A Whisper In The Dark Part 13

Editor's Note:Alcott nurtured a lifelong pa.s.sion for acting and even adapted some of "Ah, you see only the roses scattered in their way, and fancy them b.u.t.terflies," replied the gentleman; "there are more thorns than flowers, and their life is often a long and patient struggle with stern necessity. What is mere amus.e.m.e.nt to you, is daily bread to them, and we little know, as they pa.s.s before us with smiling faces, what heavy hearts they may have. There is many a sadder tragedy played behind those scenes, than any we see here before. You ask me to point you out an actress such as I have described; Marion Earle, whom you will see tonight, is such an one."

"You are a great admirer of Miss Earle's, and therefore, being an interested party, I fear I cannot depend on your opinion; with you, gentlemen, beauty veils so many blemishes," said the lady, with a reproving smile.

"Madam, I am proud to say that I am Miss Earle's friend," replied the gentleman, gravely, "and my grey hairs should give some weight to my opinion. Marion's beauty veils only a good and tender heart, and if you will allow me to tell you a little of her history, I think you will look upon her with different eyes."

Mrs. Leicester bowed her acquiescence, and the eager old gentleman continued- "She was left an orphan, with a little sister dependent on her for support. They were friendless and poor, but (after vainly trying to support herself by the few occupations left to women) Marion had the courage to enter the profession for which her talents fitted her. She knew the dangers and the labor through which she must pa.s.s, but for the child's sake she ventured it, and the motive has kept her safe through all.

"By her own indomitable energy and patience, she has struggled up through poverty, injustice, and temptation, till she has become a beloved, admired and respected actress-aye, respected, Mrs. Leicester, for not a breath of slander ever touched her name.

"The little sister is being educated well, and Marion, by her own efforts, has secured a quiet home, where she and May can be together all their lives. Surely such an aim is n.o.ble, and such a woman must win respect though she is only an actress!"

"O, surely, you have made me quite impatient to behold the embodiment of all the virtues," answered Mrs. Leicester, smiling at her friend's enthusiasm. But she soon forgot both Mr. Lennox and his story, in the interest of the scenes pa.s.sing before her.

It was a comedy, and Marion, for the hour, put by her cares, and was the gay and brilliant creature that she seemed.

Her beauty charmed the eye, her clear voice satisfied the ear, and the fire and feeling she threw into her part touched the heart, and lent a womanly grace to every look and action.

Even Mrs. Leicester felt and owned her power, forgetting her pride and prejudice in the excitement of the hour, and heartily applauded what she had just condemned.

Towards the close of the last act, after a splendidly played scene, Marion went out with a jest upon her lips; a moment afterward a cry rang through the theatre so sharp and bitter, it filled the listeners with wonder and dismay.

There was a stir among the audience, and the performers paused involuntarily for what should come, but nothing followed save a confused murmur behind the scenes.

The play went on, but it now received the divided attention of those who were absorbed before.

Contradictory rumors of the sudden cry were whispered about, and its mournful echo still seemed lingering in many ears.

When, after a long pause, Marion appeared, a quick murmur arose, for in her face there might be read a tale of suffering that brought tears of pity into womanly eyes, and changed the comedy to a tragedy, for those who saw that countenance so lately beautiful and gay, now resolute and white, with a fixed look of agony and grief in its large eyes. It was a pitiful sight to see and a still more pitiful thing to hear the jests and joyous words that fell so mockingly from lips that quivered and grew white in the vain effort to recall their vanished smiles.

Apparently unconscious of the sympathizing faces looking into hers, or the consoling whispers of her fellow-players, Marion went on, mechanically performing every action of her part like one in a dream, except that now and then there flitted across her face an expression of intense and eager longing, and her eyes seemed to look in vain for some means of escape; but the stern patience of a martyr seemed to bear her up, and she played on, a shadow in the scene whose brightness she had lately been.

Her task at length was done, all but a little song, which always won for her the plaudits of her delighted hearers.

With the same painful faithfulness, she tried to sing it; her voice faltered and failed-her heart was too full, and she could only shake her head with a smile so sad and weary, that it called forth the pity of her audience in the only way she could express it, by the heartiest applause they ever had bestowed upon her.

It touched her deeply, and feeling only the generous sympathy that made them friends, she forgot time and place, and stretching her hands to them said imploringly: "Kind friends, pardon me-I cannot sing-for my little May is dead!"

The only sound that broke the silence, was the rustle of flowers falling at her feet, as, leaving her broken words and her great grief to plead for her, she bowed her thanks, and the curtain shut her and her sorrow from the world.

