The Mysterious Key And What It Opened - Chapter 8

"A Gentleman, my lady."

 

Taking a card from the silver salver on which the servant offered it, Lady Trevlyn read, "Paul Talbot," and below the name these penciled words, "I beseech¹ you to see me." Lillian stood beside her and saw the line. Their eyes met, and in the girl's face was such a sudden glow of hope, and love, and longing², that the mother could not doubt or disappoint her wish.

 

"I will see him," she said.

 

"Oh, Mamma, how kind you are!" cried the girl with a passionate³ embrace, adding breathlessly, "He did not ask for me. I cannot see him yet. I'll hide in the alcove⁴, and can appear or run away as I like when we know why he comes."

 

They were in the library, for, knowing Lillian's fondness for the room which held no dark memories for her, my lady conquered her dislike and often sat there. As she spoke⁵, the girl glided⁶ into the deep recess⁷ of a bay window and drew the heavy curtains just as Paul's step sounded at the door.

 

Hiding her agitation⁸ with a woman's skill, my lady rose with outstretched hand to welcome him. He bowed but did not take the hand, saying, in a voice of grave respect in which was audible an undertone of strong emotion, "Pardon me, Lady Trevlyn. Hear what I have to say; and then if you offer me your hand, I shall gratefully receive it."

 

She glanced at him, and saw that he was very pale, that his eye glittered with suppressed excitement, and his whole manner was that of a man who had nerved himself up to the performance of a difficult but intensely interesting task. Fancying these signs of agitation only natural in a young lover coming to woo, my lady smiled, reseated herself, and calmly answered, "I will listen patiently. Speak freely, Paul, and remember I am an old friend."

 

"I wish I could forget it. Then my task would be easier," he murmured in a voice of mingled⁹ regret and resolution, as he leaned on a tall chair opposite and wiped his damp forehead, with a look of such deep compassion¹⁰ that her heart sank with a nameless fear.

 

"I must tell you a long story, and ask your forgiveness for the offenses¹¹ I committed against you when a boy. A mistaken sense of duty guided me, and I obeyed it blindly. Now I see my error and regret it," he said earnestly.

 

"Go on," replied my lady, while the vague dread¹² grew stronger, and she braced¹³ her nerves as for some approaching shock. She forgot Lillian, forgot everything but the strange aspect of the man before her, and the words to which she listened like a statue. Still standing¹⁴ pale and steady, Paul spoke rapidly, while his eyes were full of mingled sternness, pity, and remorse¹⁵.

 

"Twenty years ago, an English gentleman met a friend in a little Italian town, where he had married a beautiful wife. The wife had a sister as lovely as herself, and the young man, during that brief stay, loved and married her - in a very private manner, lest his father should disinherit him. A few months passed, and the Englishman was called home to take possession of his title and estates, the father being dead. He went alone, promising¹⁶ to send for the wife when all was ready. He told no one of his marriage, meaning to surprise his English friends by producing the lovely woman unexpectedly. He had been in England but a short time when he received a letter from the old priest of the Italian town, saying the cholera¹⁷ had swept through it, carrying off half its inhabitants, his wife and friend among others. This blow prostrated¹⁸ the young man, and when he recovered he hid his grief, shut himself up in his country house, and tried to forget. Accident threw in his way another lovely woman, and he married again. Before the first year was out, the friend whom he supposed was dead appeared, and told him that his wife still lived, and had borne him a child. In the terror and confusion of the plague, the priest had mistaken one sister for the other, as the elder did die."

 

"Yes, yes, I know; go on!" gasped¹⁹ my lady, with white lips, and eyes that never left the narrator's face.

 

"This friend had met with misfortune after flying from the doomed²⁰ village with the surviving sister. They had waited long for letters, had written, and, when no answer came, had been delayed by illness and poverty from reaching England. At this time the child was born, and the friend, urged by the wife and his own interest, came here, learned that Sir Richard was married, and hurried to him in much distress²¹. We can imagine the grief and horror of the unhappy man. In that interview the friend promised to leave all to Sir Richard, to preserve the secret till some means of relief could be found; and with this promise he returned, to guard and comfort the forsaken²² wife. Sir Richard wrote the truth to Lady Trevlyn, meaning to kill himself, as the only way of escape from the terrible situation between two women, both so beloved, both so innocently wronged. The pistol lay ready, but death came without its aid, and Sir Richard was spared the sin of suicide."

