Volume 6 — Chapter III.

'I told you, sister, how devoted I was to painting; and this taste my husband spared no pains to gratify. He took me, one day, to one of the most splendid picture-galleries in Paris, and there, amongst other chef d'oeuvres, I noticed a most beautiful picture of St. Mary Magdalen. I stood entranced before it: it represented a graceful, slender figure kneeling fore a rustic altar. The hands were clasped in prayer, and the face was slightly raised toward heaven; but anything so exquisite as the blended look of remorse and love upon those splendid features I never saw; it was as though the raining tears had softened the dazzling beauty and brightness of the large, liquid eyes, and had blanched the roses on both cheek and lip, and had left over the fair face a lingering light, soft and spiritual. Long golden tresses waved over her shoulders, and lay (even as she knelt) upon the ground in their profusion and luxuriance. Hope and love were written on the noble brow, while such humility, such self-abasement were expressed in the prostrate, kneeling figure, that at one glance the history was read. I forgot time, place, and all things—my whole soul absorbed in the wondrous beauty of the picture. My husband had left me to procure a catalogue, when suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a voice hissed, rather than spoke, into my ear: 'Ay, look—for the sin that branded her is marked upon your brow!' The hot breath of the speaker flushed upon my cheek—a low, scornful laugh, and it was gone. Bewildered, I turned round, but saw no one who seemed likely to have addressed me or who seemed to notice me. A few paces from me, looking intently upon a small painting, there stood a tall, stately lady, and no one else was near. I hastened, when I recovered the use of my faculties, to ask her if she had seen any one speak to me, when she quickly arose, and left the room. As she turned to pass to the door, I saw her face; it was handsome, but so cold and haughty, and with so fierce an expression of self-will, that the words froze upon my lips; it was a strange face, too, and it haunted me all day. I was bewildered; but I did not tell my husband. I did not wish to trouble or annoy him. I was frightened and out of spirits, and when evening came, my husband would insist upon my going to the opera. I went; but I could not forget those dreadful words. The opera was beautiful; but my attention would wander. Looking round the boxes, I suddenly saw the same lady I had met in the picture-gallery. Her handsome, haughty face bore an expression that surprised me; her large, glittering eyes were fixed upon me, and a smile of triumph, malicious and revengeful, curled her lip. I turned to my husband and said: 'I do wish, Percy, you would tell me who that lady is there opposite with the pink dress.' He turned, at my request; but when he saw her, his face became deadly pale, and convulsed with emotion. 'Do you know her?—are you ill?—what is the matter, Percy?' I cried.

"'Nothing,' said my husband, 'but the heat is too great; will you come home, Eva?'

"I rose, terrified, to leave the box, and turning again to look at the lady, I found her gone. As we were driving home, when my husband became more composed, I told him of my adventure in the picture-gallery, and asked him if he could possibly conjecture the meaning of it.

"'Why, why, Eva, did you not tell me this before? Now, do not be frightened; but I have decided to leave Paris by the midnight train: it is now ten o'clock; will you be ready?'

"'Yes; but why this haste?'

"'Ask me no questions, Eva; only hasten, and let us be gone.'

"My husband's manner was stern, and he became so silent that I dared not interrupt him. Directly we arrived at home, he left me to arrange for our journey, and, ringing for my maid, I told her to prepare for instant departure. I was tired, and my head ached with useless conjectures. I felt a foreboding of coming misery that I could not account for. I was in the drawing-room, packing a few books, when a servant entered and told me I was wanted. I said I could not see any one, I was engaged; but in a few minutes the man returned, and said the lady insisted upon seeing me, and before he had finished speaking, the lady I had seen at the opera stood before me.

"'You are leaving Paris,' she said, with a sneering smile; 'but it is important that you should grant me a few moments; perhaps I may alter your plans.'

"I bowed and the servant withdrew. She stood and surveyed me for some minutes with a strange, glittering look in her wild eyes; and then coming to me, she said:

"'You are passing fair. Percy Montford's second choice speaks well for his taste.'

"'I do not understand you, madam,' I said proudly; 'nor do I see by what right you intrude upon me or use my husband's name.'

"'Your husband, girl!' and a mocking laugh rang in my ears. 'Nay, Percy Montford is no husband of yours.'

"'You are mad,' I replied. But she interrupted me—

"'Mad! No; and yet, I tell you, I am Lady Montford! You do not believe me? I will tell you again. Sixteen years ago, when I was young, and the world said beautiful, I became the lawful wife of the man who has deceived you.'

"I rose indignantly, and grasped the bell-rope.