"My dear Grace, what are you weeping so bitterly for?" asked Mrs. Leicester, as they prepared to go.

"I cannot help it, aunt, I pity that poor girl so much. Who will comfort her, for she is an orphan, and all alone now?" sobbed the warm-hearted girl, too young to feel ashamed of her generous emotion.

"Don't be foolish, my love," whispered her aunt, wrapping her cloak about her; "Miss Earle has plenty of comforters; such people never feel these things very deeply. You see she made quite a good thing out of it; her tragedy air was vastly effective; so never waste your pity, child-she is only an actress.

"There is a young person below, who insists on seeing you. Shall I send her up?"

"Certainly not; I am engaged," and Mrs. Leicester sank back among the cus.h.i.+ons of her lounge, and resumed her novel.

The servant lingered, saying- "I am afraid she won't go, ma'am; this is the third time she has been this week begging to see you. Couldn't she come up and be done with it?"

"No impertinence, John; she wants work, probably; tell her I have none, and let me hear no more of her."

John departed, but the door had hardly closed behind him, when it was suddenly re-opened, and the "young woman" entered, locked it behind her, possessed herself of the bell-rope, and then turning to the startled lady, said, desperately- "Madam, you must hear me; do not be alarmed, there was no way left but this; you would not see me, therefore I have forced myself upon you; only listen, and you will pardon me."

The girl's face was wan and wasted with recent suffering, and wore a look of mingled supplication, fear and anguish, as of some timid creature hunted till it stood at bay.

"Who and what are you?" demanded Mrs. Leicester, recovering her self-possession.

"You ask me sternly, madam, and you shall have a stern answer," replied the girl steadily, while the hot blood burnt in her thin cheek.

"I am a motherless girl, whom your son, promising to cherish and protect, robbed of the one treasure she possessed, and then left to the pity of a world which is merciless to the weak. I have watched and waited for him one long year, have borne pity, scorn and pain, most patiently, trusting he would come as he promised. But he never has, and when I learned that he had been across the sea, I forgave him, and came here to his home to seek and ask him if he had forgotten me. Let me see him for one hour, one moment-he will set my heart at rest, and I will never trouble you again."

Mrs. Leicester fixed her cold eye on the face before her, saying, haughtily: "If you desire money, say so, boldly; but do not come to me with this old story, which I neither believe nor desire to hear."

"Heaven help us, madam, it is an old story, but Christian charity is never old; I only ask that from you, and justice from your son. It is all he can do now; let him keep the word he plighted to me, and give his little child a name!"

"Girl! how dare you come to me with a demand like this? You are an impostor, and your tale is false, utterly false!" cried Mrs. Leicester, with an indignant frown; "my son is an honor able gentleman, and you-what are you, that you have the audacity to demand justice for your own sin and folly?"

The girl's eyes flashed, and she smiled bitterly, as she replied: "I am used to looks and words like these, and for your son's sake, I have borne them for a year. You speak of my sin, judge of his. I was an orphan, ignorant and young, trusting all who were kind to me-and he was very fond and tender for a while-G.o.d forgive me-how I loved him! Worldly fears disturbed our peace; he left me, promising to come again. He never has, and his falsehood has changed me from a happy child, into a most miserable woman. O, madam, which is the blacker sin, to love blindly, or to betray a trusting heart? Which of us two, the lonely orphan, or the "honorable gentleman' is the greater sinner?"

Mrs. Leicester rose, with an angry flush upon her face, saying: "I will listen to this no longer; were my son here, he would clear himself from your accusations at once; in his absence I will hear nothing, believe nothing against him; I know him too well. Go, and never venture here again."

The girl turned away, but remembering that it was her last hope, she made one more appeal, crying, humbly: "By the sacred name of mother, which we both bear, do not cast me off! A little sympathy, a little pity, will save me now! O, by the love you bear your son, have compa.s.sion upon mine, and do not send us out, two helpless children into the cruel world, for I am very young in all but sorrow, and there are so few to take me in. Be merciful, and help me in my bitter strait!"

The hard face softened at the poor young creature's prayer, but wordly pride swept like a cloud across the ray of womanly compa.s.sion, and offering a well-filled purse, Mrs. Leicester pointed silently to the door.

The girl struck the money from her hand, and swept past her with the mien of an insulted queen; pausing on the threshold, she turned, saying: "Madam, I did not sell my love, and gold cannot buy my peace. I shall remember this, and as you have dealt by my son, so will I deal by yours." Then, with a warning gesture, she was gone.

