Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete
"What has happened to you?" she said, approaching him again; "have you
seen Lord Vargrave? I know that he has arrived, for his servant has been
here to say so; has he uttered anything to distress you? or has--" (she
added falteringly and timidly)--"has poor Evelyn offended you? Speak to
me,--only speak!"
Maltravers turned, and his face was now calm and serene save by its
extreme and almost ghastly paleness, no trace of the hell within him
could be discovered.
"Pardon me," said he, gently, "I know not this morning what I say or do;
think not of it, think not of me,--it will pass away when I hear your
voice."
"Shall I sing to you the words I spoke of last night? See, I have them
ready; I know them by heart, but I thought you might like to read them,
they are so full of simple but deep feeling."
Maltravers took the song from her hands, and bent over the paper; at
first, the letters seemed dim and indistinct, for there was a mist
before his eyes; but at last a chord of memory was struck,--he recalled
the words: they were some of those he had composed for Alice in the
first days of their delicious intercourse,--links of the golden chain,
in which he had sought to bind the spirit of knowledge to that of love.
"And from whom," said he, in a faint voice, as he calmly put down the
verses,--"from whom did your mother learn these words?"
"I know not; some dear friend, years ago, composed and gave them to
her. It must have been one very dear to her, to judge by the effect they
still produce."
"Think you," said Maltravers, in a hollow voice, "think you IT WAS YOUR
FATHER?"
"My father! She never speaks of him! I have been early taught to shun
all allusion to his memory. My father!--it is probable; yes, it may have
been my father; whom else could she have loved so fondly?"
There was a long silence; Evelyn was the first to break it.
"I have heard from my mother to-day, Ernest; her letter alarms me,--I
scarce know why!"
"Ah! and how--"
"It is hurried and incoherent,--almost wild: she says she has learned
some intelligence that has unsettled and unstrung her mind; she has
requested me to inquire if any one I am acquainted with has heard of,
or met abroad, some person of the name of Butler. You start!--have you
known one of that name?"
"I!--did your mother never allude to that name before?"
"Never!--and yet, once I remember--"
"What?"
"That I was reading an account in the papers of the sudden death of some
Mr. Butler; and her agitation made a powerful and strange impression
upon me,--in fact, she fainted, and seemed almost delirious when she
recovered; she would not rest till I had completed the account, and when
I came to the particulars of his age, etc. (he was old, I think) she
clasped her hands, and wept; but they seemed tears of joy. The name is
so common--whom of that name have you known?"
"It is no matter. Is that your mother's letter; is that her
handwriting?"
"Yes;" and Evelyn gave the letter to Maltravers. He glanced over the
characters; he had once or twice seen Lady Vargrave's handwriting
before, and had recognized no likeness between that handwriting and such
early specimens of Alice's art as he had witnessed so many years ago;
but now, "trifles light as air" had grown "confirmation strong as
proof of Holy Writ,"--he thought he detected Alice in every line of the
hurried and blotted scroll; and when his eye rested on the words, "Your
affectionate MOTHER, _Alice_!" his blood curdled in his veins.
"It is strange!" said he, still struggling for self-composure; "strange
that I never thought of asking her name before! Alice! her name is
Alice?"
"A sweet name, is it not? It accords so well with her simple
character--how you would love her!"
As she said this, Evelyn turned to Maltravers with enthusiasm, and again
she was startled by his aspect; for again it was haggard, distorted, and
convulsed.
"Oh, if you love me," she cried, "do send immediately for advice! And
yet; is it illness, Ernest, or is it some grief that you hide from me?"
"It is illness, Evelyn," said Maltravers, rising: and his knees knocked
together. "I am not fit even for your companionship,--I will go home."
"And send instantly for advice?"
"Ay; it waits me there already."
"Thank Heaven! and you will write to me one little word--to relieve me?
I am so uneasy!"
"I will write to you."
"This evening?"
"Ay!"
"Now go,--I will not detain you."
He walked slowly to the door, but when he reached it he turned, and
catching her anxious gaze, he opened his arms; overpowered with strange
fear and affectionate sympathy, she burst into passionate tears;
and surprised out of the timidity and reserve which had hitherto
characterized her pure and meek attachment to him, she fell on his
breast, and sobbed aloud. Maltravers raised his hands, and, placing
them solemnly on her young head, his lips muttered as if in prayer. He
paused, and strained her to his heart; but he shunned that parting kiss,
which, hitherto, he had so fondly sought. That embrace was one of agony,
and not of rapture; and yet Evelyn dreamed not that he designed it for
the last!
Maltravers re-entered the room in which he had left Lord Vargrave, who
still awaited his return.
He walked up to Lumley, and held out his hand. "You have saved me from a
dreadful crime,--from an everlasting remorse. I thank you!"
Hardened and frigid as his nature was, Lumley was touched; the movement
of Maltravers took him by surprise. "It has been a dreadful duty,
Ernest," said he, pressing the hand he held; "but to come, too, from
_me_,--your rival!"
"Proceed, proceed, I pray you; explain all this--yet explanation! what
do I want to know? Evelyn is my daughter,--Alice's child! For Heaven's
sake, give me hope; say it is not so; say that she is Alice's child,
but not _mine_! Father! father!--and they call it a holy name--it is a
horrible one!"
