Читать книгу Magdalen's Vow - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 17

Table of Contents

Mr. Barstone, in his professional capacity, no doubt had some knowledge of the manner condemned men passed the night before their execution, but he had never known from experience before. Deliriously hopeful, dismally despairing, walking up and down, tossing about in bed, morning mercifully came at last.

Miss Wayne and Mr. Barstone met at breakfast; and if she looked pale, he looked haggard. Miss Winters had the talk all to herself, and, to do her justice, there was very little flagging in the monologue.

"Every one said they never enjoyed themselves so much," chattered the young lady, "and everything passed off lovely. I waltzed all day, and Frank Hamilton—oh, George! if you could only waltz like Frank Hamilton! I don't know any higher bliss on this earth than waltzing with him. That's three 'waltzings' close together, Magdalen; but I suppose it's no matter out of study hours. How silent you and George are this morning, to be sure!"

George looked annoyed. Magdalen blushed, and there was an awkward little pause.

"It can't be that either of you over-fatigued yourselves dancing," pursued Miss Winters, seeing their embarrassment and highly enjoying it, "because Magdalen didn't dance half a dozen times, and George didn't dance at all. And then in the evening—and that reminds me! Where did you two go off together in the evening? Everybody wondered, and poor Sam Goldham—Magdalen, you ought to have seen his distressed face."

Mr. Barstone rose from the table with a frown, and the governess made an imperative signal to her pupil to cease.

"I want you to practise that duet in Massaniello immediately," she said, also rising. "Come! Mr. Barstone, good-morning."

She swept away, leaving George by the window, gazing gloomily out.

A drearily wet day had followed yesterday's sunshine and moonlight. A low, complaining wind tossed the trees, and the flat fields lay sodden under a leaden sky.

The lawyer made no pretense of going to Millford that day. He wandered in and out, like a feverish ghost, lying forlornly on sofas, trying to read, or smoking insanely under the dripping trees. Why did she keep him in suspense? Why did she not pronounce his doom at once? How could she go about her daily tasks with that face of changeless calm? How merciless all women were to the men who loved them!

Magdalen did studiously avoid him. She kept Fanny at the piano all the forenoon, until that tortured young person broke out into an agonized cry for freedom. She chained her down to "Ollendorf's method" and the "Decline and Fall," until Miss Winters turned hoarse, and hated Gibbon and the whole Roman Empire.

The early tea and dinner agreeably diversified these intellectual pursuits; the shades of evening fell, and still the prisoner at Golden Willows was "waiting for the verdict."

"I'll wait no longer," he thought, desperately; "she shall give me my answer after tea."

He never spoke during that meal. Fanny's small talk clattered about his ears like the patter of the ceaseless summer rain, all unheard. It was ended at last, and the girls rose to go. Then Mr. Barstone wielded manhood's scepter and asserted his rights.

"Fanny, go up-stairs and remain with your aunt. Miss Wayne, be good enough to stay where you are; I wish to speak with you!"

There was an imperious ring in the young man's voice, an unwonted fire in his eye, that made him their master.

"Goodness!" interjected Fanny, under her breath, not daring to disobey; and Magdalen paused, paling perceptibly.

Mr. Barstone dashed impetuously into the heart of his subject at once.

"You have persistently avoided me all day, Miss Wayne, and left me in a state of unendurable suspense. You promised me my answer to-day. You must keep that promise."

He was standing before her—very pale for him. Magdalen still lingered by the door, her hand upon the lock, her fair head drooping. The rainy gloaming was just clear enough to show him that slender, bending shape, that sweet, downcast face. The twilight picture never left him in the troubled days to come.

"I should not, I suppose," Magdalen said, falteringly—"I should not have kept you waiting so long. But I meant to speak to-night, and"—still more falteringly—"it is so very hard to say."

A lump rose in George Barstone's throat. Perhaps it was his heart, for that organ seemed suddenly to have ceased beating.

"So very hard to say, Miss Wayne! Then my answer is to be no."

His voice sounded strange, and hollow, and far-off, even to himself, and he knew he was whiter than ashes.

"No, no!" Magdalen cried, impetuously—"at least—that is—I mean I have a story to tell you that may cause you to change your mind."

"Change my mind! Magdalen, I think there is nothing on earth could make me do that."

