"Yes. She wore a long black veil, which hung over her head and face, and dropped to below her waist."
Mrs. Van Brandt leaned back in her chair, and covered her eyes with her hands.
"I understand your motive for concealing from me the presence of that miserable woman in the house," she said. "It is good and kind, like all your motives; but it is useless. While I lay in the trance I saw everything exactly as it was in the reality; and I, too, saw that frightful face!"
Those words literally electrified me.
My conversation of that morning with my mother instantly recurred to my memory. I started to my feet.
"Good G.o.d!" I exclaimed, "what do you mean?"
"Don"t you understand yet?" she asked in amazement on her side. "Must I speak more plainly still? When you saw the apparition of me, did you see me write?"
"Yes. On a letter that the lady was writing for me. I saw the words afterward; the words that brought me to you last night: "At the month"s end, In the shadow of Saint Paul"s.""
"How did I appear to write on the unfinished letter?"
"You lifted the writing-case, on which the letter and the pen lay, off the lady"s lap; and, while you wrote, you rested the case on her shoulder."
"Did you notice if the lifting of the case produced any effect on her?"
"I saw no effect produced," I answered. "She remained immovable in her chair."
"I saw it differently in my dream. She raised her hand--not the hand that was nearest to you, but nearest to me. As _I_ lifted the writing-case, _she_ lifted her hand, and parted the folds of the veil from off her face--I suppose to see more clearly. It was only for a moment; and in that moment I saw what the veil hid. Don"t let us speak of it! You must have shuddered at that frightful sight in the reality, as I shuddered at it in the dream. You must have asked yourself, as I did: "Is there n.o.body to poison the terrible creature, and hide her mercifully in the grave?""
At those words, she abruptly checked herself. I could say nothing--my face spoke for me. She saw it, and guessed the truth.
"Good heavens!" she cried, "you have not seen her! She must have kept her face hidden from you behind the veil! Oh, why, why did you cheat me into talking of it! I will never speak of it again. See, we are frightening the child! Come here, darling; there is nothing to be afraid of. Come, and bring your cake with you. You shall be a great lady, giving a grand dinner; and we will be two friends whom you have invited to dine with you; and the doll shall be the little girl who comes in after dinner, and has fruit at dessert!" So she ran on, trying vainly to forget the shock that she had inflicted on me in talking nursery nonsense to the child.
Recovering my composure in some degree, I did my best to second the effort that she had made. My quieter thoughts suggested that she might well be self-deceived in believing the horrible spectacle presented to her in the vision to be an actual reflection of the truth. In common justice toward Miss Dunross I ought surely not to accept the conviction of her deformity on no better evidence than the evidence of a dream?
Reasonable as it undoubtedly was, this view left certain doubts still lingering in my mind. The child"s instinct soon discovered that her mother and I were playfellows who felt no genuine enjoyment of the game.
She dismissed her make-believe guests without ceremony, and went back with her doll to the favorite play-ground on which I had met her--the landing outside the door. No persuasion on her mother"s part or on mine succeeded in luring her back to us. We were left together, to face each other as best we might--with the forbidden subject of Miss Dunross between us.
CHAPTER XXVIII. LOVE AND MONEY.
FEELING the embarra.s.sment of the moment most painfully on her side, Mrs.
Van Brandt spoke first.
"You have said nothing to me about yourself," she began. "Is your life a happier one than it was when we last met?"
"I cannot honestly say that it is," I answered.
"Is there any prospect of your being married?"
"My prospect of being married still rests with you."
"Don"t say that!" she exclaimed, with an entreating look at me. "Don"t spoil my pleasure in seeing you again by speaking of what can never be!
Have you still to be told how it is that you find me here alone with my child?"
I forced myself to mention Van Brandt"s name, rather than hear it pa.s.s _her_ lips.
"I have been told that Mr. Van Brandt is in prison for debt," I said.
"And I saw for myself last night that he had left you helpless."
"He left me the little money he had with him when he was arrested," she rejoined, sadly. "His cruel creditors are more to blame than he is for the poverty that has fallen on us."
Even this negative defense of Van Brandt stung me to the quick.
"I ought to have spoken more guardedly of him," I said, bitterly. "I ought to have remembered that a woman can forgive almost any wrong that a man can inflict on her--when he is the man whom she loves."
She put her hand on my mouth, and stopped me before I could say any more.
