Earle Wayne's nobility

by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

“Nearly twenty-three years ago I met with the saddest loss that ever falls to the lot of woman—the loss of a love that would have brightened all my future life. From my early girlhood I had an affection for my own cousin, and was beloved in return by him. As we grew older that affection increased, until at the age of eighteen I was betrothed to him. Soon after, he went to sea, hoping on his return to be able to make me his wife. He had a share in a trading-vessel, and, if they made a successful voyage, he hoped to realize a handsome sum, which, with what he already had, would enable him to support a wife. Three months later came the news of the loss of the vessel, and his name was among the list of those who perished. Our engagement had been a secret, and so it was only in secret that I could mourn. In the presence of others, of course, I must appear the same as usual, and so, to hide the grief that was burning my heart to ashes, I assumed a reckless gayety that deceived every one. About this time a stranger appeared in our circle. He was wealthy, fascinating, and very handsome. He appeared attracted by my beauty, as my friends were pleased to term my good looks, and paid me much attention. My family were pleased with him, I liked him, and when he offered me marriage I accepted him, thinking that perhaps, under new excitement and change of scene and country, I might find some balm for my wounded heart. We were married, and spent several months in traveling, and then contrary to my expectations my husband preferred to remain indefinitely in Paris, and we set up a home of our own in the suburbs of the city. Before the end of a year a little child was given to us—a blue-eyed, golden-haired daughter, whom we both loved with almost idolatrous affection, and it seemed as if Heaven had at last sent healing to my sore spirit, for I became calmly and quietly happy; my acute grief had passed, and, though my deepest affection was in the ocean grave of my sailor lover, yet I looked forward to a future of quiet happiness with the new ties that bound me to life.

“My baby—Editha we had named her—was only three months of age, when one day, as my husband and I were watching her as she lay crowing and laughing in her cradle, the door behind us opened and some one entered the room. We both turned, and saw a form gaunt and trembling, a face pale and wasted, but dearer than life to me. It was Louis Villemain, my lost lover, whom I believed lying cold in death at the bottom of the sea.

“I was young, impulsive, and not yet strong after the birth of my child, and the shock was more than I could bear. With one wild cry of joy, I sprang forward and threw myself upon his bosom, forgetting that I was already a wife and a mother, forgetful of my husband’s presence—of everything save that Louis was alive and had returned. I murmured fond, wild words of love and delight, words which a wife has no right to speak save in the ear of her husband, and mine, sitting there, listened horror-struck, and learned the whole. It was only when, exhausted with my joy, I lay weeping on Louis’s bosom that I was at last aroused to a consciousness of what I had done, by my husband’s stern sarcasm.

“‘What may be the meaning of this exceedingly affecting scene, allow me to ask?’ he said, hissing the words between his teeth; and then with a shriek I realized our relative positions, and fell fainting to the floor.