"Compose yourself, my dear friend: recollect what you have escaped! You
will recover this shock. Time, travel--"
"Peace, man,--peace! Now then I am calm! When Alice left me she had no
child. I knew not that she bore within her the pledge of our ill-omened
and erring love. Verily, the sins of my youth have arisen against me;
and the curse has come home to roost!"
"I cannot explain to you all details."
"But why not have told me of this? Why not have warned me; why not have
said to me, when my heart could have been satisfied by so sweet a tie,
'Thou hast a daughter: thou art not desolate'? Why reserve the knowledge
of the blessing until it has turned to poison? Fiend that you are! you
have waited this hour to gloat over the agony from which a word from you
a year, nay, a month ago--a little month ago--might have saved me and
her!"
Maltravers, as he spoke, approached Vargrave, with eyes sparkling with
fierce passion, his hand clenched, his form dilated, the veins on his
forehead swelled like cords. Lumley, brave as he was, recoiled.
"I knew not of this secret," said he, deprecatingly, "till a few days
before I came hither; and I came hither at once to disclose it to you.
Will you listen to me? I knew that my uncle had married a person much
beneath him in rank; but he was guarded and cautious, and I knew
no more, except that by a first husband that lady had one
daughter,--Evelyn. A chain of accidents suddenly acquainted me with the
rest."
Here Vargrave pretty faithfully repeated what he had learned from the
brewer at C-----, and from Mr. Onslow; but when he came to the tacit
confirmation of all his suspicions received from Mrs. Leslie, he greatly
exaggerated and greatly distorted the account. "Judge, then," concluded
Lumley, "of the horror with which I heard that you had declared an
attachment to Evelyn, and that it was returned. Ill as I was, I hastened
hither: you know the rest. Are you satisfied?"
"I will go to Alice! I will learn from her own lips--yet, how can I meet
her again? How say to her, 'I have taken from thee thy last hope,--I
have broken thy child's heart'?"
"Forgive me, but I should confess to you, that, from all I can learn
from Mrs. Leslie, Lady Vargrave has but one prayer, one hope in
life,--that she may never again meet with her betrayer. You may, indeed,
in her own letter perceive how much she is terrified by the thought of
your discovering her. She has, at length, recovered peace of mind and
tranquillity of conscience. She shrinks with dread from the prospect
of ever again encountering one once so dear, now associated in her
mind with recollections of guilt and sorrow. More than this, she is
sensitively alive to the fear of shame, to the dread of detection.
If ever her daughter were to know her sin, it would be to her as a
death-blow. Yet in her nervous state of health, her ever-quick and
uncontrollable feelings, if you were to meet her, she would disguise
nothing, conceal nothing. The veil would be torn aside: the menials in
her own house would tell the tale, and curiosity circulate, and scandal
blacken the story of her early errors. No, Maltravers, at least wait
awhile before you see her; wait till her mind can be prepared for such
an interview, till precautions can be taken, till you yourself are in a
calmer state of mind."
Maltravers fixed his piercing eyes on Lumley while he thus spoke, and
listened in deep attention.
"It matters not," said he, after a long pause, "whether these be your
real reasons for wishing to defer or prevent a meeting between Alice and
myself. The affliction that has come upon me bursts with too clear
and scorching a blaze of light for me to see any chance of escape or
mitigation. Even if Evelyn were the daughter of Alice by another, she
would be forever separated from me. The mother and the child! there is
a kind of incest even in that thought! But such an alleviation of my
anguish is forbidden to my reason. No, poor Alice, I will not disturb
the repose thou hast won at last! Thou shalt never have the grief to
know that our error has brought upon thy lover so black a doom! All is
over! the world never shall find me again. Nothing is left for me but
the desert and the grave!"
"Speak not so, Ernest," said Lord Vargrave, soothingly; "a little while,
and you will recover this blow: your control over passion has, even
in youth, inspired me with admiration and surprise; and now, in calmer
years, and with such incentives to self-mastery, your triumph will come
sooner than you think. Evelyn, too, is so young; she has not known you
long; perhaps her love, after all, is that caused by some mystic, but
innocent working of nature, and she would rejoice to call you 'father.'
Happy years are yet in store for you."
Maltravers did not listen to these vain and hollow consolations. With
his head drooping on his bosom, his whole form unnerved, the large
tears rolling unheeded down his cheeks, he seemed the very picture of a
broken-hearted man, whom fate never again could raise from despair. He,
who had, for years, so cased himself in pride, on whose very front was
engraved the victory over passion and misfortune, whose step had trod
the earth in the royalty of the conqueror; the veriest slave that crawls
bore not a spirit more humbled, fallen, or subdued! He who had looked
with haughty eyes on the infirmities of others, who had disdained
to serve his race because of their human follies and partial
frailties,--_he_, even _he_, the Pharisee of Genius,--had but escaped by
a chance, and by the hand of the man he suspected and despised, from
a crime at which nature herself recoils,--which all law, social and
divine, stigmatizes as inexpiable, which the sternest imagination of the
very heathen had invented as the gloomiest catastrophe that can befall
the wisdom and the pride of mortals! But one step farther, and the