"Ah, you shall see! I am going to tell you my story, and when you hear how I have deceived you, you surely will. No one could blame you for doing it."

He crossed the room and took a seat by the window—still very, very pale, still strangely calm. There was a chair opposite, upon which the faint light fell strongest. He motioned her to that.

"Deceived me?" he repeated, looking at the downcast face. "How have you done that, Miss Wayne?"

"By that name, for one thing. I am not Miss Wayne. My name is Magdalen Wayne Allward."

There was a pause.

"Your name is Allward. Why then, are you here as Miss Wayne?"

"That is my story. The end I had in view in changing my name is an end unattained yet—an end I may never attain. There is a secret in my life, Mr. Barstone; that life is consecrated to one purpose. I am not like other girls, free and unfettered; I have vowed my whole existence to a purpose that may even stand between me and the man I marry—if marry I should. That is why I could not answer you last night."

Mr. Barstone listened with a face of dense mystification.

"Then it was through no personal dislike, Magdalen? only because of this secret? If it—this strange purpose—did not exist, Magdalen—Magdalen, would your answer have been yes?"

He leaned forward, breathlessly, catching both her hands. Magdalen's drooping head bent lower for an instant, then lifted proudly, with a tender, virginal blush.

"Why should I deny it? You are a good man, Mr. Barstone. Your offer is an honor to any woman, and I love you very dearly. Whatever you may think of me when you hear my story, whatever change it may make in your feelings, believe me, the memory of your goodness and affection will ever be the dearest memory of my life."

Something in the sad solemnity of her tone, something in the mournful sweetness of her face, hushed the impetuous words he would have uttered. Magdalen went on:

"Four years ago. Mr. Barstone, I left a happy country home, a loving father, a beautiful elder sister, an honest, gentle brother, a kind old nurse, and went to New Haven to school. I was away barely a year, when I was sent for in haste to return. I knew beforehand that great and sad changes had occurred in my absence, but I was not prepared for the awful bereavement that had fallen upon me. My father was in his grave a heart-broken, disgraced old man; my brother was in a felon's cell, my sister lay dead in the house. Only my poor nurse was left to bid me welcome. And, Mr. Barstone, all this ruin and death was the work of one man."

George Barstone uttered a faint exclamation, but she never looked at him. Her hands were folded in her lap, her eyes gazing out in their fathomless sadness at the leaden evening sky.

"This man—this demon in man's form—came to our village, to our house, in insidious friendship. He was handsome, elegant and gentlemanly, and easily won my poor sister's trusting heart. How was she to know, poor child, of the wickedness and deceit of this bad world, brought up as she was. She loved him, she believed him, she trusted him entirely. It is the old story, Mr. Barstone, of man's perfidy and woman's blind faith. There were high and mighty relatives away in New York, whom he dare not offend by openly marrying so lowly a bride. If she would but follow him to the city, they would be united secretly and at once. She consented—she followed him, there was a mockery of marriage performed, real and holy to her, and she was as surely that villain's wife, in the sight of heaven, as women ever was yet.

"That was the beginning of the end. My father, as proud a man, in his stainless integrity, as earth ever saw, never lifted his head again. Only her flight was known and believed in—no one credited a marriage. It needed but his son's fall to send him to the grave.

"Willie went to New York to complete his medical studies, and there he encountered the man who had lured away his sister. Instead of seeking justice and reparation for that wrong, he became his friend. The wretch was a professional gambler. Willie was but a boy, weak and easily tempted. He fell a victim to the tempter's crafty wiles, and became heart and soul a gambler, too. The downward race was rapid—a few months, and all he possessed was gone. The terrible spell held him fast—he forged a signature—was detected, arrested, tried and sentenced to Sing Sing for four years."

She paused in her dreadful tale, rigid and tearless and white, and George Barstone spoke suddenly, in a voice that did not sound like his own:

"Do you desire to keep secret this man's name? If you do not——"

"I do not," Magdalen interrupted. "His name is Maurice Langley."

There was a pause. Mr. Barstone drew back into the shadow of the curtains, where his face was hidden.

"Maurice Langley was the name he gave," the girl went slowly on, "but of course, it was assumed. In fact, my sister discovered positively that it was."

"And she discovered his real name?"

"No. Ah, if she had only discovered that!"

"What was he like—this Maurice Langley?"

