Chapter XXIV: Lake Island and Castle

That dear old home!
Something of old ancestral pride it keeps,
Though fallen from its early power and vastness;
The sunlight seems to her eyes brighter there
Than wheresoever else!—_Fanny Kemble._

The voyagers landed and took quarters for the day and night at the Queen’s Head, Fleet street.

Early the next morning they took the first coach for Edinboro’, where they arrived in due time, and whence they took a chaise to the post town nearest the bourne of their journey, Glen Lennark. At the small hostel, they found a carriage from the castle awaiting them. They entered it and drove slowly through a wild and rocky country, beautiful, now, in the rich luxuriance of summer. It was near sunset when they passed through a gorge and came upon the borders of a small, clear lake, set like a crystal gem in a circle of mountains diversified with snow-white rocks and clumps of dark-green firs, the whole of which was deeply reflected in the mirror of the water. In the midst of this lake was a tiny islet, a solid rock, from which arose the gray and hoary walls of Glen Lennark castle, an ancient feudal tower and keep, now showing marks of many centuries of storms, of war and weather bravely withstood. The waters of the little lake that surrounded this islet, had served in barbarous times as the castle moat; and a relic of the middle ages, an ancient drawbridge, whose chains and pulleys had long fallen into disuse, connected the isle with the road down which the travelling carriage had rolled. They crossed this drawbridge and entered through a high arched gateway the court-yard, and crossed to the main entrance of the castle-hall, which stood directly opposite. Here they were met by a servant out of livery, who conducted them into a modernized reception room, and with a low obeisance, went to announce their arrival to his master.

Left alone together, Mr. Deville and Lady Adelaide looked around themselves and then at each other. Their eyes met, and smiled.

“Do you remember the last time we were in this room, Adelaide?”

“I do, indeed.”

It was the room in which they had been married, at the death-bed of the old lord.

They had no opportunity for further conversation, for the door opened and their host entered—a tall, distinguished looking man, whose snow-white locks contrasted finely with his deep mourning-suit of full black velvet.

“I am very happy to welcome you, my niece and nephew, to Glen Lennark,” he said, courteously advancing and offering Adelaide and Orville each a hand.

Both arose to receive this greeting. But when Mr. Deville looked up—in spite of the changed circumstances, the altered dress, the prematurely aged face and whitened hair—he recognized in the Earl of Glen Lennark, his old host of the forest-lodge, the father of the lost Lionne.

“Mr. Delaforêt!” burst in stupefaction and despair from his pallid lips; for in the same moment that he made his discovery, he knew that he himself had made his aged uncle childless.

“Mr. Delaforêt no longer; but your uncle,—Glen Lennark, who, even in the wilds of America, recognized in his chance visitor, his sister’s son, and who would then and there, in exile and poverty, have made himself known to his nephew, but for prudential considerations,” said the Earl, courteously waving to his young relatives to resume their seats, while he set them the example.

Adelaide gazed in silent surprise from one to the other.

“_Oh_, that you had trusted me with your secret! oh, that you had told me who you were! or that I had had wit to discover our relationship!” groaned Orville, in the pangs of revived and augmented remorse.

“To what purpose? what could my fiery young relative have done for his poor exiled uncle?—he would, no doubt, have tried to move heaven and earth to restore the banished old man to his country; but at that time would have succeeded only in getting himself into trouble,” said the Earl, entirely misconceiving the cause of his nephew’s emotion.

Orville, for his part, was almost overwhelmed. In vain he struggled to banish the image of the lost Lionne and the visitations of remorse. He could not conquer, he could only partially conceal his emotion.

Adelaide also had learned in this conversation that the poor victim of her husband’s deceit had been _his_ own, _her_ own cousin, the only remaining child of their uncle and host, the aged man who had unconsciously invited to his house the destroyer of his daughter. Should they—_could_ they dare to accept his hospitality and remain his guests? And in the future—could Orville venture to wear the title and estates gained by the death of Lionne—of Lionne, destroyed by his own act?—oh, never, never, thought Adelaide within herself: and pale and silent from these distressing reflections, she scarcely dared to raise her eyes either to her husband or her uncle.

“My fair niece looks very weary after her journey! Courage, my dear, supper will be served in a few moments; after which, Mrs. Posset will show you your apartment. Orville, do you remember the suppers in my forest-house, prepared by the hands of my poor Lionne?”

Ay, he did remember! though he had scarcely voice to say so.

“She died very suddenly,” said the earl. And then, in a faltering voice, he related all he knew or supposed of the loss of Lionne.

Each word was a dagger to the hearts of Orville Deville and his wife. The Earl not understanding the cause of their extreme emotion, and attributing it all to their excess of generous sympathy, said—

“Do not grieve for me, young people. I—am equal to my burthen, and I try to think that—‘All is for the best.’”

Very soon after supper, Lady Adelaide, acknowledging fatigue, retired to her apartment, where at a late hour she was joined by Mr. Deville. He looked pale and troubled, and well she knew the cause of his distress, though the subject of Lionne was by mutual, silent consent, avoided between them.

