Marion Arleigh's Penance by Charlotte M. Braeme

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EVERYDAY LIFE LIBRARY No. 5
Published by EVERYDAY LIFE, Chicago

[Illustration]

Marion Arleigh's Penance

BY CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

_Author of "Dora Thorne," "Madolin's Lover," "Lord Elesmere's Wife," "A
Rose in Thorns," "The Belle of Lynn," Etc._

CHAPTER I.

Three o'clock on a warm June afternoon. The great heat has caused
something like a purple haze to cloud over the deep blue of the sapphire
sky. There is not one breath of wind to stir the leaves or cool the
flushed faces of those whose duties call them out on this sultry June
day. Away in the deep green heart of the broad land broad streams are
flowing; in the very heart of the green woods there is cool, silent
shade; by the borders of the sea, where the waves break with a low,
musical murmur, there is a cooling breeze; but here in London on this
bright June afternoon there is nothing to lessen the white, intense
heat, and even the flowers exposed for sale in the streets are drooping,
the crimson roses look thirsting for dew, the white lilies are fading,
the bunches of mignonette give forth a fragrance sweet as the "song of
the swan in dying," and the golden sun pours down its flood of rich,
warm light over all.

Three o'clock, and the express leaves Euston Square for Scotland at a
quarter past. The heat in the station is very great, the noise almost
deafening; huge engines are pouring out volumes of steam, the shrill
whistle sounds, porters are hurrying to and fro. The quarter-past three
train is a great favorite--more people travel by that than by any
other--and the platform is crowded by ladies, children, tourists,
commercial gentlemen. There are very few of the humbler class. Ten
minutes past three. The passengers are taking their places. The goddess
of discord and noise reigns supreme, when from one of the smaller doors
there glides, with soft, almost noiseless step, the figure of a woman.

She wore a long gray cloak that entirely shrouded her figure; a black
veil hid her face so completely that not one feature could be seen. When
she entered the station the change from the blinding glare outside to
the shade within seemed to bewilder her. She stood for a few moments
perfectly motionless; then she looked around her in a cautious, furtive
manner, as though she would fain see if there was any one she
recognized.

But in that busy crowd every one was intent on his or her business; no
one had any attention to spare for her. She went with the same noiseless
step to the booking office. Most of the passengers had taken their
tickets; she was one of the very last. She looked at the clerk in a
vague, helpless way.

"Where to, ma'am?" he asked, for she had only said, "I want a ticket."

"Where to?" she repeated. "Where does the train stop?"

"It will stop at Chester and Crewe."

"Then give me a ticket for Crewe," she said, and, with a smile on his
face, the clerk complied. She took the ticket and he gave her the
change. She swept it into her purse with an absent, preoccupied manner,
and he turned with a smile to one of his fellow-clerks, touching his
forehead significantly.

"She is evidently on the road for Colney Hatch," he observed. "If I had
said the train would stop at Liliput, in my opinion she would have said,
'Give me a ticket for there.'"

But the object of his remarks, all unconscious of them, had gone on to
the platform. With the same appearance of not wishing to be seen, she
looked into the carriages.

There was one almost empty; she entered it, took her seat in the corner,
drew her veil still more closely over her face, and never raised her
eyes.

A quarter past three; the bell rings loudly. There is a shrill whistle,
and then, slowly at first, the train moves out of the station. A few
minutes more, and the long walls, the numerous arches, are all left
behind, and they are out in the blinding sunlight, hurrying through the
clear, golden day as though life and death depended upon its speed. On,
on, past the green meadows, where the hedgerows were filled with
woodbines and wild roses, and the clover filled the air with fragrance;
past gray old churches whose tapering spires pointed to heaven; past
quiet homesteads sleeping in the sunshine; past silent, quaint villages
and towns; past broad rivers and dark woods. Yet never once did the
silent woman raise her eyes, never once did she look from the windows at
the glowing landscape that lay on either side. Once, and once only, she
caught a glimpse of the golden sunlight, and she turned away with a
faint, sick, shuddering sigh.

