University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE STORY.

“My home,” began Miss Porter, “is, as you know, in
Florida. I am an only child, as were both my parents, so
that I have now living no nearer relative than a great-uncle—a
superannuated clergyman, who superintends my
affairs, and who, in case I die before he does, which is
very probable, will be heir to my possessions.

“It is now nearly ten years since my father started for
Europe, and I went to an adjoining state to visit a widow
lady, whom I had met in New Orleans the winter previous.
It is not necessary that I should use real names, consequently
I will call her Mrs. Le Vert. She was spending
the summer on her plantation, at what she called her
country-seat. It was a large, old-fashioned, wooden building,
many miles from any neighbors, and here she lived
alone—for her only son, a lad twelve years of age, was at
some northern school. At first I was very lonely, for the
secluded life we led at Holly Grove was hardly in accordance
with the taste of a young girl. Still, I did not
mind it as much as some, for I cared but little for gentlemen's
society, and had frequently declared that I should
never marry.

“Toward the last of July, Mrs. Le Vert's brother came
to visit her. He was a handsome, boyish-looking youth,
six months older than myself—just out of college—full

of life and very fond of pretty girls, particularly if they
chanced to be wealthy.”

“That's a little like Ben,” said Rosamond, and Miss
Porter continued:

“From the first, Mrs. Le Vert seemed determined to
make a match between us, for her brother was poor, and
she fancied it would be a fine idea to have the Porter estate
come into the Dunlap family. So she threw us constantly
together—talked of me to him and of him to me,
until I really began to believe I liked him. He, on the
contrary, cared for nothing but my money. Still he
deemed it advisable to assume a show of affection, and
one night talked to me of love quite eloquently. I had
been to a dinner party that day, and had worn all my diamonds.
He had never seen them before, and they must
have inflamed his avarice, for I afterward heard him tell
his sister that he never should have proposed if I had not
looked so beautiful that night. `I was irresistible in my
diamonds,' he said.”

Miss Porter paused a moment to witness the effect of
her last words, but Rosamond was looking over her
shoulder at a wrinkle she had just discovered in the waist,
and did not heed them. Still she was listening, and she
said, “Yes—go on. You were looking beautifully that
night. Did you consent to marry him?”

“Unhappily, I did,” returned Miss Porter, “for I had
made myself believe that I loved him. I wished that he
was older, to be sure, but he said we would wait until he
was of age. This plan, however, did not suit his ambitious
sister. She knew I intended asking my father's
approval, and from what she heard of him she feared he
would never consent to my marrying a poor student, and

she urged an immediate union. But I persisted in writing
to my father, who answered immediately, forbidding
me to think of young Dunlap, ordering me to go home,
and saying he always intended me for John Castlewell, a
neighbor of ours—a millionaire—a booby—a fool—whom
I hated as I did poison.

“Not long after the receipt of this letter I was surprised
by the sudden appearance of Uncle Bertram, who
had come at my father's request to take me home. This
roused me at once. My father was a tyrant, I said, and
I would let him know I could do as I pleased. In my excitement,
I fancied I could not exist a moment without
Richard Dunlap, while he declared that life would be a
blank for him if passed away from me. At this opportune
moment Mrs. Le Vert suggested that we be married
immediately—that very night. Uncle Bertram fortunately
was a clergyman, and could officiate as well as any
other. In justice to Richard, I will say that he hesitated
longer than I did—but he was persuaded at last, as was
Uncle Bertram, and with no other witness than Mrs. Le
Vert and a white woman who lived with her as half waiting-maid
and half companion, we were married.”

Rosamond was interested now, and forgetting to remove
her dress, she threw a crimson shawl around her
shoulders, and sitting down upon the bed, exclaimed, “Married!
You married! Why, then, are you called Porter?”

“Listen and you shall know,” returned the lady, a dark
look settling down upon her face.

“Scarcely was the ceremony over, when I began to regret
it—not because I disliked Richard, but because I
dreaded my father's displeasure, for he had a most savage,
revengeful temper, and his daughter possesses the same.”

This was bitterly spoken, and she continued—“Hardly
an hour after we were married, a negro brought a letter
to Richard from an eccentric old man for whom he had
been named. In it the old man said he had made his
namesake his heir, provided he did not marry until he was
twenty-five.

“`I know just how frillickin' you are,' he wrote, `and
I know, too, how unsuitable and how unhappy most early
marriages are—so my boy, if you want Sunnyside, wait
till you are twenty-five before you take an extra rib. I
hate to be bothered with letters, and if you don't answer
this, I shall conclude that you accept my terms.”'