"Tall and handsome, with dark hair and whiskers, very elegant in address and manner. Why," she asked with sudden suspicion, "do you know him?"

"No," replied George Barstone, "no, I don't know him."

But he still spoke in a strange, constrained voice, and kept his face persistently shadowed by the window-curtains.

"Willie's ruin completed what Laura's flight began," pursued Magdalen; "It killed my father! My poor nurse was left alone in the old homestead, never expecting to see any of her children, save myself, again. When all at once, without word or warning, after weary months of waiting, Laura came home—came home to die, Mr. Barstone, and leave a baby-girl behind her. She had discovered all the falsehood and treachery of the wretch who had lured her away, and maddened by the discovery, she fled from him at dead of night, a crazed and frantic woman. He had a wife living before he ever met her—she had never been that for one moment. She was disgraced and lost; there was nothing left but to die.

"Nurse Rachel sent for me. I returned home. I saw her in her winding sheet. I saw her laid in her grave. On her death-bed she had written me a letter, telling me all—telling me she died with no forgiveness for her betrayer. No! her wrongs were so many and great that even on her death-bed she could not forgive. And, Mr. Barstone, kneeling by her grave, I vowed never to forgive him either. I swore there, alone with heaven and my dead, to devote my life to seeking out the murderer of all I loved best, and bring him to justice for his crimes. I vowed to be avenged on Maurice Langley, wherever and whenever I should meet him, and if I live I will keep that vow!"

The ringing voice ceased. There was a long, thrilling pause. The rainy twilight was darkness now, through which the girl's white face gleamed. George Barstone sat stonily still—an hour or two, as it seemed to him in that supreme moment. Then he spoke out of the darkness:

"This is all?"

"All!" repeated Magdalen. "You know the story of my life as I know it myself. It is my secret and you must keep it."

"I will keep a thousand secrets, if you will consent to be my wife."

"Mr. Barstone, after all this—can you—will you——"

"I can and I will!" George answered, rising and taking her in his arms. "My own Magdalen, what is there in all this to keep us apart? It is a sad and pitiful story, my dearest, but you have suffered enough already, without letting it blight your whole life. My poor, wronged girl! let me try to make you forget the troubles of the past—let me make you my beloved wife."

"Magdalen's face fell on his shoulder with a sort of sob. She had been alone in the world so long that it was unutterably sweet, this loving and being beloved.

"I will try and make you so happy, my own dear girl, that you will forget this cruel trouble of the past, and this wild avenging vow," George said, holding her close to his heart. "I will love you so dearly that you will forget Maurice Langley and his villainy."

The words awoke Magdalen from her short moment of bliss. She lifted her head and struggled from his arms.

"No!" she exclaimed. "No, George Barstone, I will never forget! Maurice Langley is my deadly foe—I will never forget—never forgive! Heaven helping me, I will keep my vow!"

"Heaven will not help you, Magdalen. There!" pointing upward, "is the only Avenger. Wait, my own dear girl—wait. The mills of the gods grind slowly, but terribly sure. You have been wronged, my darling, but forgetfulness is a duty. This wild talk of revenge sounds monstrous from lips so fair and sweet."

"Yes, yes, I know!" the girl cried impatiently. "I know what you would say—it has all been said to me before. It is unwomanly, it is wicked, it is unchristian! I don't know, I don't care, I don't believe it! I do not ask for revenge—I only ask justice."

She began walking up and down, always her habit when excited.

"See here, Mr. Barstone!" she said, "they were all the world to me—father, sister, brother. He was more fiend than man, who wrought their ruin. He deserves no mercy: he will find none from me!"

"What will you do?" George Barstone's voice sounded cold and a little stern, after those girlish, passionate tones.

"I don't know—I can't tell. He may be dead and buried; he may be alive, and I may never meet him. I may see him to-morrow, and not know him. But if I ever do meet him and know him, I tell you I will keep my promise to my dead sister!"

"As how?"

"I don't know, but I will keep it."

The lawyer smiled, in the dusk, at the feminine impotent vehemence.

"How?" he reiterated. "You won't murder him, I suppose, Magdalen? And what else can you do? The law won't punish him because your sister eloped with him or because he taught your brother to play cards. Those accusations won't stand in a court of law."