Her fellow-passengers looked wonderingly at her. She never moved; her
hands were tightly clasped, as one whose thoughts were all despairing:
Once a lady addressed her, but she never heard the words. Silent, mute,
and motionless, she might have been a marble statute, only that every
now and then a quick, faint shiver came over her.

On through the fair, English counties, and the heat of the sun grew
less. The birds came from their shelter in the leafy trees and began to
sing; the flowers yielded their loveliest perfumes, and the sweet summer
wind that blew in at the carriage windows was like the breath of
Paradise.

Still she had neither spoken nor moved. Then the train stopped, and the
sudden cessation from all sound made her start up suddenly, as though
roused from painful dreams.

"Have we--have we passed Crewe?" she asked.

And then her fellow-passengers looked wonderingly at her, for the voice
was like no other sound--no human sound; it was a faint gasp, as of one
who had escaped a deadly peril, and was still faint with the remembrance
of it.

"No," replied a gentleman; "we have not reached Crewe yet. They are
stopping for water, I should imagine. This is supposed to be one of the
most out-of-the-way villages in England. It is called Redcliffe."

She gave one look through the open windows. There, behind the woods, a
little village lay stretched and half hidden by the thick green foliage.

"I want to get out here," she said, in the same faint voice.

Her fellow-travelers looked at each other, and their glances said
plainly, "There is something strange about her; let her go." A gentleman
called the guard, and the woman, whose face was so carefully veiled, put
something in his hand that shone like gold.

"Let me get out here," she said, and without a word he unlocked the
door, and she left the carriage. Those who remained behind breathed more
freely after she had gone. That strange, mute presence had had a
depressing effect on them all.

She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but made her way
quickly to the green fields, where the golden silence of summer reigned.
She walked there with hasty steps, looking behind her to see if she were
pursued.

She opened the white gates and went into a field where the tall trees
threw a deep shade. She sat down then, or, rather, flung herself on the
ground with a vehement cry, like one who had suffered from a deadly pain
without daring to murmur--one loud cry, and, from the sound of it, it
was easy to tell that it came from a broken heart. She bowed her head
against the rugged bark of a tree, and then fell into a deep slumber.
The wearied limbs seemed to relax. To sleep as she did she must have
been watching long.

When she opened her eyes again the afternoon had gone and the shadows of
evening were falling. It was still bright and warm, but she shivered
like one seized with mortal cold.

She rose and made her way to the quiet little village. It was almost out
of the world, so completely was it hidden by the trees and hills. She
reached the quiet little street at last. She looked at the windows of
the houses, but the notice she wanted to see was not in any of them. At
the end of the street she came to a narrow lane that led to the woods;
half-way down the lane was a small cottage half buried in elder trees.

In the window hung a small placard--"Rooms to let." She knocked at the
door, which was opened by a kindly-looking elderly woman.

"You have rooms to let?" said the faint, low voice. "I want two."

Then followed a few words as to terms, etc., and the transaction was
concluded.

"Shall my son fetch your luggage?" asked the landlady, Mrs. Hirste.

"I have no luggage," she replied; then seeing something like a doubtful
expression on the kindly face, she added; "I will pay you a month's
money in advance."

That was quite satisfactory. Mrs. Hirste led the way to a pretty little
parlor, which she showed with no little pride.

"This is the other room," she said, throwing open the door of a pretty
white chamber. "And now, is there anything I can get for you?"

"No," replied the strange, weak voice. "I will ask when I want anything;
for the present I only desire to be alone."

Mrs. Hirste withdrew, and her lodger immediately locked the door. Then
she threw off the gray cloak and thick veil.

"I am alone," she said--"alone and safe. Oh, if my wretched life be
worth gratitude, thank God! thank God!"

She repeated the words with a burst of hysterical weeping. She knelt by
the little white bed and buried her face in her hands. Deep, bitter sobs
shook her whole frame; from her white lips came a low moan that
betokened anguish too great for words. Then, when the passion of grief
had subsided and she was exhausted, she rose and stood erect. Then one
saw how superbly beautiful she was, although her face was stained with
tears.

She was still young, not more than three-and-twenty; her figure was of
rarest symmetry; when the great world knew her it had been accustomed to
say that her figure resembled that of the celebrated Diana for the
Louvre; there was the marvelous, free-spirited grace and matchless
perfection.