“Mrs. Le Vert at once suggested that, as the old gentleman
had already had two fits of apoplexy, and would
undoubtedly soon have the third, our marriage should for
a time be kept a secret.”

“But he didn't consent,” cried Rosamond.

“Yes, he did,” answered Miss Porter, “and though I,
too, said it would be best, I began to distrust him from
that moment—to think that he preferred money to myself.
Uncle Bertram promised secrecy and went back
alone, and then commenced a life of wretchedness, which
makes me shudder even to recall it. With the exception
of my own servant, who dared not tell if I bade her be
silent, the blacks knew nothing of our marriage, and though
we lived together as man and wife, so skillfully did Mrs.
Le Vert and Esther, her white domestic, manage the matter,
that for a time our secret was safely kept. A few of
the negroes discovered it ere I left; but as they always
lived in that out-of-the-way place, it never followed me,
and to this day no human being in Florida, save Uncle
Bertram, knows of the marriage.

“I am very impulsive, and the excitement being over,
my affection began to cool. Richard could have kept it
alive had he tried, but he did not. On the contrary he
was much alone, and when with me was always tormenting
me with conscientious scruples about deceiving `the
old man.”'

“Oh, I like him for that,” cried Rosamond, “I like him
for that. Why didn't you let him tell?”

“Because,” returned Miss Porter, “I had fears that
father would disinherit me, and if Richard lost Sunnyside,
we should be poor indeed.”

A shadow passed over Rosamond's face, and she said
involuntarily, “I could be happy with Mr. Browning if we
were poor.”

Marie started and answered quickly, “What has Mr.
Browning to do with my story?”

“Nothing, nothing,” returned Rosamond, “only I was
thinking that if you loved Richard as well as I do Mr.
Browning, you would not have cared for money.”

“But I didn't, returned Marie. “I was mistaken.
'Twas a mere childish fancy. I never loved him. I hate
him now.”

She spoke vehemently, and when Rosamond said mournfully.
“Hate your husband!” she replied, “Yes, more
than hate, or I had never come to tell you this; but listen—from
indifference we came to coldness—from coldness
to recrimination—from that to harsh words—from
harsh words to quarrels—and from quarrels to blows!”

She uttered the last word slowly, while Rosamond exclaimed,
“Not blows, Miss Porter! No man would strike
a woman. I almost hate him, now.”

The proud lip curled scornfully—a gleam of satisfaction

shot from the keen black eyes, and Marie went on. “He
would say—nay does say I was the most to blame—that
I aggravated him beyond human endurance—but he provoked
me to it. Think of his swearing at me, Rosamond
—calling me a she-devil and all that. Think, too, of his
telling me to my face that he was driven into the marriage
wholly by his sister—that he regretted it more than I, and
to crown all, think of his boxing my ears!—he, a poor,
insignificant Northern puppy, boxing me—a Porter, and a
Southern heiress!”

She was terribly excited, and Rosamond, gazing at her
face, distorted with malignant passion, began to fancy that
the greater wrong might perhaps have lain with her.

After a moment's pause, Marie began again. “When
we had been three months man and wife, he wrote to the
old man, confessing his marriage, and saying sundry things
not wholly complimentary to his bride; but I intercepted
it, read it, tore it up, and taunted him with it. I believe
I called him a low-lived Yankee, or something like that,
and then it was he struck me. The blow sunk deep into
my soul. It was an insult, an unpardonable insult, and
could not be forgiven. My Southern blood was all on
fire, and had I been a man, he should have paid for
that blow. I feel it yet; the smart has never for a moment
left me, but burns upon my face just as hatred for
him burns upon my heart!”

“Oh, Miss Porter,” cried Rosamond, as the former
ground her teeth together, “don't look so terribly. You
frighten me. He struck you, but he asked your pardon,
sure?”

“Yes, he pretended to, but I spat at him and bade him
leave me forever. His sister tried to interfere, but she

made the matter worse, and as my father was on the eve
of embarking for America, I determined to go home, and
when he came, tell him, the whole and ask him to seek
satisfaction from one who had dared to strike his daughter.
Richard made a show of trying to keep me—said
we had better live together, and all that, while his sister
called us two silly children who needed whipping. But I
did not heed it. I went home to Uncle Bertram and
waited for my father, who never came. He died upon
the sea, and I was heir of all his vast possessions. Then
Richard made overtures for reconciliation, but I spurned
them all. You've heard of woman-haters, Rosamond—I
am a man-hater. I loathe the whole sex, Uncle Bertram
excepted. My marriage was of course a secret in Florida.
My servant, who knew of it, died soon after my
father, and as Uncle Bertram kept his own counsel, more
than one sought my hand, but I turned my back upon
them all.