Yet now Adelaide could not refrain from asking:

“Shall we remain here as long as we had intended, Mr. Deville?”

“Assuredly not; we shall remain no longer than I can find a plausible excuse for departing,” he answered.

“Is such an excuse necessary?” inquired the truthful young creature.

“Certainly, Lady Adelaide. You would not have me offend our uncle.”

A silent sigh was her only comment and so the short conference ended.

The next day a number of the county nobility and gentry were received at dinner to meet Mr. Deville, whom the Earl of Glen Lennark presented as his nearest kinsman and his heir.

This dinner was followed by reciprocal invitations from the guests which the uncle and nephew felt obliged to accept, and thus a fortnight was spent in a round of dinner parties. Of course, Lady Adelaide was frequently of the company; though she often preferred to stay at Glen Lennark, and amuse herself with her adopted child, who, by the way, had found great favor in the eyes of their host. He felt a strange attraction towards the infant; he would have her brought in every day with the dessert; he called her “Lady Adelaide’s whim;” and said that he hoped that when an heir should be born to them, the poor “whim” might not be utterly thrust aside.

“Oh, no,” said Lady Adelaide, “I should so distrust myself. I should so fear to slight my little waif, that I do believe I should be more attentive to her than to one of my own.”

“At least, if ever, when surrounded by your children, you grow tired of Perdita, send her to me,” said the Earl.

“You have taken a strange fancy to my little gipsy,” said Adelaide, smiling.

“Well, yes; shall I tell you the reason?—_She is the very image of what my poor Leonora was at her age!_ It is one of those strange, unaccountable likenesses that we sometimes see in life! and that it is not only my fancy I will prove. Come with me into the adjoining cabinet,” said the Earl, rising from the table and giving his arm to his niece, and leading her into an apartment in the south turret.

It was a small, octagon-shaped room, richly carpeted, and furnished with cushioned seats running around the walls. It was lighted by one tall gothic window, of stained glass, that occupied one of the eight sides of the octagon immediately opposite the door by which they entered, and which filled another side; the remaining six, three on each hand, were hung with the portraits of the Earl, his late wife, and their four children.

“This is a sacred room to me; I call it my ‘family-circle,’” said his lordship; as he conducted his niece into this sanctuary, and led her straight up to the portrait of a child on the space at the right hand of the window.

Adelaide started and grew deadly pale. It seemed to be Perdita her very self whom she saw on the canvas before her! There was the little, lithe, willowy form; the little, elegant head; the jet black hair, rippling in thousands of tiny, glittering ringlets down about the broad forehead and crimson cheeks, and falling upon the ivory shoulders; there were the same large, fierce, intensely black eyes, with their long, fringe-like, black lashes; there was the same delicate, aquiline nose; short, curled upper lip, fierce and fine; and the full, voluptuous, lower lip, and rounded chin. And more striking than all this, there was the same little haughty air of carrying the small, queenly baby-head, the same trick of elevating the eyebrows, and protruding the under lip; the same careless way of carrying the arms; the same——oh! Lady Adelaide sickened at the thought—the suspicion that arose in her mind!

“It is a wonderful likeness, considering that the original of this portrait was a noble infant, born in this castle seventeen years ago; and that the babe, whom it so strangely resembles, was a peasant child, perhaps a half-breed, found in the wilds of America only a year since!—a very wonderful likeness!” said the Earl, gravely.

Lady Adelaide could not answer.

“You understand now why it is that I have formed so sudden and strong an attachment to your little protégé.”

Adelaide nodded; she could do no more; the power of speech seemed denied her.

“You are as much moved as though you considered this resemblance—uncanny—as we Scots say,” remarked the Earl.

“It seems—supernatural!” gasped Adelaide, and, without looking at another portrait, she turned to leave the turret-cabinet.

The Earl gave her his arm and led her to the door of the drawing-room, where, with a bow, he left her, to return to the dinner-table to Mr. Deville and the wine.

Lady Adelaide, pale, dizzy and trembling with the dreadful suspicion on her mind, went as fast as her failing limbs would carry her, to her own room, and locked herself within its privacy.

“Oh, should this child that I protect be really the child of Lionne, and, of—of—oh, no, my Lord, it is not so! it cannot be so! this is an accidental likeness, as my uncle thinks! The unborn child of Lionne must have perished with its wretched mother! and _she_ ‘died and gave no sign!’ it could not have been otherwise, for the Earl gave us every particular of her death and burial; he did not know her wrongs, and he does not even suspect but that he laid a virgin daughter in the grave. I am sure of it! and yet, and yet, I know that had Lionne lived she would have been a mother; and that the age of this unknown foundling of the wilderness, that bears such a wonderful resemblance to her, corresponds to what would have been the age of her child, had she had one! I must investigate this.”

Thus Adelaide mused, until she was interrupted by the entrance of Keziah with the infant subject of her perplexed thoughts.

Then she took the babe from the arms of the nurse saying—

“You may leave her with me, Keziah. I can take care of her for an hour.”

When left alone with her little charge, Lady Adelaide sat the child upon her lap, and gazed long and wistfully into her great, fierce, black eyes.

