Chapter XV: The Last Resort

Me miserable! Which way shall I fly?
MILTON.

Gloria fled towards the house, sped through the open door, rushed up the stairs, nor ever paused until she had reached her own chamber and locked herself within it.

There she sank down into her arm-chair to recover breath. Her heart was beating fast, her head reeling.

She seemed to herself on the point of swooning or dying, and she neither feared nor cared if this were her last hour on earth.

She only feared to hear again the revolting words that had just been breathed in her shuddering ears. She only cared to escape their repetition.

This, then, was the meaning of those fixed looks that had so thrilled her nerves and curdled her blood—Marcel de Crespigney wanted to marry her! Marcel, whom she always so loyally loved as her dear aunt’s husband and widower, and as her own uncle by marriage, now wished to make her his wife!

She shuddered, and covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out the vision of such a marriage.

But she could not shut out the vision of the beautiful, rather weak face that arose before her in all its pale, pathetic, appealing sadness. Those large, dark, melancholy eyes haunted her.

She could not rouse her soul to any anger against him. She loved him too well, as she had always done from her earliest infancy to this moment. She could not now remember the day when she had not loved him better than any one in the whole world. She loved him now as well as ever—as her uncle, her Marcel—but she loathed him as a suitor for her hand.

And withal she pitied him deeply.

“Poor Marcel!” she murmured to herself when she had grown a little calmer. “Poor Marcel! He has always sacrificed himself for the happiness of other people—even for auntie—and he has never had any happiness himself. And now he is losing his reason. He certainly is losing his reason, or he would never dream of such a mad act as marrying—Ugh! I will not think of it. What a misfortune. What can have caused it? His long, lonely life perhaps. And perhaps also, as he loves me so dearly, and he has no one else but me to love, he is afraid that I will do as other young ladies do—that is, some time or other, marry and leave him. Foolish old Marcel, to think that I would leave him for any one else! If he did but know me, he would know that I should never marry. But the more I think of it, the surer I feel that that is the reason of his strange conduct. He loves me; he has no one left but me, and he fears that I will leave him, and so he wants to marry me just to prevent my going, and to insure my staying with him as long as he lives. But, oh, what an alternative!” she added, with a shudder.

She was, however, growing calmer, having found, as she supposed, a solution of the whole difficulty.

“Now,” she continued her mental argument, “when Marcel is made to understand that I will never leave him so long as he lives, and never even wish to leave him, but will remain with him, and be perfectly happy with him, in devoting myself entirely to his service, as the most loving and dutiful daughter or niece could do, then, of course, he will be perfectly satisfied.”

The ringing of the first dinner-bell aroused her from her reverie.

“Poor Marcel!” she said to herself. “I dare say he thinks now that he has frightened and offended me so thoroughly that I will not go down and join him at dinner, even on this Christmas-day! And indeed he did more than frighten me—he shocked me so awfully that I am sure I could never bear to look on his poor, wretched face again, if I had not found a way to cure him of his madness, and make him contented—a way that will not require any self-sacrifice on my part either, for I never dreamed of marrying and leaving him. I never liked the idea of marrying. The most unhappy people I ever saw in my life were married people—my aunt and uncle—and the happiest people I ever knew were the unmarried. No! I will never marry and leave my uncle! And when I make him understand this, he will renounce his foolish and sacrilegious mania and rest contented with the company of his niece.”

While turning these thoughts over in her mind, she was examining the contents of her wardrobe to select a dress suitable to the occasion.

Gloria de la Vera had always dressed in a style too old for her early youth and bright beauty. The reason was perhaps that she saw only elderly or aged people.

Now, for this Christmas _tête-à-tête_ dinner with her uncle, she wore a dark blue moiré antique, with low neck and short sleeves richly trimmed with old point lace. Her ornaments were heirlooms of her father’s family—earrings, necklace and bracelets of pearls set in diamonds. Her rippling golden hair was carried back from her forehead and gathered into a shower of ringlets that fell over a low comb from the top of her head to her graceful shoulders.

As the second bell rang, she opened the door and descended to the drawing-room.

Meanwhile Marcel de Crespigney had returned to the house, entered the privacy of his library, and banged the door to, angrily, behind him.