"Mr. Barstone," said Magdalen, stopping in her rapid walk, and speaking slowly and impressively. "I am only a girl—a weak, helpless girl—and there is not one chance to fifty that I may ever meet this man. I have changed my name, so that if we should by chance meet he might not recognize me by that. I resemble my dead sister—that is beyond my power to help. I have never met Maurice Langley, but I have told you all this, lest in the chapter of accidents to come that meeting may be numbered. If I were to take you at your word, and become your wife concealing my life's purpose, I should be doing you wrong. If knowing all, my steadfast, unalterable resolve, you still are of the same mind, then, no matter how soon I meet him, I shall be justified, as far as you are concerned, in keeping my vow. And I would keep it, Mr. Barstone, in spite of fifty husbands!"

"Magdalen! Magdalen! my impetuous, foolish girl. Once again, what would you do?"

"And, once again, I cannot tell you now. But such a man as that must have guilty, hidden secrets that would lay him open to the law. If I could do no better I would spend my days and nights tracking out these. I would dog him like a sleuth hound. I would hunt him down and go to his hanging with pleasure!"

She clenched her hands passionately, and her eyes flashed fire in the deepening dusk. And this was the fair-haired, blue-eyed, low-voiced divinity of his dreams, but one remove or so from an angel.

"Magdalen! Good heavens!" cried her lover aghast.

"I would! I tell you I would! If there were no other way, I think I would tempt him to commit a crime, that I might hand him over for punishment. Oh, Mr. Barstone, you don't know me yet! I tell you I have brooded and brooded over this man's villainy until I have been half mad, and if ever I meet him—no matter how—my heart will be harder to him than this marble!"

She struck the table lightly with her clenched hand, standing up, in her passionate and indomitable resolution, a sternly beautiful young Nemesis.

There was a pause. Poor George stood with a very blank face indeed.

"I tell you all this, Mr. Barstone," Magdalen resumed in a steadier voice, "because I esteem you so highly, and—yes, why should I deny it?—because I love you so well. No man shall ever marry me and think me better than I am."

"There is no need, Magdalen!" He crossed over in one stride and caught her in his arms. "You are mine—mine forever—since you love me! My poor darling! Maurice Langley shall never keep us apart; he has done too much evil already. You shall be my wife—come weal, come woe!"

His voice lowered, a sort of ominous solemnity thrilled in his tone, and for an instant there was a chill at his heart. Gone as quickly as it came—more quickly, for Magdalen Allward's beautiful face lay on his breast—her home for life.

"Dear George! how good—how generous you are!" Ah! how altered her tone from a moment before—so infinitely grateful, loving and womanly now. "I am not half worthy of you! I am a passionate, hot-headed girl; but I love you very dearly, and I will try, with heaven's help to make you as good a wife as a better woman."

And just here the door was flung wide by an impetuous hand, and, with a strong swish of silk, some one bounced in.

"May I come in now?" cried Miss Winters, in shrill sarcasm. "Aunt Lydia's been asleep these two hours, and I've been—good gracious me! there's no one here, and all's in the dark! Where on earth are Magdalen and George?"

Miss Winters found the match box, after a good deal of fumbling, distracted in her search by the upsetting of a footstool, and the swift shutting of the door. But she struck a lucifer at last, lighted the lamp, and beheld George sitting serenely in an armchair, his hands in his pockets, gazing at her.

"Oh, you're here!" exclaimed the young lady, looking blankly around; "where's Magdalen?"

"Where she pleases; she's not here."

"Who went out just now?" demanded Fanny, with asperity.

"It was dark, and I'm not a cat. You ought to know as well as I do."

"Ought I?" with scorn. "I dare say I do, too! I came in too soon, didn't I? I had better go back and stay with Aunt Lydia a few hours longer, hadn't I?"

"Fanny," her cousin said, placidly, "don't try to be sarcastic—it isn't your forte. And I wish you wouldn't bother me with questions—go away, like a good girl. I want to smoke and look over my notes of the Scroggins vs. Boggs' case, which comes up to-morrow."

Miss Winters smiled sardonically.

"Scroggins vs. Boggs, indeed! It's all very fine and very plausible, Mr. Special Pleader, but it doesn't deceive me! You've been and asked Magdalen, you know, under cover of the darkness, and she ran away when I came in. I'll go and find her. I'll know by her face directly whether it's to be or not—though of course it is, or George would never look so ridiculously blissful. I wonder whether I had best wear pink or blue, as first bridesmaid?"