 

Paul paused for breath, but Lady Trevlyn motioned him to go on, still sitting rigid²³ and white as the marble image near her.

 

"The friend only lived to reach home and tell the story. It killed the wife, and she died, imploring²⁴ the old priest to see her child righted and its father's name secured to it. He promised; but he was poor, the child was a frail²⁵ baby, and he waited. Years passed, and when the child was old enough to ask for its parents and demand its due, the proofs of the marriage were lost, and nothing remained but a ring, a bit of writing, and the name. The priest was very old, had neither friends, money, nor proofs to help him; but I was strong and hopeful, and though a mere²⁶ boy I resolved to do the work. I made my way to England, to Trevlyn Hall, and by various stratagems²⁷ (among which, I am ashamed to say, were false keys and feigned²⁸ sleepwalking) I collected many proofs, but nothing which would satisfy a court, for no one but you knew where Sir Richard's confession²⁹ was. I searched every nook and corner of the Hall, but in vain, and began to despair, when news of the death of Father Cosmo recalled me to Italy; for Helen was left to my care then. The old man had faithfully recorded the facts and left witnesses to prove the truth of his story; but for four years I never used it, never made any effort to secure the title or estates."

 

"Why not?" breathed my lady in a faint whisper, as hope suddenly revived.

 

"Because I was grateful," and for the first time Paul's voice faltered³⁰. "I was a stranger, and you took me in. I never could forget that, nor tie many kindnesses bestowed³¹ upon the friendless boy. This afflicted³² me, even while I was acting³³ a false part, and when I was away my heart failed me. But Helen gave me no peace; for my sake, she urged me to keep the vow³⁴ made to that poor mother, and threatened to tell the story herself. Talbot's benefaction left me no excuse for delaying longer, and I came to finish the hardest task I can ever undertake. I feared that a long dispute would follow any appeal to law, and meant to appeal first to you, but fate befriended me, and the last proof was found."

 

"Found! Where?" cried Lady Trevlyn, springing up aghast.

 

"In Sir Richard's coffin³⁵, where you hid it, not daring to destroy, yet fearing to keep it."

 

"Who has betrayed me?" And her eye glanced wildly about the room, as if she feared to see some spectral³⁶ accuser.

 

"Your own lips, my lady. Last night I came to speak of this. You lay asleep, and in some troubled dream spoke of the paper, safe in its writer's keeping, and your strange treasure here, the key of which you guarded day and night. I divined the truth. Remembering Hester's stories, I took the key from your helpless hand, found the paper on Sir Richard's dead breast, and now demand that you confess your part in this tragedy."

 

"I do, I do! I confess, I yield, I relinquish³⁷ everything, and ask pity only for my child."

 

Lady Trevlyn fell upon her knees before him, with a submissive gesture, but imploring eyes, for, amid the wreck³⁸ of womanly pride and worldly fortune, the mother's heart still clung to its idol³⁹.

 

"Who should pity her, if not I? God knows I would have spared her this blow if I could; but Helen would not keep silent, and I was driven to finish what I had begun. Tell Lillian this, and do not let her hate me."

 

As Paul spoke, tenderly, eagerly, the curtain parted, and Lillian appeared, trembling with the excitement of that interview, but conscious of only one emotion as she threw herself into his arms, crying in a tone of passionate delight, "Brother! Brother! Now I may love you!"

 

Paul held her close, and for a moment forgot everything but the joy of that moment. Lillian spoke first, looking up through tears of tenderness, her little hand laid caressingly⁴⁰ against his cheek, as she whispered with sudden bloom in her own, "Now I know why I loved you so well, and now I can see you marry Helen without breaking my heart. Oh, Paul, you are still mine, and I care for nothing else."

 

"But, Lillian, I am not your brother."

 

"Then, in heaven's name, who are you?" she cried, tearing herself from his arms.

 

"Your lover, dear!"

 

"Who, then, is the heir?" demanded Lady Trevlyn, springing up, as Lillian turned to seek shelter with her mother.

 

"I am."

 

Helen spoke, and Helen stood on the threshold of the door, with a hard, haughty⁴¹ look upon her beautiful face.