And there he had spent some hours striding up and down the floor and calling down maledictions on his own head for his want of patience and self-control.

In the midst of his confusion the sound of the first dinner-bell smote his ears.

He did not attend to its warning to go and make his toilet, but continued to walk up and down the floor, breathing imprecations upon his own folly, until the more imperative clangor of the second bell summoned him.

“And now,” he said, “I suppose I have so offended and estranged her as to drive her away from the table so that I shall have to dine alone on Christmas-day! Well, it will serve me right if I do!”

And with another malediction upon his “madness,” he left the study and walked slowly and sadly into the dining-room.

How great was his surprise and pleasure to see his beloved Gloria standing with her hand upon the back of her chair, at the head of the table.

He noticed, too, that she was carefully and beautifully dressed—though, with her moiré antique, old point lace and diamonds, more in the style of a middle-aged matron than a very youthful maiden.

She was looking happy, too—a circumstance which he misunderstood and misinterpreted in his own favor, for he could not know what had been passing in her own mind, or that her content was founded on the faith that she had discovered a perfect solution for the difficulty in which she had previously found herself.

If the servant had not been present he would have expressed his contrition for having frightened her, and his delight in meeting her again, but there stood Laban, in his best holiday dress, a suit of fine black broadcloth, swallow-tailed coat and continuations, black satin vest and spotless linen, exhibiting at once the self-consciousness of a dandy and the solemnity of a bishop, and looking disapprobation on his shabby and rusty master, who had made no toilet in honor of the Christmas dinner.

The young lady of the house took no notice of the colonel’s neglect; yet it was to her he spoke, of course, when he said:

“I owe you an apology, my dear, for appearing before you in this style, but really——”

“Never mind, uncle, dear. We are alone, so what does it matter? Who has a better right to appear in comfortable dishabille at his own table than you have?” she brightly inquired, thinking at the same time of the graver apology he owed her for a heavier offence.

He naturally misinterpreted her good humor, and rewarded it with a smile of gratitude.

Though they were but two, the dinner was a protracted one, for there were many courses, and the family cook would have felt enraged if every one of them had not been honored.

And old Laban—a cross between a bishop and a dandy—waited with solemnity and self-conceit.

At length it was over, and they adjourned to the drawing-room.

“Shall I play Luther’s Christmas hymn for you, uncle, dear?” inquired Gloria, as she seated herself before the piano.

“Yes, love, thank you, play that, but no more; for I wish to talk with you and settle something before I can take any interest in anything else,” he replied.

Gloria sat down and played and sang with all her usual feeling, spirit and charm.

When she had finished her hymn, she arose and went to the fire and seated herself beside her guardian; for she also wished to talk to him, and “settle something” which she believed would content them both.

Colonel de Crespigney was the first to speak.

“I was too sudden with you this morning, dear. I did not stop to consider how your nerves had been shaken by the frightful accident of yesterday, and so I startled you by a too abrupt disclosure of my feelings.” He paused a moment, and then added: “I beg you to forgive my want of consideration, dear child, and to let me hope——” He paused again, and she took his hand and said kindly:

“Say no more about it, uncle, dear. I understand—I understand—and I have something to reply, presently.”

“You understand, and yet you call me uncle!” he said, wincing.

“It was a slip of the tongue, Marcel, dear. A mere matter of habit. I will learn to call you anything you please, so that I may make you happy,” she answered, affectionately.

“And you will let me hope—you will let me hope—that some day, not far off, you will give yourself to me entirely; you will be my own, my precious, my pearl beyond price, my best gift of God—MY WIFE?” he breathed, in low, deep, intense tones, while his whole dark face grew radiant with happiness. He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. She drew her hand away, averted her head and shrank from him.

“My timid one, what are you afraid of?” he tenderly inquired, drawing nearer to her, and attempting gently to steal his arm around her waist, for he still fatally misunderstood her.

“Don’t, uncle, don’t! This is madness! This is sacrilege!” she exclaimed, withdrawing herself from his gentle caress. “I am not timid, uncle; but don’t do that again, or you will drive me out of your sight forever,” she added, as she walked away to a distant window, and stood there, pale and trembling, looking out, but seeing nothing.

Marcel de Crespigney remained where she had left him, leaning back into his chair, with his eyes fixed upon the fire—like hers, seeing nothing.