“Four or five years ago he wrote me a letter. He was
then master of Sunnyside, for the old man left it to him
after all. He was lonely there, he said, and he asked a
reconciliation. Had he never struck me, I might have
gone, for his letter was kindly enough, but the blow was
a barrier between us, so I refused to listen, and exulted
over the thought of his living there alone all his days,
with the secret on his mind.

“The sweetest morsel of all in the cup of revenge was,
however, for a time withheld, but it came at last, Rosamond.
It came at last. He loved a beautiful young
girl, loved her all the more that he could not marry
her.”

She drew nearer to Rosamond, who, though still unsuspecting,

trembled from head to foot with an undefinable
emotion of coming evil.

“I saw her, Rosamond; saw this young girl with his
name upon her lips when waking—saw her, too, with his
name upon her lips when sleeping, and all this while she
did not dream that I, the so-called Marie Porter, was his
wife, the barrier which kept him from saying the words
her little heart longed so to hear.”

There were livid spots on Rosamond's neck—livid spots
upon her face, and still she did not move from her seat,
though her clammy hand clutched nervously her bridal
dress. A horrid suspicion had flashed upon her, but with
a mighty effort she threw it off as injustice to Mr. Browning,
and mentally crying, “It cannot be,” she faintly whispered,
“Go on.”

“The summer I met her,” said Miss Porter, I was at
Cartersville, a little out-of-the-way place on a lake—”

“You're telling me true?” interrupted Rosamond, joy
thrilling in her tones.

“Yes, true,” returned Miss Porter.

“Then bless you—bless you for those last words,” rejoined
Rosamond, burying her face in her companion's
lap. “A terrible fear for a moment came over me, that it
might be I. But it isn't. I met you at the Springs. Oh,
if it had been me, I should most surely die.”

“But she did not—the young girl,” resumed Miss Porter.
“She had a brave, strong heart, and she bore up
wondrously. She felt that he had cruelly deceived her,
and that helped her to bear the blow. Besides, she was
glad she knew of it in time, for, had he married her, she
would not have been his wife, you know.”

Rosamond shuddered and replied, “I know, but my

heart would have broken all the same. It aches so won
for her. But go on, how did she find it out? Who could
have strength to tell her?”

There was a pause, and each could hear the beating of
the other's heart. The November wind had risen within
the last half hour, and now howled dismally past the window,
seeming to Rosamond like the wail that young girl
must have uttered when she first learned how her trust
had been betrayed. The clock struck four! Rosamond
counted each stroke, and thought, “One hour more, and
he will be here.” Marie counted each stroke, and thought,
“One hour more, and I must be gone.”

“Rosamond,” she began again, “what I now have to
confess is an act of which I have repented bitterly, and
never more than since I sat within this room. But it
was not premeditated, and believe me, Rosamond, it was
not done for any malice I bore to that young girl, for I
pitied her so much—oh, so much,” and her hand wandered
caressingly over the bright hair lying on her lap.

“We went out one afternoon—two ladies, a gentleman,
and myself—in a small sail-boat upon the lake. I
planned the excursion and thought I should enjoy it,
but we had not been out long when my old affection of
the heart began to trouble me. I grew faint, and begged
of them to put me on the land. They complied with
my request, and set me down upon a point higher up
than that from which we had embarked, and near to a
dilapidated cabin where lived a weird old hag, who
earned a scanty livelihood by fortune-telling. I told her I
was sick, and sat down by her door where I could watch
the movements of the party. Suddenly a terrific thunderstorm
arose, the wind blew a hurricane, and though the

boat rode the billows bravely for a time, it capsized
at length, and its precious freight disappeared beneath
the foaming waves. For a moment horror chilled my
blood; then, swift as the lightning which leaped from
the cloud overhanging the graves of my late companions,
a maddening thought flashed upon my mind.”

“But the girl—hasten to that part,” said Rosamond, lifting
up her head, while Miss Porter went back to her chair.

“I shall come to her soon enough,” returned Miss
Porter, continuing her story. “No living being, save
the old woman at my side, knew of my escape, and I
could bribe her easily. Fortunately I carried the most
of my money about my person, and I said to her, `There
are reasons why, for a time at least, I wish to be considered
dead. Here are twenty dollars now, and the
same shall be paid you every month that you are silent.
No human creature must know that I am living.' I saw
by the kindling of her eye at the sight of the gold that I
was safe, and when the night shadows were falling I stole
from her cabin, and taking a circuitous route to avoid
observation, I reached the midway station in time for the
evening train.

