in a thousand gentle and compassionating feelings. The pain still fresh in my own bosom was too recent; I could not inflict it upon another, that other a creature so lovable and so good,—my only friend.
“There was no confession of attachment in words, but from the day of this discovery our interviews in the arbor became more subdued, and the compassion which I felt for her must have taken a shade of tenderness. It was not love, but what young girl of sixteen could have detected the difference between the gentle gratitude with which a bereaved heart receives affection, and the bright outgushing of an impulsive attachment?
“I was not quite of legal age, and was left under the control of Madame, as you know, by our father’s will. She decided that I should spend at least a year abroad—you remember there was an excuse of financial business to be settled there also—and I had no power, and scarcely a wish, to oppose her. But the effect of this arrangement on Louisa astonished me. She was in absolute despair; the feelings, that, up to this time, had been implied rather than expressed, now broke all bounds. No argument of mine would reconcile her to a separation. She conjectured a thousand evils that would follow my absence. Her brother would take her away—she would be forced to give me up—to marry some other person utterly repugnant.
“I was very young—you know, George—and to any man an attachment so earnest and passionate would have been gratifying. When argument and entreaties failed to convince her that an eternal separation was not threatened, I—rashly, madly—proposed a private marriage before my departure. She assented too readily, poor girl! Her guardian was away for a short visit out of town. There was no one but a housekeeper to control her movements. We stole out one evening and were married. The clergyman found witnesses, and I placed the certificate he gave us in my pocket-book. Neither of us thought how important it might become, and it was forgotten when we parted.