 | CHAPTER VI. Alice May, and Bruising Bill |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
The mystery that involved the death of Alice May seemed to Edward
impenetrable. He could obtain no clue to the motives which
led to her strange flight from her father's roof, or her seclusion in
the remote convent of Sacre Cœur. The cause of her father's suicidal
end was equally inscrutable. Lost in mystery and burdened with
grief, he left New Orleans, and after traversing the rivers and lakes
of the west, at length reached Boston. A settled gloom was upon his
mind, and with his clouded brow and grave and sad countenance he
seemed ten years older than when he left three months before. The
mystery in which Alice's fate remained wrapped had preyed deeply
upon him, and kept him in a state of feverish anxiety and nervous expectation.
His health was suffering, and his mind wandering and
unsettled—for night nor day did it rest; but was ever active, ever
seeking some clue to unfold her destiny.
It was night when he reached his native city. The carriage which
bore him to his lodgings was whirled rapidly along through lighted
and thronged streets, and at length drew up at his door. He alighted,
and scarce returning the congratulations of his family, he hastened
to his rooms'. Every thing seemed as he left it. He cast himself
into a chair, and for a few moments remained with his head buried in
his hands. Suddenly he recovered himself as his servant entered with
his baggage.
`Thomas!'
`Sir.'
`Has any letter—has any package arrived for me, since I left?'
`Yes sir—a dozen nearly. I have kept them locked up here.' As
the servant spoke, he deposited his master's valise upon the floor, and
unlocking a draw in his secretary, handed him several letters and parcels.
With a trembling, hurried hand, Edward turned them over,
glancing at their addresses, and throwing each successively aside with
a gesture of impatience. He looked at the last, and then with a look
of painful disappointment, cried:
`What did I hope for? She wrote me no more after that letter
which led me to fly to her! Why should I hope to find another from
her? No, no! the cause which led to her flight and death, must forever
remain in mystery—a mystery, that like an internal fire, will
feed upon my brain till reason perish! It will make me so mad! I
have had since the hour of her death but one thought—one burning,
overwhelming thought! and that is to find the key to these fearful
events.'
`Here, sir,' exclaimed Thomas, who had returned to close the
drawer, `here, I have found another letter; perhaps it is the one you
want. It was edge-wise up, and I did not discover it before.'
Edward sprang to snatch it from him; and the instant his eye rested
upon the superscription, he uttered a cry of mingled joy and anguish,
and sunk almost insensible into his chair. Thomas flew to assist
him.
`No—I need it not! Go—go, Thomas; I am better now. Leave
me, I wish to be alone—all alone—with my heart and her!' He
waved his hand faintly yet resolutely, and his servant, after casting
upon him a look of pity and wonder, quitted the chamber.
For several minutes the lover remained seated with the sealed letter
grasped in his hand. He seemed to want energy to break it open.
At length he raised it to his eyes, and read the address with evident
anguish.
`Yes, dear Alice—those grateful characters were traced by thy
own fair fingers. And you did not forget me at the last moment of
your flight! How shall I read this?' he cried, starting up. `Here
is evidently the key of all that I would learn—of all that ignorance of
which has been driving me melancholy mad! And yet my hand trembles
to open it and read! my heart shrinks! I feel that I have not
the courage to come to the knowledge of all I would most learn. It
is a double sheet, and perhaps contains a narrative of all, to read
which may fire my brain with I know not what terrible passions! I
load of uncertainty which has so long borne it down!'
As he spoke he tore the seal and unfolded the letter. A lock of
dark hair fell from it, which he caught and pressed to his lips and
heart with a passionate exclamation. He again seated himself, but
again and again he had pressed the dear signature of `Alice May' to
his lips, and many was the hot tear that fell upon it, ere he commenced
reading; and often did he interrupt himself, and rise and
pace the room, now in tears, now in resentment, before he came to
the close.