"Miss Earle, there is a poor girl below, who wants to see you; I made bold to say she could, for you bid me always let the poor souls in."

"Poor and in trouble, doubtless. Yes, I will see her, Janet," and Marion left her flowers, murmuring softly- "We do pray for mercy; and that same prayer Doth teach us all to render Deeds of mercy."

"My child, what can I do for you?" she asked, turning towards the slight figure entering at her door.

The stranger looked eagerly into the face before her, as if fearing a repulse. But in that countenance, so beautiful and benign, she read no contempt; a tender pity shown in the l.u.s.trous eyes, and the music of the poet's words still lingered in the voice that called her "child."

The wild anxiety pa.s.sed from her young face, and overcome by one kind word, the poor heart that had borne so much gave way at last, and with a burst of grateful tears, she cried to Marion- "I am fatherless and motherless; oh, help me in my trouble and keep me from despair."

Lost in the tumult of her own emotion, the girl was but dimly conscious of the arm that gently enfolded her, or the hand that uncovered her aching head and laid it to rest upon a friendly bosom.

But the low voice soon recalled her, saying tenderly- "Dear child, be comforted; tell me your grief, and believe me that whatever it may be, you are no longer friendless and alone."

"Ah, madam," sighed the girl, "forgive my tears, but yours are the first kind words I have heard this many a day; I thought there was no charity in all the world for me, and when it came so bounteously I could not bear it."

"It has been a cruel world to you, I fear. But tell me your trouble and take heart, for you are too young to despair," said Marion, looking down upon the face so youthful, but so darkened by remorse and care.

The girl shrank timidly away, and answered brokenly: "You will despise and turn from me as all have done when I have told you more, but oh, remember I was very young and very lonely, and it seemed so sweet to be beloved."

But Marion only drew her nearer, only lifted up the drooping head, and with a tenderer compa.s.sion s.h.i.+ning in her eyes, said earnestly: "It is not for me to judge you or your error, but remembering my own weakness, to comfort and console as I in my sorrow would have been consoled, and leave all judgment to a wise and pitying G.o.d, who knows our strength and our temptations. Look bravely up and tell me all."

And gazing steadfastly into the friendly face, the poor girl told her story, and through it all the arm about her never fell away, and the pitiful eyes looked down unchanged.

"What is this man's name?" asked Marion, with an indignant flush upon her cheek.

"That I shall never tell," was the resolute reply. "No one shall look coldly on him, and he shall never reproach me for bringing contempt upon him. He had a kind heart once, and it may lead him back to me at last; till then, I will trust and wait."

"True woman through it all," sighed Marion. "But tell me how I best can serve you; what are your present needs, your future hopes?"

"I ask only honest work to keep me and the child from suffering; I will do anything, however humble, anything for bread. My greatest fear has been that, cut off from human love, I should grow wild and wicked and be driven to despair and death."

"Never fear that again," said Marion. "I will see that you have a quiet home and simple work, a home where you can love your boy and lead a blameless life. But always remember that there is One who hears his children when they cry to him, and when human pity fails, his great love takes them in."

"I will never doubt again, for in my extremest need he led me here. Ah, madam, if there were more hearts like yours, there would be fewer fates like mine. I heard of you from those you had succored, and hoping and fearing, I came here to be consoled as tenderly as if I were a sister. G.o.d in heaven bless you forever and forever."

But Marion seemed unconscious of the grateful kisses pressed upon her hand; the one word "sister" touched a cord in her warm heart and stirred a tender memory that drew her closer to the lonely girl.

She caressed the bright head resting on her shoulder, as she had caressed another which could never lie there any more, and with a sudden dimness in her beautiful proud eyes, looked down upon it, saying softly: "I had a sister once, a little clinging child, who was the blessing of my life. We had no mother, and I loved her as a mother might. For ten happy years she was my comfort and my joy, and then when I had gained the home for which I had toiled and struggled, this little sister died. Since then for every child I feel a yearning tenderness, and love for her sake. In every young girl blooming into womanhood I see my darling as she would have been had she been spared, and a great sympathy possesses me for all their innocent delights, their maiden hopes and fears. In every wronged and sorrowing woman I behold some likeness of the child she might have been had fate not proved unkind, and I feel a strong compa.s.sion and a longing wish to comfort and protect them out of love for her.