He did not attempt to follow her to apologize or explain. He was sorely perplexed.

After a few moments, when she had had time to compose herself, she came back to her seat and said:

“When I ran away from you this morning, I was too much shocked and distracted to understand anything rightly, or to know what to do. But after I had come to myself I began to reflect, and, at length, I comprehended——” She paused, as if to think a little longer.

“Yes, dear; I know, I know. I will give you time. I will be very patient,” he replied, very gently and contentedly, for he still widely misinterpreted her. She did not know that he did so misinterpret her, and thus they were unconsciously at cross-purposes.

“And,” slowly continued the girl, “as soon as I comprehended, I resolved to come to you and tell you something that I have determined upon, and which I think will harmonize our lives, and make us both happy.”

“Yes, love, yes, speak freely, speak plainly!” he breathed hardly, suppressing every impulse to draw nearer to her, or to touch her hand that hung so near his, over the arm of her chair.

“Well, then, Marcel, dear—oh! it is difficult to speak of marriage, even negatively, as I shall!—but, Marcel, I know you have been thinking that some day I might, as other young folks do, marry and leave my home for another; and so, to prevent me from doing that, you dreamed of the impossible plan you proposed to me——”

“‘Impossible,’ Gloria?” he repeated, as his happy face gloomed and darkened.

“Yes, ‘impossible,’ because insane, profane, sacrilegious! Oh, I cannot bear to think of it! Do not compel me to think of it—even negatively—after this!”

“Gloria!” he cried, in a tone of pain and reproach.

“Hear me out, dear Marcel! for indeed I mean to reassure you! Listen, then! Since you love me so well that you would even marry me—ugh!—rather than lose me, hear me promise, Marcel, that you shall never lose me. I will never, never, never leave you to marry any one at all! I will stay with you and be your own faithful, affectionate, devoted niece, loving you as if I were your daughter—loving and serving you as my dear uncle, and even as if you were my own father! Now, Marcel, I promise to do this on the word of a de la Vera, whose very name is Truth! if only you would give up this mad and sacrilegious idea of me, which, of course, I know you will readily do.”

“And is this your plan for ‘harmonizing our lives’ and making me happy?” he groaned, with such a look of anguish that Gloria could not endure it. With a low cry of pain she averted her face.

“But, child, I will not torture you, as I see I am doing now. Time and patience—time and patience work wonders. I must wait and hope—wait and hope,” he breathed, with the reiteration of misery.

She arose and stood behind him, and with her hand on the back of his chair, murmured:

“Marcel, I am not angry, but I am very, very unhappy. I must go now and stay by myself a little while.”

“Go, then, Gloria! Go!” he moaned, without turning to look at her.

Gloria fled to her own room; but even there the agonized face she had left behind followed her, haunted her, and tormented her.

Then she dressed herself in her seal jacket and hat and went out, and walked up and down under the cold starlight of the Christmas night until she was so weary that she could walk no longer.

Finally she returned to the house and retired to bed without again seeing her guardian.

The terrible mental trials of the days and weeks that followed, surpass all powers of description.

The deep, devoted, constant love of Marcel de Crespigney for the beautiful child he called his ward, had been fanned by opposition and fear of disappointment into an intense and insane passion. He lost all patience, all self-control; he could no longer refrain from pleading with her or caressing her, even when he saw that his words and actions inflicted tortures unendurable upon the gentle and sensitive soul.

And Gloria, she suffered with a subtle anguish, difficult to analyze, impossible to describe. As his niece and child, she loved and pitied her uncle, with all her young, compassionate heart, even as she had loved and pitied him from her earliest infancy up to present girlhood. But with her Christian faith and training she believed his suit to her to be most sinful and sacrilegious, and she shrank from it in horror and loathing unspeakable and indescribable. Yet, whenever she betrayed these emotions of fear and abhorrence, the look of utter misery they would call up on his face would cause a momentary revulsion of feeling in her, melting her heart to tenderness and sympathy.

He would be quick to see this change and gather hope from it.

Sometimes during the day, when her pity for him almost broke her own heart, she would be on the verge of sacrificing all her future life, her religious principles, her very soul’s salvation, only to give him happiness, to drive away the look of misery from his face, and see him smile again.