She had the face and head of a young queen, a face of peerless beauty; a
white, broad brow that might have worn a crown; eyes of the dark hue of
the violets, with long fringes that rested on a cheek perfect in shape
and color; brows straight, like those of a Greek goddess; lips sweet and
proud--they were white now, and quivering, but the beauty of the mouth
was unchanged.

So she stood in all the splendor of her grand loveliness. There is over
her whole figure and face that indescribable something which tells that
she is wife and mother both, that look of completed life.

The hands, so tightly clasped, are white and slender. There is no
attribute of womanly loveliness that does not belong to her.

After a time she went to the window. Great crimson roses, wet with dew,
and odorous woodbine peeped in as she opened it. The night-wind was
heavy with the perfume of the sleeping flowers, the golden stars were
shining in the sky, and she raised her pale, lovely face to the radiant
heavens.

"My God!" she prayed, "take pity on me, and before I realize what has
happened, let me die!"

"Let me die!" No other prayer went from her lips, although she sat
there from sunset until the early dawn of the new day flushed in the
glorious eastern skies.

While she sits there, with that despairing prayer rising from the depths
of her despairing heart, we will tell the story of Marian Arleigh's
penance.

CHAPTER II.

"You cannot be cruel. You cannot think it is wrong to meet me. My whole
life, with everything in it, belongs to you. If you told me to lie down
here and die at your feet, I should do so and smile. Why do you say it
is wrong, Marion?"

A lovely, child-like face was raised to the speaker.

"I do not know. I have a vague idea that anything requiring secrecy must
be wrong. Is it not so?"

He laughed.

"No, sweet. What would the great diplomatists of the world say to such a
theory? Rather try to believe that what is stolen is sweet."

She smiled, but the anxious expression still lingered on her lovely
young face. He noticed it.

"As a rule, Marion, you are quite right. Concealments are odious. But
there are exceptions--this is one--I love you; but I am only a poor
artist, struggling to make a name. You, sweet, are rich and beautiful.
From your high estate you smile upon me as a queen might smile on a
subject. You are a true heroine. You are content 'to lose the world for
love.'"

"I am content," said the girl, with a little sigh of supreme happiness;
"but I wish it were all open and straightforward. I wish you would go to
my guardian and tell him you love me. Then tell Miss Carleton. Indeed,
she would not be angry."

"Do you know what would happen if I did as you advise, Marion?" he
asked.

"Nothing would happen," she replied; "and they would be pleased to see
me happy."

"You have to learn some of the world's lessons yet," he said. "If I were
to go to Lord Ridsdale and say to him, 'My Lord, I love your ward and
she loves me,' do you know what he would do?"

"No," she replied, slowly.

"He would send for you at once, and take such measures as would prevent
me from ever seeing you again. If I were to tell him, Marion, we should
be parted forever. Could you bear that, darling?"

"No," she replied, "I could not, Allan. If you think so, we--we will
keep our secret a little longer."

"Thank you," he said, gratefully, kissing the little white hand clasped
in his. "I knew you would not be cruel, Marion. You are so heroic and
grand--so unlike other girls; you would not darken my solitary life for
an absurd scruple--you would not refuse to see me, when the sight of you
is the only sunbeam that cheers my life."

The beautiful face brightened at his words.

"You will write to me, Marion--and, darling, my heart lives on your
words--they are ever present with me. When I read one of your letters it
seems to me your voice is whispering, and that whisper makes the only
music that cheers my day. Tell me in your letters once, and once again,
that you will be my wife, that you will love me, and never care for any
one else."

"I have told you so," she said; "but if the words please you, I will
tell you over and over again, as you say. You know I love you, Allan."

"I know you are an angel!" cried the young man. "In all the wide world
there is none like you."

Then he clasped the little white hands more tightly in his own, and
whispered sweet words to her that brought a bright flush to her face and
a love light to her eyes. She drooped her head with the coy, pretty
shyness of a bird, listening to words that seemed to her all poetry and
music.