"So looking into your wan face I see my May's confiding eyes, and knowing that her feet might have faltered among the snares of this false world as yours have done, I thank G.o.d she is safe, and remembering what might have been, I take you to the shelter of my love, as I would have had some kind heart pity and protect my child."

They sat silent for a moment when Marion ceased; then, with a blissful smile flitting across her face, she said: "I am to be married soon, and then I shall have no cares but those of home. Come to me in a month and I will do yet more for you. If meanwhile you are unhappy or in trouble write to me. I will not forget you even in my own great happiness. But tell me child, what is your name?"

"My name," echoed the girl, "I have disgraced the honest one my father bore, he who should have given me one denied me his; I have no name but Agnes; call me that alone."

"You have no other," Marion said, "that none can deny, none take away, a sweet and blessed name which will sanctify your life and half its bitterness away, when baby lips shall call you "mother.' Be true to that name, and though your child may never know an earthly father, remember he has an Heavenly one who never will forsake you, though all the world may cast you off."

Agnes turned to go, but Marion bade her wait, and writing a few lines, offered them with a generous supply of money, saying, as the girl drew back: "Here is the name of the good woman with whom you will find a home, and here a little sum for future needs; I give it you in my lost darling's name and I know that you will take it for her sake."

"It was offered once before, but not as now," murmured Agnes; "I will take it and pray with all my grateful heart that you may be a happy wife and mother, with no shadow to disturb you all your tranquil life." Then looking timidly up she faltered-"May I kiss you, madam."

The stately woman bent and gathered the outcast to her bosom, remembering nothing but that blessed charity which binds human hearts together and makes the whole world kin.

Had Robert Leicester been a poor man's son he would have found in hard experience a teacher who would have made a strong and n.o.ble man of him, for he had generous impulses and a kindly nature. But born to wealth and early left fatherless, he grew up beneath the care of a proud, world-minded mother, whom he loved tenderly and whose will became his law.

Hoping to make an accomplished gentleman, she forgot that better thing-an honest man, and was content when he grew up handsome, gay and courtly, with no ambition but to enjoy life, and no knowledge of the duties wherein its true enjoyment might be found.

Easily led to good or ill, his was a character dangerous both to himself and others, for with winning manners and a generous heart, he loved and was beloved by all who knew him, even by those who saw the weakness and mourned the high powers misdirected, talents wasted, and the wrong early done a n.o.ble nature.

Meeting Marion abroad, whither she had gone after her little sister's death, they had journeyed much together; and Robert, by his sympathy and kindness, had lightened her sorrow, won her confidence, and soon woke a warmer interest in the heart which longed to bless and be blessed. From friends they glided into lovers, from lovers they were soon to pa.s.s into that closer union which makes the happiness or misery of two lives.

Marion saw her lover's faults, but felt she had the power to strengthen and direct, and was glad to feel she could do something for the friend who had made her solitary life so beautiful with hope and love.

And Robert looked up to Marion loving yet fearing, for he felt he was unworthy the generous confidence she bestowed upon him, and though bitterly lamenting it, had not the courage to become more worthy in his own eyes and in hers by sacrificing her love to the higher sense of duty that oppressed him.

Mrs. Leicester had no affection for Marion; of high birth herself, she felt that her son stooped to take her as his wife. But Marion had made a name for herself and better men than he had thought it no dishonor to offer her their hands.

Marion was an actress, and the proud woman looked upon her profession with contempt. But Marion had buried down all doubts long ago and there was n.o.body in the land purer than she, nor prouder of the blameless life she led, and Mrs. Leicester, while she hated, must respect her.

Marion had fortune, too, partly gained by her own honest labor, partly bequeathed her by an admiring friend. The extravagance of Mrs. Leicester and her son had nearly squandered the property the elder Leicester left, so worldly caution triumphed over womanly dislike, and for her own sake the selfish mother left her son to the best and truest pa.s.sion of his life.

Mrs. Leicester's s.p.a.cious drawing-rooms were filled with a throng of friends in honor of her son's wedding, for Marion would have no public spectacle and shrank even from the eyes that had so often watched her play the part she felt so real and solemn now.

A sudden stillness reigned through the brilliant rooms, broken only by the voice which asked: "Robert Leicester, will thou take this woman to be thy wedded wife?"

Before the answering words could fall from the bridegroom's lips a start and stir among the guests arrested them, and with an involuntary motion he turned-to see Agnes standing at his side with her child in her arms.

There was a fire in her eye before which his own fell, and her low voice rang like thunder in his startled ear.