In the preceding chapters to this story, the reader has seen Alice
May the loveliest among the beautiful of her school companions, and
winning all hearts equally by the attractions of her person, and the
excellencies of her heart and mind. He has seen her the betrothed
of a young gentleman worthy of her, and beheld her on her return to
the `sunny south,' the idol of a doting father, and surrounded with
every luxury that wealth and taste could contribute. He has seen her
there, in the midst of those means of enjoyment happy only in the
love of her betrothed; living only in him; and looking forward to the
spring when he was to come and claim her as his bride. The reader
has also seen how happy Edward was in her correspondence, and
how hopefully he looked forward to his meeting and union with the
lovely Louisianian. He has witnessed the sudden termination of this
happiness by his reception of her two letters, filled with mysterious
words, and imploring him to forget her—`that she was unworthy of
his love or of his thoughts.' He has seen that, tortured by suspense,
and apprehending every evil, he had immediately started south, and
after finding her father's house deserted, Colonel May dead by his
own hand upon the floor, and Alice flown, he at length discovered
her in a convent laid upon a bier, and ready to be borne by virgins
to her grave; that to this moment all concerning her from the time
he had got her letter was wrapt in the most impenetrable mystery.
To find, therefore, a letter dated, as he now saw it was, on the day of
her flight, which promised to unravel these strange things, was an
event calculated to rouse the most painful curiosity in Edward's mind.
The letter was as follows:
`I know not how to address you. `Dear Edward,' was flowing
from my pen—but I am unworthy to give you any endearing title. In
my last letter—it was a wild—strange one—but I was nearly mad
when I wrote it—I told you that events had transpired that rendered
I left all in mystery. But reflection has come to my aid—reason has
returned, and after hours of terrible insanity I can think and write
calmly. I did intend, Edward, to keep the dreadful secret forever
locked up in my own bosom. But this is pride; and with pride I
have no more to do. It would be cruel to you, whom my soul loves!
Oh, if I could forget—but no! I must live and remember. How
shall I relate my shame. I have sat down to do it that I might relieve
your mind from suspense, and show you I have not lightly trifled with
your love for me; for too well I know how fondly you love me. Alas,
that your noble heart had not been bestowed upon a worthier object.
But I will no longer avoid the painful subject. In three hours—tonight
at midnight I fly from my home, leaving no trace of my flight.
Before I take this step I wish you, Edward, to do me justice. Therefore
do I now write to you. You saw me first at the boarding schools
and knew me as the daughter of an opulent southern planter. You
offered me your noble love, and in return I gave you my heart. Oh,
the happiness of that hour when I first learned that you regarded me
with favor—that you loved me! But I cannot dwell upon these days
of happiness fled forever. Alas, why has heaven made me to be accursed!
Let me speak of more recent events. Let me explain to
you the meaning of the dark language of my last letter. I told you
that the only alternative of my union with the Count was to be immured
in a convent for life. I entreated you to fly to my rescue, ere
the time given me by my father for deciding between the two, elapsed.
This letter was followed in two days by another recalling my request,
and telling you that an event had occurred which rendered it necessary
that we should meet no more, that I was going to fly and hide
from the world, for I was unworthy your love or slightest regard. It
is this letter which now I am on the eve of flight I feel it my duty to
explain; then farewell forever, and forget that I have ever lived. Oh,
how can I relate my shame to him whose approbation and love I regard
next to Heaven's? But I must to my painful duty.
The evening of the day on which I wrote you that if you wished to
save me from the persecuting attentions of the Count, you must fly
to me, Desiree, the beautiful and affectionate Quadroone nurse, of
whom I have spoken to you, as having been with my mother when
she died, and who had been my nurse through childhood, was taken
suddenly ill. I flew to her with affectionate anxiety, for I had loved
her us a mother, and she had always shown me the most affectionate
fever; and as my father was absent with the Count in town, I prescribed
what I thought would relieve, and was about sending for the
family physician, when she called me to the side of her couch, and
said:
`No, Alice, it's no use! I feel that I am death-struck; I am dying!
Come near, I have something to say to you.'
I threw myself upon my knees by her bedside, in tears, and kissing
her hands bade her live for my sake.
`You are the only mother I have ever known! If you die, I
shall be wretched indeed!' I cried, and bathed her burning hands
with tears.
