A start, a shiver, a very flushed and then a very pale face, that was all, and then Amy repeated in a strangely quiet tone, “Married to Mary Burton! I remember her well, that large, fair, good-looking girl, who didn’t know how to make men look at her! We won’t talk any more to-day, papa. The little doctor will scold me if I keep you up late and tire you. Ah!” she said with a sigh and a look towards the mountains, “I think those little brown nuns at St. Geneviève have a far better time of it than we who stand out here in the cold and storm to fight our life’s battle!”
CHAPTER XV.
“SHE was like a wild bird beating its wings against its prison bars,” said Amy, continuing her narrative a few days before they started for England. “The excitement and pleasure of seeing me had acted magically on her, so much so that I found it difficult to realize the truth of Isola’s description of her before my coming. In a day or two, however, the excitement subsided, and I became seriously alarmed. She seemed possessed by a spirit of unrest, and I began to fear for her reason. No sleep at night, no rest for one five minutes in the day. She fulfilled all her religious duties faithfully (they were not heavy ones, and the Abbess was indulgent) but every spare moment she spent with me was passed in one ceaseless moan. ‘I must see him; there will be no peace for me till I have looked at the dear face again. Help me, my child, help me!’ I knew not what to do for the best. I felt it would be useless to consult the Abbess, or even the Convent Confessor, on the matter, as their experience in the world’s ways was even less than mine, and they looked upon everything in the light of their religion. Besides, I knew there was no possibility of their allowing my mother outside the walls, even in charge of a sister, for their rules on this point were strict. What could be done? I felt, too, that you ought to be written to by some one, but by whom? Mercy to Mrs. Warden, whom I was convinced was ignorant of my mother’s existence, withheld my hand, and whom could I trust in such a matter, or to whom, indeed, could I expose my father’s guilt? I felt confident in my own mind that you would naturally guess whither I had gone, and would possibly frame some excuse for me to Mrs. Warden and others. But, O, my father, I have no words to express the agony, the absolute torture of mind I suffered at the thought of your unworthiness, of your cruelty to one whom I believed to be so noble and good as my mother.
“The difficulties, too, of my position were very great. The Abbess was kindness itself to me, and bade me stay with my mother as long as I pleased, but she was constantly asking me questions as to my family and connections, and I, not knowing how much of my mother’s story had been confided to her, was fearful of betraying my mother every hour of the day. Latterly, however, all these anxieties gave way to one more terrible than all. Little as I knew of such cases, I felt sure that my mother was in a state bordering on madness, and every day that passed increased her danger. Isola, who came daily to see us, had but one thought in her mind, how to save my mother, and was for ever suggesting to me some wild plan, which I felt to be either wrong or impracticable. At one time she would propose I should receive a letter, informing me of your death; at another she suggested I should frame some story that would prove you to be utterly base, and unworthy of any woman’s love. But that I could not do, for deep down in my heart there was a feeling I could not explain, nor put into words, but which made me angry or indignant whenever Isola began to anathematize you.
“At length, one evening after I had gone to my own room, utterly worn out with my mother’s excitement and misery, a sudden thought came into my head. ‘Why not gratify her, why not enable her to see the man she so blindly worships?’ Then it flashed across my mind how easily the thing could be done! I had but to assume my mother’s nun’s dress and hood, and no ordinary observer could have told it was not my mother herself. She in my dress would easily be permitted to pass the portress’s lodge, and once outside the convent walls Isola would be at hand with further disguises, if necessary, and means of facilitating the journey to England.
“I felt, as you may imagine, I was incurring heavy responsibility in acting thus. But what was to be done? I had no one to advise me. I knew that you ought to be communicated with, and it was simply an impossibility for me to leave my mother in the state she was in. Once I had hinted at the advisability of my going back to consult with you as to what ought to be done, but she became perfectly frantic at the bare thought of such a thing, and throwing herself at my feet, had implored me ‘not to quench the last ray of light in her life.’
“Isola entered heart and soul into my plan. ‘I will go with her,’ she exclaimed. ‘She is too much of a child to be trusted by herself in the world. Where she wanders thither will I go, where she dies there will I die, and there will I be buried.’ I gladly consented to this, as Isola had already once made the journey to England, and would know all the details of the route. My mother, too, was so bright and quick, and her remembrance of the English you taught her so perfect, that I had scarcely any fear of difficulties arising on the road. My one and only anxiety was how would she conduct herself in her interview with you. Would she act quietly and with discretion, or would she cause some open scandal and disgrace to you and to your family? I did my best to prevent this by exacting from her a solemn promise that she would not go down to Harleyford, but remain in London at the hotel where Isola stayed, write to you from there, and there wait your reply. My heart misgave me when she made me this promise. Yet, I thought to myself, after all it doesn’t much matter what she says or does in England. The truth will have to be made known to the world, and the rightful wife acknowledged. ‘Ah! it was a weary, bitter time,’” and here Amy broke down utterly. “My brain aches now when I think of it, and a pain comes into my heart which, I think, will be there till my dying day.”
“Poor child!” said Mr. Warden, tenderly smoothing the masses of dark hair which clustered upon Amy’s white forehead, as she laid her head wearily on his shoulder. “My poor little girl, you have been too much tried. You were too young to bear so heavy a load of responsibility and sorrow. For an old worn-out heart like mine a little suffering, more or less, cannot make much difference, but for you, in your bright, fresh girlhood, it was hard indeed to bear up against such a complication of mistakes and wrong-doing.”
“Yes,” said Amy, wearily, going on with her story, “it was very hard and very miserable, and after my mother had started, I nearly broke down altogether.