 

"You told your story badly, Paul," she said, in a bitter tone. "You forgot me, forgot my affliction, my loneliness, my wrongs, and the natural desire of a child to clear her mother's honor and claim her father's name. I am Sir Richard's eldest⁴² daughter. I can prove my birth, and I demand my right with his own words to sustain me."

 

She paused, but no one spoke; and with a slight tremor⁴³ in her proud voice, she added, "Paul has done the work; he shall have the reward. I only want my father's name. Title and fortune are nothing to one like me. I coveted⁴⁴ and claimed them that I might give them to you, Paul, my one friend, always, so tender and so true."

 

"I'll have none of it," he answered, almost fiercely. "I have kept my promise, and am free. You chose to claim your own, although I offered all I had to buy your silence. It is yours by right - take it, and enjoy it if you can. I'll have no reward for work like this."

 

He turned from her with a look that would have stricken her to the heart could she have seen it. She felt it, and it seemed to augment⁴⁵ some secret anguish⁴⁶, for she pressed her hands against her bosom⁴⁷ with an expression of deep suffering, exclaiming passionately⁴⁸, "Yes, I will keep it, since I am to lose all else. I am tired of pity. Power is sweet, and I will use it. Go, Paul, and be happy if you can, with a nameless wife, and the world's compassion or contempt to sting your pride."

 

"Oh, Lillian, where shall we go? This is no longer our home, but who will receive us now?" cried Lady Trevlyn, in a tone of despair, for her spirit was utterly⁴⁹ broken by the thought of the shame and sorrow in store for this beloved and innocent child.

 

"I will." And Paul's face shone with a love and loyalty⁵⁰ they could not doubt. "My lady, you gave me a home when I was homeless; now let me pay my debt. Lillian, I have loved you from the time when, a romantic boy, I wore your little picture in my breast, and vowed⁵¹ to win you if I lived. I dared not speak before, but now, when other hearts may be shut against you, mine stands wide open to welcome you. Come, both. Let me protect and cherish you, and so atone⁵² for the sorrow I have brought you."

 

It was impossible to resist the sincere urgency of his voice, the tender reverence⁵³ of his manner, as he took the two forlorn yet innocent creatures into the shelter of his strength and love. They clung to him instinctively⁵⁴, feeling that there still remained to them one staunch friend whom adversity could not estrange⁵⁵.

 

An eloquent⁵⁶ silence fell upon the room, broken only by sobs⁵⁷, grateful whispers, and the voiceless vows⁵⁸ that lovers plight⁵⁹ with eyes, and hands, and tender lips. Helen was forgotten, till Lillian, whose elastic⁶⁰ spirit threw off sorrow as a flower sheds the rain, looked up to thank Paul, with smiles as well as tears, and saw the lonely figure in the shadow. Her attitude was full of pathetic significance; she still stood on the threshold, for no one had welcomed her, and in the strange room she knew not where to go; her hands were clasped before her face, as if those sightless eyes had seen the joy she could not share, and at her feet lay the time-stained paper that gave her a barren title, but no love. Had Lillian known how sharp a conflict between passion and pride, jealousy⁶¹ and generosity⁶², was going on in that young heart, she could not have spoken in a tone of truer pity or sincerer goodwill⁶³ than that in which she softly said, "Poor girl! We must not forget her, for, with all her wealth, she is poor compared to us. We both had one father, and should love each other in spite of this misfortune. Helen, may I call you sister?"

 

"Not yet. Wait till I deserve it."

 

As if that sweet voice had kindled⁶⁴ an answering spark of nobleness in her own heart, Helen's face changed beautifully, as she tore the paper to shreds⁶⁵, saying in a glad, impetuous tone, while the white flakes⁶⁶ fluttered from her hands, "I, too, can be generous. I, too, can forgive. I bury the sad past. See! I yield my claim, I destroy my proofs, I promise eternal silence, and keep 'Paul's cousin' for my only title. Yes, you are happy, for you love one another!" she cried, with a sudden passion of tears. "Oh, forgive me, pity me, and take me in, for I am all alone and in the dark!"

 

There could be but one reply to an appeal like that, and they gave it, as they welcomed her with words that sealed a household league of mutual⁶⁷ secrecy⁶⁸ and sacrifice.

 

They were happy, for the world never knew the hidden tie that bound them so faithfully together, never learned how well the old prophecy had been fulfilled, or guessed what a tragedy of life and death the silver key unlocked.

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