`Miss Alice,' she said, placing her hand upon my forehead, and
putting back my hair, while she looked into my eyes with the fondest
affection, `I have but a short time to live! Yet before I die, I would
give utterance to the tide of maternal affection which for years has
been pent up in my breast. Yes, Alice, for seventeen years I have
kept locked in my breast the secret which is a mother's life and joy
to utter in each hour in kisses and caresses upon her child. But I
have been denied this! Fear and love—fear of your father and love
for you, for I knew it would make you unhappy, has kept me from it.
But death has now come, and is stronger than your father's threats—
and stronger than death is a mother's love! Alice, you are my own
child! Bend over me and let me fold you to a mother's heart, that
for years has yearned to empty itself upon your bosom. You are my
child, my long cherished, fondly loved child!'
I listened to her without power to stir. I did not doubt—for a hundred
things of the past, never understood before, now rushed upon
my mind to corroborate her assertion; and while I listened I believed.
She ended and would have clasped me to her heart. I shrunk from
her with a cry of mingled leathing and anguish, and should have fallen
but for the support of the couch by which I knelt. I remained
for several minutes in a state of stupor, with only one sensation, and
that one of misery unutterable and scarce comprehended.
`You refuse to embrace me!' said Desiree—nay, I will call her
what she was—my mother. `I knew this would he so—and therefore
that I might not have your hate has been one of my motives in
keeping so secretly your birth from you. But it matters little now,
Alice, whether you hate or detest me! I have relieved my heart; I
have eased my conscience; and death will come less heavily upon
`Oh, tell me—tell me,' I cried, shrinking from her embrace, and
burying my face in the curtain, `tell me the whole fearful tale!—
Who was she, then, whose memory I have been taught to reverence
as my mother's?'
`She was the lawful wife of your father. When she was a bride,
I was purchased to be her attendant. But I have few words to give
to the story, Alice!' she said, suppressing a cry which her physical
suffering wrung from her; `a year after your father's marriage with
her she gave birth to a daughter, and in giving it life gave up her
own. The infant lived but a week, and the morning of its death I
gave birth to a daughter. The two children, I need not say, had
but one father.'
`And I was that child?' I asked eagerly.
`Yes, you were a lovely babe, and your father proposed to me to
let the dead babe pass as mine, and to raise you as his own. Tempted
by the offer he made me, and ambitious to have you placed in
such a position in society as would be the lot of a daughter of Colonel
May, I promised it. Seventeen years have I kept the secret, daily
yearning to give you a mother's love. Death has now approached,
and my breast would hold the secret no longer. The mother's love
would find its channel ere the fountain of her heart dried up forever.
You will hate me—you will curse my memory. But we are alone
no ear but thine has heard, and beyond this death-bed the secret never
need reach. My desire is gratified in acknowledging you as my
child, and my conscience lightened of a load it has too long borne.—
Nay, will you not give the mother one of the kisses you were ever
ready to bestow upon the supposed nurse Desiree?'
I remained motionless. My bosom was agitated by a hundred
conflicting emotions. That all she said was true I believed. I did
not for an instant doubt that I was her child. I felt the most intense
resentment toward my father, which then was transferred to her, for
suffering me so long to remain ignorant of my degraded birth. For
I was not only a Quadroone, but a slave—for such Desiree still was
to my father! Horror filled my mind and rendered me almost insensible!
For an instant—only an instant, and once, the idea of concealing
my birth as she had suggested, occurred to me; but I immediately
banished the temptation. Your love was to me at that moment
the anchor of my integrity. I could not deceive you, Edward!
Under other circumstances—that is, if I had not loved, and been
the world's good and honorable opinion, might have made me hesitate.
But I rejected the suggestion! I resolved that, however great
the sacrifice, I would willingly be the victim rather than you should
be deceived. My mother seemed to be reading my thoughts as she
fixed her large lustrous dying eyes upon me.
`Alice, breathe not the secret, or you will perish. Live and be
happy! Only by secresy can you hold your present position.'
`I will perish, then!' I said firmly. `Mother, if such I must now
call you—you have poisened my existence! Nay, I do not blame
you. I loved you as my nurse—I love you as my mother! I will
embrace you! There, I acknowledge you to be my mother! I will
acknowledge it to the world!'