"Will you take that woman for your wife while I stand here with your child upon my breast? What are the promises you made, the oath you swore? Will you deny them with this innocent face to testify against you? Oh, Robert! Robert! I have hoped and waited all this weary year to find you here at last false to yourself and me."

The young man as she spoke had cast one look of despair and dismay about him, then covering up his face had staggered to a seat and sunk into it crushed by the weight of his remorse and shame.

Mrs. Leicester clutched Agnes by the arm and hissed a warning in her ear, endeavoring to lead her away; but the girl's spirit was roused, and shaking off her grasp, she drew her slight figure proudly up, and lifting the boy from her bosom cried exultingly: "I told you I would remember the hour when you cast me off! Have I not kept my word? I told you as you dealt by my son so would I deal by yours; you left this child to shame and sorrow; he smiles in your face. Look at your son, on whose head lies the shame heaviest now? You would not believe me; ask him whose word you cannot doubt if what I say be not the living truth. Here before these witnesses I tell you this is his child and in the eye of G.o.d I am his wife. Ask him if he can deny it?"

White as her bridal veil, with a bewildered countenance and eyes dilated with a growing fear Marion had stood motionless, while Agnes poured out her excited words and pointed to the bowed figure that never spoke nor stirred.

"Robert, is this true?" and the words came imploringly from Marion's lips, as she bent towards him with clasped hands, as if pleading him for life.

The young man writhed as if some conflict tore his heart, but lifted up his face and answered steadily: "Yes, Marion, all true."

She heard him with an incredulous gaze, but as he turned away with a bitter groan, a scarlet flush of scorn and indignation burnt in her cheek, then paled and left it whiter than before, and with one look at her lover she drew her veil across her face and prayed inwardly for help.

Agnes had caught a single sentence dropped carelessly from the lips of a lady for whom she had worked.

"Young Leicester's wedding tonight."

It was enough for her; she had borne much, but she would see him once more, make one appeal, and then submit. She had not learned the bride's name, nor did she recognize her in her bridal robes until she heard her voice; then looking on the woman whose happiness she hoped to blast, she saw her benefactress.

Fierce and bitter were the pa.s.sions surging in the poor girl's heart, but at the sight of that kind face, so blanched and sorrow-stricken, grat.i.tude rose up and silenced the storm that raged within. She forgot herself, her wrongs, and only heard again the voice that comforted, only saw the friend who succored her, and dropping her boy upon the cus.h.i.+on, where the happy bride would soon have knelt, she flung herself at Marion's feet, and clinging to her she cried pa.s.sionately: "Oh, pardon me-I never knew that it was you who had come between me and my love. Forget what I have said, and I will go away never to disturb your peace again. You can make him happier than I, a poor, fond child, whose love has always been a sorrow to him. I forgive him all if he is but true to you. Heaven bless and keep you, dearest lady. See, I am going, never, never more to be a shame or grief to any heart that has been kind to me."

s.n.a.t.c.hing up her child, she turned away, and Mrs. Leicester, eager to spare her son, stepped forward, saying with affected calmness: "Friends, forget this painful scene, and let the ceremony proceed."

"It shall proceed, madam," answered the voice few thought to hear, and Marion, plunging aside her veil, pa.s.sed down the room, took Agnes by the hand and led her back, saying as she took the child into her arms: "Agnes, this is your place, not mine; for your sake and the boy's obey me. Robert Leicester, this is the woman whom you promised to cherish and protect; take her by the hand, and here publicly atone for the wrong you have done her, by giving her the sacred name of wife."

"He shall not-Robert, at your peril do you obey this mad request!" cried Mrs. Leicester, looking defiantly at Marion.

"Madam, he shall-I am the one to set him free or hold him to his bond. He owes me reparation for the double wrong he has done me and this poor girl, whose cause I make my own. Robert, I appeal to you, as you are a man, and would win back some part of the regard I once bestowed on you. I command you to keep the word you plighted one year ago, as you would have kept that you vowed to me."

There was a flash in Marion's eye, and a command in her tones that rang like a silver trumpet through the room and awed both haughty mother and wavering son to a complete submission.

Robert put aside his mother's hand, and with a resolute pale face silently took his place at Agnes' side. Marion spoke a few words to the aged minister, who bowed his white head, and with a trembling voice p.r.o.nounced the marriage ceremony.

Agnes never turned her gaze from Marion's countenance, and Marion, motionless and white as a marble image, stood with the child upon her arm, looking straight before her with eyes that saw only utter darkness.

As they rose up from their knees, Robert turned to Marion, hoa.r.s.ely: "Are you content?"