Sometimes at night she would dream that she had really done this, that she had become her uncle’s wife. Then she would awake with a cry of terror and rejoice that it was but a dream. At other times she would not wake so soon, but would dream on of being married to her uncle, and horrified by her position and trying to run away to hide herself, to drown herself, to do anything rather than to fall into his hands, or be compelled to live with him as her husband, and so she would moan and sigh in her troubled sleep throughout the night, and wake at last prostrated, depressed and miserable, with the thought that all too probably, in some weak moment when pity should be in the ascendant, this hideous dream might become a more hideous reality.

She had no refuge in her wretchedness, no mother, sister or friend to whom she could confide her troubles. She could not even go away from her guardian or from Promontory Hall. She had no protector in the world but him, no home on earth but his house. Besides, he was her lawful guardian, and had a guardian’s power over her—if, indeed, he ever should choose to exercise it against her will, as he never yet had done, and as she was sure he never would do. But this power would last until she should become of age, or until she should marry; for by the terms of her father’s will, her bondage as a ward was to terminate with her majority or her marriage. Thus she had no refuge from the guardian who never sought to coerce her inclinations in any way, but through her affections, through her love, sympathy and compassion, had gained an ever-increasing and most fatal power over her.

More and more dangerous grew her position as days and weeks went by. Every day she was weaker, looking on her lover’s despair. Every night her dreams were more terrible in their likeness to reality. To prove the degree to which her brain and nervous system were becoming affected, she began to be confused by dreams within dreams—in this way: She would dream that she awoke from a dream, and, waking, found that she was really married and miserable!

So utterly distracted was her mind that she could never be sure what was vision and what reality.

She felt herself falling into a despair that touched insanity, and inspired deadly horror of the ultimate results.

“I am sinking, day by day, deeper and deeper towards perdition! One of two things will happen to me. I shall go mad in this struggle—I shall go mad and drown myself—or else I shall marry Marcel and murder him! If I could only die decently before being driven to such extremity! Heaven help me and save me, for I cannot help or save myself!” she moaned, in utter anguish.

But the crisis was fast approaching.

It happened on a morning near the last of January.

The guardian and ward left the breakfast-room; he had his hand on the knob of the library-door, and she was on her way out for a walk, when he called her, and begged her to come in and sit with him for a little while.

The meekness of this prayer moved her to grant the boon.

Without a word she turned and followed him into the library.

He threw himself, with a sigh, into his great leathern arm-chair, beside his writing-table. She drew forward a low ottoman and seated herself at his feet, as she had loved to do in the quiet, peaceful days they had spent together, just after her return home.

There was something now in his face and manner so broken, subdued, resigned, as to touch her deeply with tender compassion, and draw her into demonstrations of sympathy and affection that soon deprived him of all self-control. Before he was aware, he reached down his hands, caught her up in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and pressed passionate kisses upon eyes, cheeks and lips, while speechless, breathless, she struggled and fluttered like a captured bird, until, at length, she broke away and fled from him.

He sat where she had left him, grieved and angered with himself for having shocked and distressed her whom he loved better than his own life; he cursed himself and his weakness and his folly as he had never done before! He resolved that henceforth he would put such a guard upon himself as never to offend her again, by word or look. He would not intrude upon her in any way; but when he should see her again he would humbly express his contrition and sorrow for having offended her, and would earnestly beg her forgiveness.

And she would forgive him; for, after all, what great wrong had he done? Only kissed her against her will; kissed her rather roughly, perhaps, but that was because she resisted him. What great offence was in that? he asked himself. Had he not seen in the parlor games of forfeits played in many a country house—had he not seen young men “pick cherries,” as they called it—run after a young girl and catch and kiss her by force, if not against her will, and been punished only by a slap on the face, administered with a laugh?

“Gloria is too fastidious, too morbid,” he said to himself.

Yet somehow he could not so excuse himself to his own conscience. Gloria was pure, dainty and refined, and he was very culpable in his conduct toward her, his conscience told him.

Now he resolved that he would ask her pardon, and after obtaining it he would be more discreet and respectful in his manner towards her until his love and patience should win her to be his wife.

TOO LATE.

Marcel de Crespigney was never in his life again permitted to look on the face of Gloria de la Vera.