Chapter VIII: The Lady’s Secret

“Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye
As if its lids were charged with unshed tears.”
--BYRON.

Earle Essex catches at Madame Orne’s words as a loop-hole of escape. After all, his plans may not be frustrated.

With drooping head and a voice of ineffable sadness, he answers:

“It is only too true, madam. I love Miss Leigh, and in the madness of my jealously and despair, I was tempted to destroy the letter that would recall my hated rival. Oh, madam, pity me!”

In the bright moonlight her lip curls with a smile of contempt.

“I could find it in my heart to pity you if your love were a manly one, but you have proved its poor quality by this baseness. Will you assure me that you have not tampered with the seal, sir?” taking the letter from the desk, and scrutinizing it keenly.

But he has done his work so cleverly that there is no sign of treachery.

“Madam, I am not capable of such villainy!” drawing his form proudly erect.

“Where we detect small villainies, Mr. Essex, we naturally suspect greater ones. If you repent of the evil you just now contemplated, and from which my entrance just now deterred you, prove it by removing yourself out of temptation’s way. Leave this house to-morrow, and seek in other scenes forgetfulness of the fair girl who never can be yours.”

His dark eyes flash with swift emotion, and he answers resentfully:

“Your pardon, madam, but I decline your dictation in my personal affairs. I do not choose to leave a clear field to my hated rival!”

For a moment she is staggered by his assurance. Then she turns to leave the room, saying coldly:

“Your continued presence, however, may be unwelcome, after I relate the scene I have witnessed to-night.”

He starts forward, catching her hand to stay her exit, crying eagerly:

“Madame Orne, I implore you not to betray my folly! I will never yield to such another temptation.”

“Go to-morrow, and I will keep your secret. Remain longer, and I will warn the Leighs of the false friend they have honored. It is my duty.”

“So, Madame Orne, you utterly refuse to keep my secret, and let me stay?”

“I do,” and she looks like a menacing fate standing before him so stately and slender in her long, clinging black robe.

And then a strange light of triumph leaps into his eyes.

“Say,” he commands. “I am going to tell you why it is to your interest to keep this secret of mine.”

“There can be no possible reason,” she answers proudly; but he bends toward her and whispers in a threatening tone:

“Is there, then, no secret this lying black dress hides? Is Madame Orne truly a widow?”

She gives a start of surprise, but answers coldly:

“I have never said that I was a widow. People have simply taken it for granted.”

“As you meant them to do. That was why the black dress and the sad face were assumed,” he sneers. “My relentless lady, shall I tell you a few facts I know about you, or shall I use them as an offset to your charge against me?”

“Say on, but be brief,” she replies in cold scorn.

“Remember, you brought this on yourself. I should not have said one word if you had granted my prayer,” he reminds her.

“Do not waste time in apologies,” she retorts impatiently.

He answers with a mocking laugh:

“It sounds like a romance--this story I am about to tell you, but you will recognize its truth.”

She bows, freezingly, and he goes on:

“Five years ago, Madame Orne, a fair young girl was wedded in New York. She was an orphan left penniless and desolate by the failure and death of her only surviving parent. Of all the friends of her prosperous days, only one remained faithful--a French gentleman of great wealth and high descent. He married the desolate orphan and made her the mistress of his elegant home. But woman is fickle, or perhaps she never really loved him--you should know best. Anyway, after two years of wedded bliss, the husband pined for his native land and determined to take his fair American bride to _la belle_ France. Their passage was taken, and one day Monsieur Orne--that was the rich Frenchman’s name--stepped on board the steamer, left her in their state-room, and joined some convivial companions on deck. The steamer left her moorings, some time afterward, and in the ‘wee sma’ hours’ of the night, monsieur, who had played at cards rather late, went to rejoin his wife. But the bird had flown. Madam had left the steamer unperceived, deserted her lord, and remained in America. Ah, madam, how ghastly pale you grow! You see that I have recognized you as the Frenchman’s runaway wife!”

She was indeed deathly pale, but her lips parted with something like a gasp as she answered, low and bitterly:

“He was a miserable gamester and drunkard, and like a maniac in his cups. My life was not safe with him. He was unreasonably jealous and even brutal. He used me like a slave; once he struck me, bruised my body, and broke my heart, so I escaped from him as I would have escaped from a wild beast. Is this your secret, Mr. Essex? Go tell it where you will! Shamed as I would be by the story, I should blush to shield myself by keeping your secret and risking the happiness of sweet Vivian Leigh!”

“But there is more to tell,” he exclaims, with vindictive triumph.

“Say your worst, sir!”

“It is only this. Monsieur Orne returned from France a year ago, and has been seeking his wife ever since. He has traced you as far as Richmond, and is there now prosecuting his search. He is filled with vindictive hatred against you, and swears the most horrible vengeance if he ever finds you.”

She starts up from her seat in wild excitement. She tries to speak, but her voice dies away in a gasp of fear--then she falls back in a limp, trembling heap into the chair, and her head drops against the back, her face in its deathly white beauty looking like a dead woman’s.

Earle Essex looks at her in amazement until one white hand is feebly uplifted toward him, and she moans, in a voice of pain or terror:

“Bring some one, I am ill--faint--dying!”

Shocked at the sad consequences of his malice, Earle Essex dashes down the hall, down the steps, and into the piazza, where Charlton and the girls are amusing themselves in the moonlight with their usual merry badinage.

“Come, quickly!” he exclaims. “As I was passing through the hall, Madame Orne called to me for assistance from the school-room. She is ill, fainting.”