“Ah, little one, you know no more of your own sad story than do I! If that lisping, silvery tongue could speak, it could tell me nothing of your origin! but, oh, if those great, bright eyes could give back again to me the images painted upon their retina before I ever saw you—what scenes they might reveal!” said the lady as she gazed upon the wondering child.

Little Perdita, impatient of the sober face of her foster mother, began to dance and laugh and lisp, and use all her infant arts to wile the lady into play; and failing of this, she twisted herself out of her fond nurse’s arms and took the responsibility of amusing herself upon the floor, until the return of Keziah.

That night, Mr. Deville having gone out to a gentleman’s party in the neighborhood, Lady Adelaide found herself and the Earl alone in the drawing-room.

The dampness of the evening rendered the small, bright wood-fire that burned in the fireplace very acceptable.

And the young lady and the old peer drew their chairs up close to the hearth.

Adelaide’s work-table, standing between them, served as a rest for the old man’s elbow.

Adelaide availed herself of the opportunity, and requested her uncle, if the recital would not be too painful to him, to relate to her all the particulars of her cousin Leonora’s last illness and death.

With a deep sigh the Earl commenced and faithfully related every circumstance of that tragedy, so far as they were known to himself.

Adelaide listened, on the alert to detect any suspicious feature. But, when the sorrowful story was ended, she was obliged to confess to herself that there was not the slightest reason for supposing that Lionne had become a mother before she died, but _every_ reason for believing the contrary.

Still she was deeply troubled. For many causes she hoped that her husband might shorten their visit and return immediately to America. And she resolved, as soon as she reached home, to visit the neighborhood of Singing Stream, and make inquiries on the spot concerning the family of “Mr. Delaforêt.”

She retired early to her room; but, being unable to sleep, she put on her dressing-gown, and threw herself into an easy chair, to await the coming of her husband.

It was very late when Mr. Deville came in from the supper.

“Up yet, Adelaide?” he asked, with a yawn.

“Yes—I cannot sleep, Mr. Deville. Oh, when shall we leave this house?”

“Why—are you not comfortable?”

“As comfortable as the kindest of hosts can make me; but—I thought that you _also_ were anxious to leave?”

“So I was, and so I am; but to _leave_ is not so easy a feat as you suppose! We came with the understanding between our uncle and ourselves that we should stay a year. And when I spoke to him of shortening our visit, pleading unexpected business as my excuse, he looked so annoyed, so incredulous, and opposed our going with so much earnestness of emotion, that I find I cannot distress him by hurrying off. I have caused him trouble enough, heaven knows, and I will occasion him no more that I can avoid! So, painful as it is to my feelings to remain, I must stay out the proposed period of our visit,” said Mr. Deville, most likely deceiving his own soul as to his motives.

Lady Adelaide made no comment.

“You do not approve this resolution, I suppose!” said her husband.

“Excuse me—the decision does not rest with me,” she gently replied.

“Nevertheless I should like to know your opinion, Adelaide,” he persisted, with the unconfessed desire of forcing her to agree with him.

“Indeed, I would rather not express one, knowing full well that my individual judgment would not, perhaps should not, influence the question.”

“Is that a complaint, madam?”

“Indeed, no.”

“Then I insist upon hearing your sentiments in respect to our staying here!” he said, in a tone so peremptory, as to admit of no refusal from his wife.

“Well, then,” said Adelaide, gently, “I think, under the circumstances, that it would be scarcely honorable in us to accept for a whole year the hospitality of poor Lionne’s bereaved father.”

The face of Orville Deville flushed purple with anger. He was offended, as she foresaw that he would be.

“Lady Adelaide, your words are insulting!” he said, in the deep, low, steady tones of suppressed but concentrated and intense rage. And rising, he went into the adjoining room and threw himself upon the lounge, where he passed the remainder of that night, and many nights thereafter.

Remorse, when it is not refined into repentance towards God, only hardens the heart and sours the temper. Any allusion to Lionne, the subject of _his_ remorse, always exasperated the anger of Orville Deville, who, being a pure Saxon, was of course a natural despot, and would have laid the absolute law of his lordly will, not only upon his wife’s words and actions, but even upon her very _thoughts_. And thus against her will, he would drag forth her opinions, only to sit in harsh judgment upon them, whenever they did not happen to flatter or to please him.

Could Adelaide have blinded her own judgment as easily as she could yield her will, she might have been happier where “ignorance” would have been “bliss.” But, though her intellect could not be deceived, nor her conscience dulled—though daily, as he hardened his heart, and conformed his soul in selfishness, she wept over his decline of moral strength—yet her affections had been too long and closely bound up in him to fall away now. She loved him as devotedly as ever, the only difference being, that she loved him in fear and sorrow, instead of in pride and joy.

For days Orville Deville maintained a cold and distant demeanor towards his wife. He was evidently waiting for some sign of submission on her part. And the gentle Adelaide would readily have asked forgiveness, only that in this case self-crimination would have been a falsehood, and a betrayal of principle.

How long this estrangement would have continued is not known, for an event occurred that necessarily forced the estranged parties into confidential relations.