"How can you speak so cruelly to me?" she asked. "You know--to my shame I confessed it to you the last time we met--you know that my heart, in secret, is all yours. What "wrong" are you talking of? Is it the wrong I suffered when Van Brandt married me, with a wife living at the time (and living still)? Do you think I can ever forget the great misfortune of my life--the misfortune that has made me unworthy of you? It is no fault of mine, G.o.d knows; but it is not the less true that I am not married, and that the little darling who is playing out there with her doll is my child. And you talk of my being your wife--knowing that!"
"The child accepts me as her second father," I said. "It would be better and happier for us both if you had as little pride as the child."
"Pride?" she repeated. "In such a position as mine? A helpless woman, with a mock-husband in prison for debt! Say that I have not fallen quite so low yet as to forget what is due to you, and you will pay me a compliment that will be nearer to the truth. Am I to marry you for my food and shelter? Am I to marry you, because there is no lawful tie that binds me to the father of my child? Cruelly as he has behaved, he has still _that_ claim upon me. Bad as he is, he has not forsaken me; he has been forced away. My only friend, is it possible that you think me ungrateful enough to consent to be your wife? The woman (in my situation) must be heartless indeed who could destroy your place in the estimation of the world and the regard of your friends! The wretchedest creature that walks the streets would shrink from treating you in that way. Oh, what are men made of? How _can_ you--how _can_ you speak of it!"
I yielded---and spoke of it no more. Every word she uttered only increased my admiration of the n.o.ble creature whom I had loved, and lost. What refuge was now left to me? But one refuge; I could still offer to her the sacrifice of myself. Bitterly as I hated the man who had parted us, I loved her dearly enough to be even capable of helping him for her sake. Hopeless infatuation! I don"t deny it; I don"t excuse it--hopeless infatuation!
"You have forgiven me," I said. "Let me deserve to be forgiven. It is something to be your only friend. You must have plans for the future; tell me unreservedly how I can help you."
"Complete the good work that you have begun," she answered, gratefully.
"Help me back to health. Make me strong enough to submit to a doctor"s estimate of my chances of living for some years yet."
"A doctor"s estimate of your chances of living?" I repeated. "What do you mean?"
"I hardly know how to tell you," she said, "without speaking again of Mr. Van Brandt."
"Does speaking of him again mean speaking of his debts?" I asked. "Why need you hesitate? You know that there is nothing I will not do to relieve _your_ anxieties."
She looked at me for a moment, in silent distress.
"Oh! do you think I would let you give your money to Van Brandt?"
she asked, as soon as she could speak. "I, who owe everything to your devotion to me? Never! Let me tell you the plain truth. There is a serious necessity for his getting out of prison. He must pay his creditors; and he has found out a way of doing it--with my help."
"Your help?" I exclaimed.
"Yes. This is his position, in two words: A little while since, he obtained an excellent offer of employment abroad, from a rich relative of his, and he had made all his arrangements to accept it. Unhappily, he returned to tell me of his good fortune, and the same day he was arrested for debt. His relative has offered to keep the situation open for a certain time, and the time has not yet expired. If he can pay a dividend to his creditors, they will give him his freedom; and he believes he can raise the money if I consent to insure my life."
To insure her life! The snare that had been set for her was plainly revealed in those four words.
In the eye of the law she was, of course, a single woman: she was of age; she was, to all intents and purposes, her own mistress. What was there to prevent her from insuring her life, if she pleased, and from so disposing of the insurance as to give Van Brandt a direct interest in her death? Knowing what I knew of him--believing him, as I did, to be capable of any atrocity--I trembled at the bare idea of what might have happened if I had failed to find my way back to her until a later date.
Thanks to the happy accident of my position, the one certain way of protecting her lay easily within my reach. I could offer to lend the scoundrel the money that he wanted at an hour"s notice, and he was the man to accept my proposal quite as easily as I could make it.
"You don"t seem to approve of our idea," she said, noticing, in evident perplexity, the effect which she had produced on me. "I am very unfortunate; I seem to have innocently disturbed and annoyed you for the second time."
"You are quite mistaken," I replied. "I am only doubting whether your plan for relieving Mr. Van Brandt of his embarra.s.sments is quite so simple as you suppose. Are you aware of the delays that are likely to take place before it will be possible to borrow money on your policy of insurance?"