“Three days later in a distant city I read of the sad
catastrophe — read that all had been found but one, a
Miss Porter, from Florida, and as I read I thought `he
will see that, too.' He did see it. Before going to
Carterville I sent to Sunnyside a girl who was under
peculiar obligations to me, and one whom I could trust.
She secured the place. She was employed at last about
the person of that young girl, who had lived at Sunnyside
since she was a child, a friendless orphan.”

There was a quick, gasping moan as if the soul were

parting from the body, and Rosamond fell upon her face,
which the pillows concealed from view, while Miss Porter
hurriedly proceeded:

“There is but little more to tell. I wrote to the girl
who took her own letters from the office. I told her all,
and from her heard that the bridal day was fixed. The
obstacle was removed—not insanity, but a living wife.
Need I say more?”

She paused, but from the bed where the crushed, motionless
figure lay, there came no sound, and she said again,
“Speak, Rosamond. Curse me, if you will, for saving you
from an unlawful marriage.”

Still there was no sound, save the low sighing of the
wind, which seemed to have taken a fresh note of sadness
as if bewailing the unutterable desolation of the young
girl, who lay so still and lifeless that Marie Porter's heart
quickened with fear, and drawing near, she touched the
little hand resting on the pillow. It was cold—rigid—as
was also the face which she turned to the light.

“It is death!” she cried, and a wild shriek rang through
the house, bringing at once the servants, headed by Mrs.
Peters.

“What is it?” cried the latter, as she saw the helpless
figure and beautiful upturned face.

“It's death, madam—death, and it's coming on me,
too,” answered Miss Porter, clasping her hands over her
heart, which throbbed as it never had done before, and
which at last prostrated her upon the lounge.

But no one heeded her, save the girl Maria. The rest
gave their attention to Rosamond, who lay so long in the
death-like stupor that others than Miss Porter believed her
dead.

The clock struck five! and echoing from the Granby
hills the engine-whistle came. Then a slight tremor ran
through her frame, and Mrs. Peters whispered joyfully,
“There's life—there's hope.”

Along the highway the returning traveler came with
rapid tread, but 'neath the sycamore no Rosamond was
waiting.

“She is hiding from me,” he said, but his search for her
was vain, and he rapidly hastened on.

All about the house was still. There was no Rosamond
at the door—nor in the hall—nor in the parlor—nor on
the stairs; but from her chamber came the buzz of voices,
and he entered unannounced, recoiling backward when he
saw the face upon the pillow, and knew that it was Rosamond's.
Every particle of color had left it; there were
dark circles beneath the eyes, and a look about the mouth
as if the concentrated agony of years had fallen suddenly
upon her.

“What is it?” he asked, and at the sound of his voice,
the brown eyes he had been wont to call so beautiful unclosed,
but there sunny brightness was all gone, and he
shuddered at their dim, meaningless expression.

She seemed to know him, and stretching her arm toward
him as a child does toward its mother when danger
threatens, she laid her head upon his bosom with a piteous
wail—the only really audible sound she had yet uttered.

“Rosamond, darling—what has come upon you?” he
said, “and why are you in your bridal dress?”

At that word she started, and moving away from him,
moaned sadly, “It was cruel—oh, so cruel to deceive me,
when I loved and trusted him so much.”

“Won't some body tell me what this means?” he demanded,
and Mrs. Peters replied, “We do not know.
There's been a strange woman here, and she was with
Rosamond when it happened.”

“Woman? What woman? And where is she now?”
he asked, and Mrs. Peters replied, “She was faint—dying,
she said, and Maria took her into another chamber.”

Mechanically he started for that chamber—hearing
nothing—seeing nothing—thinking nothing for the nameless
terror which had fallen upon him. He did not suspect
the real truth. He merely had a vague presentiment
that some one who knew nothing of the drowning had
come there to save his Rosamond from what they supposed
to be an unlawful marriage, and when at last he stood
face to face with his living wife, when he knew the grave
had given up its dead, he dropped to the floor as drops
the giant oak when felled by the lightning's power!

Marie Porter, even had she been cruelly wronged, was
avenged—fully, amply avenged, and covering her face
with her hands, she moaned, “I have killed them both,
and there's nothing left for me now but to die!”