She seized my hand, and weeping implored me to preserve the fatal
secret. At length I promised to conceal it from all but my father
and you, and then fly to a convent. She spent her last breath in endeavoring
to prevail upon me to lock it in my own breast; and finding
all her tears and entreaties ineffectual, began bitterly to reflect
upon herself for making the disclosure. But these regrets were now
unavailing either for herself or me, and she shortly after expired, imploring
in her last appealing look my forgiveness. I could only cast
myself upon her body and weep.
It was near sunset she died, and an hour after my father came home
I heard his step on the portico. He was alone, and seemed from the
tone in which he spoke to his servant, to be in a cheerful mood. I was
kneeling weeping by my mother's couch, but instantly rose on his entrance,
as some one told him that Desiree was dead!
He merely glanced at me, and approaching the bedside fixed a few
moments upon the face of the once beautifol, and then sinking upon his
knees bent over it, laid his head upon the pillow and wept. The sound
of his manly sobs in an instant suppressed the fierce purpose in my
breast with which on hearing his step I had impulsively determined to
meet him, charging him with my shame. I stood by in silence till he
rose up, kissed the lips of the dead, and walked to the window. I
knew then that he had loved—loved her more (as she had told me) than
his wife. Yes, or he would never have taken her child, and thus assumed
her as his own. At length he approached me and asked me why
I wept? Instantly my spirit awoke within me, and I answered:
`I weep my mother's death! Doth it not become a daughter to show
respect for a mother dead!'
He started, less I suppose, at the unusual tones of my voice, than
at the expression of my face! He gazed on me an instant with a
look of suspicion, and then said fiercely, while he pointed sternly
towards the body,
`How—has she dared to confess—'
`Nay, father, words and rage are useless,' I said in as firm a tone as
I could command. `I know the whole truth! It is graven with a pen
of fire upon my soul! I am the daughter of that woman, and my
father's slave!'
He cast himself at my feet and implored my forgiveness—implored
me to keep the secret and save him and myself from ignominy and contempt.
I was resolute to divulge it, and that I would do so to the Count
and to you! He menaced and entreated me by turns, when finding me
determined, he said in a low deep voice that sunk to my soul,
`Then since you will be my slave, you shall know the power of a
master!'
He took me by the arm. I followed him unresisting; and he locked
me up in a strong room, and there left me. The next morning he came
to me early, and entering cast himself on his knees, implored me to regard
my own happiness and keep the dreadful secret of my birth. At
length I told him I would not divulge it (which he most feared,) to the
Count—nor but to one person in the world. Who that person was
(yourself) I declined telling him. With this he was better satisfied,
and releasing me desired me to breakfast with him. After breakfast he
wrote two notes, and despatched them hurriedly by two slaves in opposite
directions. While he was at the door sending off the servants, I
secretly despatched an intelligent slave on foot to meet them at the gate
of the avenue, and learn where they were going. He returned and
said one was to Father de L—, the priest, the other to Count—. I
suspected this, and knew my father's object to be to unite me to the
Count at once. I pleaded illness, and shortly retired to my chamber.
In a few minutes afterwards I had packed all my jewels and secreted
them about my person, and escaping from my window upon the gallery.
gained the stables and saddled my own riding horse. I mounted; several
paths led in various directions from the stables, and taking one of
them that led by the river, I galloped along its banks until I came to a
woodman's cabin, where I had frequently been before. I knew steam-boats
almost daily stopped there for wood, and I intended to go on
board the first. One was in sight as I came near the hut, and soon approached.
I told the woodman I wished to go on board, and that he
may not say in what direction, lest you will hope to discover my retreat.
In two hours after leaving my father's roof I was on board, and in the
state room, from which I now write you. This letter will be mailed to
you from the first town.
I have now written you all, dear Edward. I feel you will, while you
acquit me of rudely trifling with your honorable affection, do me the
justice my painful position challenges. In sacrificing your love I have
sacrificed myself. Do dot hope to find my retreat! I am going to bury
myself in a convent, where I shall at least have serenity of mind. Happy
I never expect to be in this world! Farewell. dear Edward! We
shall meet again in Heaven!
Singular and unusual as the foregoing incidents seem, they are
taken from the life of one, who, not less hapless than she was lovely,
now rests in a flower-adorned grave in the little cemetry of the
Convent of the Sacred Heart.
| CHAPTER VI. Alice May, and Bruising Bill | |