"'Nay,' said she, 'pause one minute before you summon aid or assistance. I repeat—sixteen years ago I was married. My husband had then no title; he was simply Mr. Ingram; he lived with me one year, and then, finding my temper hot and my spirit bitter, he left me, (amply provided for, it is true,) and has never seen me since. I have followed him, I have tracked him from city to city. I found out his admiration for you; I knew he would marry you secretly—openly he dared not, for fear of me. I could have saved you then, but I would not; I hated you because you were beautiful and good, and I have watched and waited with a fierce longing for the moment when your cup of joy was full, that I might dash it from your lips, and turn it to the poisoned chalice I have so long drunk. You still disbelieve me? Look,' and she took some papers and laid before me. My hands shook, and my sight failed me when I tried to read them; but I saw enough; and covering my face, I sank on my knees.

"I remember now, sister, that in my madness and my grief I knelt to that woman, and I prayed to her to unsay her fearful words. I can remember how she rejected me, how she scorned me and my wild prayers, and how proudly she stood over me, gloating in my misery.

"'No, Eva Leason! you broke your mother's heart—you had no mercy upon her, and I have none upon you. I am claiming only justice, I am speaking only truth.'

"'Percy!' I cried, 'come and save me!'

"'Ah! Percy, save her! You are so noble and good! You never deceived her, never betrayed her!' And then I remember no more, save that darkness seemed to come upon me until I lost all sense and feeling.

"When I recovered in some degree my recollection, I was lying upon a sofa, and my husband—ah! mine no longer!—knelt beside me, his face and head hidden, and yet I knew that he was weeping. She was gone.

"I sprang to my feet.' Percy,'I cried, 'tell me, is this true? You found her here. Has she told me the truth?' And I waited for his answer with my life depending on it.

"'I will deceive you no more, Eva. Alas! she has told you true.'

"'And you have deceived me, stolen me from my mother and my home, and made me an outcast!' My heart seemed on fire. I tore the ring from my finger and the jewels from my hair, and threw them at his feet; but he knelt, and passionately implored me not to leave him, to listen to his story, to have mercy on him. But no, I heeded no word; I tore my dress from his hands; I rushed from him; I took no time; I had but one thought, and that was to fly. I was delirious with grief and anger; my cloak and bonnet were in the hall; I threw them on; and before Lord Montford knew where I was, I had taken a carriage, and was on my road to the station. My heart ached for my mother. I remember but very little else. I crossed the Channel, and my passage took nearly all my money: I had just enough to reach London, and then I was penniless. It seemed to me that I wandered for hours in the dreary streets, and at last I fell. I was picked up and carried here. Now, tell me, sister, was not my punishment bitter? Can you wonder that I craved to die, and hide my shame and misery?"

"You are much sinned against, Eva; but tell me how could Lord Montford marry you when he knew his first wife was living?"

"I do not know, sister; I cannot think; yet now I remember, that night he told me that he had married her when he was quite young, and had never known peace or rest since; and that, when he knew me, he loved me so and feared to lose me, he could not resist the temptation. Did I tell you, sister, that the first thing I heard when I came to England was that my mother was dead? I saw it in a paper."

But, dear reader, I shall weary you if I repeat all poor Eva's long history; I must hasten and finish my story.

Some weeks after this, I was sitting with her, reading to her, when Mother Frances called me hastily from the room. I had told her Eva's history, and I felt from her manner that she had something of importance to say concerning her.

"Sister," said the superioress, "there is a gentleman in the convent parlor, and he has sent in his card. See, it is Lord Montford."

"O Mother Frances! what shall we do? what can we say to him? He has, then, traced poor Eva here!"

"Let us first discover his errand, and then we will act as seems best."

When we entered the parlor, Lord Montford rose, and when he addressed us, his voice trembled.

"May I ask," he began, "if a lady who some time since obtained shelter at the hospital, is still here? I have traced her here; can I be allowed to see her?"

"Lord Montford," said Mother Frances, "Eva's history is well known to me; and I have no hesitation in saying that, while this roof shelters her, she shall be safe from your further deceptions."

"Nay, you mistake, Rev. Mother, I am come to offer Eva the only reparation in my power. As you know my errors, concealment is useless. My first wife is dead, and I am come to make her my own again."

It took a long time to prepare Eva for this news; I dreaded it. She was so near the verge of the grave, that I feared the least agitation would be fatal. She bore it calmly; and when I had told her, Lord Montford entered the room, and I left them together.

Would, dear reader, that I could tell you, as the old story-books do, that Eva lived long and happily; but alas! no; she died three weeks after this, reconciled to God and to the church.

Eva Lady Montford lies in her quiet grave; violets are growing where her bright head was laid low. The winds chant drearily among the trees that shelter her tomb; and if you visit it when the morning sun gilds the flowers, or the moon silvers the leaves, you will always meet there one who, if he sinned deeply, has repented more deeply still.

From the wind that sighs over Eva's grave, comes there, my dear young reader, no warning to you? Is there no secret hoarded in that heart of yours, that a mother's eye has never penetrated; and if so, will it lead to your happiness in this world or the next? Ah! no; concealment or deception in the end works misery, let the cause be what it may. A pure and open heart before God, and a just and blameless one before the world, is my prayer for you.