“I need not dwell upon what followed,” madam said, with a sigh, “when I came to myself, Louis was gone, and my husband, angry and wretched at discovering how he had been deceived, was very unreasonable, and poured forth such a storm of jealous wrath upon me that I was nearly crushed. I confessed everything to him then, I pleaded my sorrow and weakness, and implored his forgiveness and mercy, but he denounced me as an unfaithful wife, at least at heart, and vowed that from that day we should live as strangers, and yet, for our child’s sake, every outward propriety must be observed. I was more wretched than I can express, and very unwisely poured forth my troubles into Louis’s ear, when he came the next day and sought me alone. I could not deny that the old love was stronger than the new, and the future looked like darkest gloom to me—my husband’s respect and confidence gone—my lover returned to look reproach upon me from sad and hollow eyes, and my conscience constantly upbraiding me for having married a good and noble man when I had no heart to give him. I felt like a forsaken thing, and, always morbidly sensitive, I was tenfold more so then in my weakened, nervous state. I do not pretend to excuse my sin—I can only tell it just as it happened. Louis, as wretched as myself, comforted me with the old, tender words that he used to speak, and, bemoaning my sad fate in being linked to such a cruel husband, urged me to fly with him on a new vessel that he was to command, and be happy in our own way. The vessel was to sail in a few days, and with passionate eloquence he pictured the delight of the free, beautiful, roving life we would lead. I consented, and one day, when my husband was absent for a few hours, I took my baby and fled. Louis had gone on before me, and was to meet me at the seaport town from which the vessel was to sail. Not being able to leave home until afternoon, I was obliged to stop over night at a small town about half way from the port. I was more lonely than I can tell you, as alone and unprotected I retired and lay with my baby in my arms, thinking of what I had done. I thought of my dead mother and her early teachings—of the words she used to love and repeat from the sacred book, and the earnestness with which she used to impress their meaning upon me, and the horror and guilt of the step I was contemplating overwhelmed me. My baby awoke at midnight, and would not be coaxed to sleep again; so, lighting the candle, I lay there and watched her play, and talk, and coo in her charming little way. Every now and then she would stop, look around the room as if she knew she was in a strange place, and then glance up at me with great serious eyes that seemed to question my conduct and reproach my rashness. I thought of my husband, who, though he had been hasty and somewhat cruel in his reproaches, was yet a good, true man. I pictured the despair he would feel when he should return and find his wife and child gone, his home desolate, his name dishonored, and all the horror of my rash act rushed with overwhelming force upon me. I threw myself upon my knees beside my bed and wept out my repentance there, resolving that early morning should find me returning like the prodigal to my home. I acted upon that resolve, first dispatching a note to Louis telling him of my resolution, and entreating him not to come to me again, nor seek to hold any communication with me.

“I reached home at noon the next day, but my husband had already discovered my flight. I suppose I might have told him some story—that I had only been to visit a friend in my loneliness, or something of that kind, and he might have accepted it; but I did not; I went to him and confessed the whole, imploring his pardon, and swearing fidelity for the future. I think if he could have had time to think it over and consider the matter, he would have acted differently; but his heart was already too sore to bear more, and his naturally fierce temper swept all reason before it. He took my baby from my arms and bade me ‘go,’ refusing to believe I had not flown with Louis instead of to him. I prayed him to leave my child, my beautiful, blue-eyed, fair-haired Editha, but he told me I was not a fit mother to rear a child, and he refused me even the comfort of a parting caress. He said hard, cruel things to me in that fit of passion—words that broke my heart, seared my brain, and drove me nearly crazed from the sight of every familiar face. I never saw him again—I never heard aught of him for long, long years. After I had recovered somewhat from the first shock of my wild grief I began to reason with myself. I knew I had sinned deeply—I had committed a great wrong in marrying one man when my heart was another’s, even though I believed that other dead, and I had enhanced that wrong a hundred fold in yielding to Louis’ persuasions and consenting to fly with him. True, I had repented before it was too late to turn back, but it was a bitter blow to my husband; it was an act of treachery, and I could not blame him for his first wild outbreak. But I felt that it was cruel in him to be so relentless when I had confessed all; if he had but been merciful—if he could but have consented to give me a place at his hearth-stone until he had tested my sincerity, I feel that a comparatively happy life might have eventually been ours. I wrote to him times without number, begging him to let me come and be the faithful wife and mother I knew I was capable of being; but he never returned me one word in reply—never told me aught of my child, over whom my heart has yearned as only a mother’s heart can yearn for her only darling.

“A short time after our separation I received a letter from Louis telling me of his marriage with an Italian lady, and begging me to forgive him for the wrong he had done me in tempting me from my duty as a wife. A year later news of his death reached me, and then I sought my brother, the only living relative I then had. He received me kindly, and has devoted himself to my comfort and happiness ever since, and we have lived for each other and for the good we could do to others who have suffered and sinned. I have had much of peace—I have even known something of happiness, since no one can relieve the wants of others and witness their comfort and gratitude without being blessed for the good wrought. But I am wearying you with my long story,” madam said, stopping, with a sad smile.

“No; it is thrillingly interesting, but so sad,” Earle said, longing to hear the remainder.

“I shall soon finish now. I told you, I believe, that my husband was an American, did I not?”

“No; is it possible?” Earle exclaimed, greatly surprised.