What woman could withstand that voice--those words? The color came rushing to her cheek again, the light to her eyes; she trembled, but not with the ominous fear that possessed her a moment before. Those words--sweeter than hope--shed warmth, and light, and joy where terror had been.
"Follow us!" said Leicester addressing the child.
Julia moved forward: a thought seemed to strike the bridegroom; he paused--
"You can write--at least well enough to sign your name?" he said.
"Yes, I can write," she answered, timidly.
"Very well--come!"
The parlor was brilliantly illuminated, every shutter was closed, and over the long window, hitherto shaded only with lace, fell curtains of amber damask, making the seclusion more perfect.
A clergyman was in the room, and Leicester had brought his servant as a witness. This man stood near the window, leaning heavily against the wall, his features immovable, his eyes bent upon the door. Julia started as she saw him, for she remembered the time they had met before upon the wharf, on that most eventful day of her life. His glance fell on her as she came timidly in behind the bridegroom and the bride; there was a slight change in his countenance, then a gleam of recognition, which made the child feel less completely among strangers.
It was a brief ceremony; the clergyman"s voice was monotonous; the silence chilling. Julia wept; to her it seemed like a funeral.
The certificate was made out. Jacob signed his name, but so bunglingly that no one could have told what it was. Mr. Leicester did not make the effort. Julia took the pen, her little hand trembled violently, but the name was written quite well enough for a girl of her years.
"Now, sir--now, please, may I go?" she said, addressing Leicester.
"Yes, yes--here is the piece of gold. I trust your employer will find no fault--but first tell me where you live?"
Julia told him where to find her humble abode, and hurried from the room. Her basket of flowers had been left in the chamber above; she ran up to get it, eager to be gone. In her haste she opened the nearest door; it was a bed-room, dimly lighted, and by a low couch knelt the old lady she had seen in the hall. Her hands were clasped, her white face uplifted; there was anguish in her look, but that tearless anguish that can only be felt after the pa.s.sions are quenched. Julia drew softly back. She found her basket in the next room, and came forth again, bearing it on her arm. She heard Leicester"s voice while pa.s.sing through the hall, and hurried out, dreading that he might attempt to detain her.
Scarcely had the child pa.s.sed out when Leicester came forth, leading Florence by the hand. He spoke a few words to her in a low voice: "Try and reconcile her, Florence. She never loved me, I know that, but who could resist you? To-morrow, if she proves stubborn, I will take you hence, or, at the worst, in a few days we will be ready for our voyage to Europe."
Florence listened with downcast eyes. "My father, my kind old father! he will not be angry; he must have known how it would end when he gave me to your charge. Still it may offend him to hear that I am married, when he thinks me at school."
"He will not be angry, love," said Leicester, and he thought of the letter announcing old Mr. Craft"s death. "But the good lady up stairs; you must win her into a better mood before we meet again; till then, sweet wife, adieu!"
He kissed her hand two or three times--cast a hurried glance up stairs, as if afraid of being seen, and then pressed her, for one instant, to his bosom.
"Sweet wife!" the name rang through and through her young heart like a chime of music. She held her breath, and listened to his footsteps as he left the house, then stole softly up the stairs.
The clergyman went out while Julia was up stairs in search of her flowers. Jacob Strong left the parlor at the same time, but instead of returning, he let the clergyman out, and, moving back into the darkened extremity of the hall, stood there, concealed and motionless. He witnessed the interview between Leicester and Florence, and, so still was everything around, heard a little of the conversation.
Before Florence was half way up the stairs he came out of the darkness and spoke to her.
"Only a little while, dear lady, pray come back; I will not keep you long."
Florence, thinking that Leicester had left some message with his servant, descended the stairs and entered the parlor. Jacob followed her and closed the door; a few minutes elapsed--possibly ten, and there came from the closed room a wild, pa.s.sionate cry of anguish. The door was flung open--the bride staggered forth, and supported herself against the frame-work.
"Mother! mother! oh, madam!" Her voice broke, and ended in gasping sobs.
A door overhead opened, and the old lady whom Julia had seen upon her knees came gliding like a black shadow down the stairs.
"I thought that he had gone," she said, and her usually calm accent was a little hurried. "Would he kill you under my roof? William Leicester!"
"He is not here--he is gone," sobbed Florence, "but that man----" She pointed with her finger toward Jacob Strong, who stood a little within the door. He came forward, revealing a face from which all the stolid indifference was swept away. It was not only troubled, but wet with tears.
"It is cruel--I have been awfully cruel," he said, addressing the old lady--"but she must be told. I could not put it off. She thought herself his wife."
"I am his wife!--I am his wife!--_his wife_, do you hear?" almost shrieked the wretched girl. "He called me so himself. _You_ saw us married, and yet dare to slander him!"
"Lady, she is not his wife!" said Jacob, sinking his voice, but speaking earnestly, as if the task he had undertaken were very painful. "He is married already!"
"He told me--and gave me letters from abroad to prove that Ada, his wife, was dead." The old lady spoke in her usual calm way, but her face was paler than it had been, and her eyes were full of mournful commiseration as she bent them upon the wretched bride.
"Then he _was_ married--he has been married before!" murmured Florence, and her poor, pale hands, fell helplessly down. The old lady drew close to her, as if to offer some comfort, but she had so long held all affectionate impulses in abeyance, that even this action was constrained and chilling, though her heart yearned toward the poor girl.
"Madam, did you believe him when he said his wife was no more?"
questioned Jacob Strong.
The old lady shook her head, and a mournful smile stole across her thin lips; pain is fearfully impressive when wrung from the heart in a smile like that. Florence shuddered.
"And you--you also, his mother!" burst from her quivering lips.
"G.o.d forgive me! I am," answered the old lady.
"Then," said Jacob Strong, turning his face resolutely from the poor, young creature, whose heart his words were crushing: "Then, madam, you have seen his wife--you would know her again?"
"Yes, I should know her."
"This night, this very night, you shall see her then. Come with me; this poor young lady will not believe what I have said. Come and be a witness that Mrs. Ada Leicester is alive--alive with his knowledge. Two hours from this you shall see them together--Leicester and his wife, the mother of his child. Will you come? there seems no other way by which this poor girl can be saved."
"I--I will go! let me witness this meeting," cried Florence, suddenly arousing herself, and standing upright. "I will not take his word nor yours; you slander him, you slander him! If he has a wife, let me look upon her with my own eyes."
The old lady and Jacob looked at each other. Florence stood before them, her soft eyes flashing, her cheeks fired with the blood grief had driven from her heart.
"You dare not--I know it, you dare not!"
Still her auditors looked at each other in painful doubt.
"I knew that it was false!" cried Florence, with a laugh of wild exultation. "You hesitate, this proves it. To-morrow, madam, I will leave this roof--I will go to my husband. The very presence of those who slander him is hateful to me. To-night; yes, this instant, I will go."
"Let her be convinced," said the old lady.
The strong nerves of Jacob gave way. He looked at that young face, so beautiful in its wild anguish, and shrunk from the consequences of the conviction that awaited her.
"It would be her death," he said. "I cannot do it!"
"Better death than that which might follow this unbelief."
The old lady placed her hand upon Jacob"s arm, and drew him aside. They conversed together in low voices, and Florence regarded them with her large, wild eyes, as a wounded gazelle might gaze upon its pursuers.
"Come!" said Leicester"s mother, attempting to lay her hand upon the shrinking arm of the bride; "it needs some preparation, but you shall go. G.o.d help us both, this is a fearful task!"