It was a pretty love scene. The lovers stood at the end of an
old-fashioned orchard; the fruit hung ripe on the trees--golden-brown
pears and purple plums, the grass under foot was thick and soft, the sun
had set, the dew was falling, and the birds had gone to rest.

The girl, standing under the trees, with downcast, blushing face and
bright, clear eyes, was lovely as a poet's dream. She was not more than
seventeen, and looked both young and childlike for that age. She had a
face fair as a summer's morning, radiant with youth and happiness.
Greuze might have painted her and immortalized her. She had a delicate
color that was like the faint flush one sees inside a rose. She had eyes
of the same beautiful blue as the purple heartsease, and great masses of
golden-brown hair that fell in rich waves on her neck and shoulders.

She was patrician from the crown of her dainty head to the little feet;
the slender, girlish figure was full of grace and symmetry, the white,
rounded throat and beautiful shoulders were fit models for a sculptor.
She had pretty white hands, with a soft, rose-leaf flush on the fingers.
She was a lovely girl, fair, high-bred and elegant, and she gave promise
of a most superb and magnificent womanhood. Such was Marion Arleigh on
this June evening. The young man by her side was handsome after a
certain style; the impression his face left upon every one was that he
was not to be trusted; his dark eyes were not frank and clear, the thin
lips were shrewd, with lines about them that betokened cruelty; it was a
face from which children shrank instinctively, and women as a rule did
not love. They stood side by side under the shade of an elder tree.
Plainly as patrician was written on her beautiful face and figure,
plebeian was imprinted on his. He was tall, but there was no high-bred
grace, no ease of manner, no courteous dignity such as distinguishes the
true English gentleman. His face expressed passion, but half a dozen
meaner emotions were there as well. None were perceptible to the girl by
his side. She thought him perfection and nothing else.

How comes Marion Arleigh, the heiress of Hanton, ward of Lord Ridsdale,
one of the proudest men in England, and pupil of Miss Carleton, to be
alone in the sweet, soft eveningtide with Allan Lyster, whose name was
not of the fairest repute among men?

If Lord Ridsdale had known it, his anger would have been without bounds;
if Miss Carleton had guessed it, she would have been too shocked ever
to have admitted Miss Arleigh in her doors again. How came she there? It
was the old story of girlish imprudence, of girlish romance and folly,
of a vivid imagination and bright, warm poetical fancy wrongly
influenced and led astray. Much may be forgiven her, for lovely Marion
Arleigh, one of the richest heiresses in England, was an orphan. No
mother's love had taught her wisdom. She had no memory of a mother's
gentle warning, or sweet and tender wisdom. Her mother died when she was
born, and her father, John Arleigh, of Hanton, did not long survive his
wife. He left his child to the care of Lady Ridsdale--his sister--but
she died when Marion was four years old, and Lord Ridsdale, not knowing
what better to do, sent his little ward to school. He thought first of
having a governess at home for her; that would have necessitated a
chaperon, and for that he was not inclined.

"Send her to school," was the advice given him by all his lady friends,
and Lord Ridsdale followed it, as being the safest and wisest plan yet
suggested to him. She was sent first to a lady's school at Brighton,
then to Paris, with Lady Livingstone's daughters, then to Miss
Carleton's, and Miss Carleton was by universal consent considered the
most efficient finishing governess in England.

Marion was very clever; she was romantic to a fault; she idealized
everything and every one with whom she came into contact. She had a
poet's soul, loving most dearly all things bright and beautiful; she was
very affectionate, very impressionable, able, generous with a queenly
lavishness, truthful, noble. Had she been trained by a careful mother,
Marion Arleigh would have been one of the noblest of women; but the best
of school training cannot compensate for the wise and loving discipline
of home. She grew up a most accomplished and lovely girl; the greatest
fault that could be found with her was that she was terribly unreal. She
knew nothing of the practical part of life. She idealized every one so
completely that she never really understood any one.

Lord Ridsdale wondered often what he was to do with this beautiful and
gifted girl when her school days were ended.

"She must be introduced to the world then," he thought; "and I fervently
hope she'll soon be married."

But as her coming to Ridsdale House would cause so great an alteration
in his way of life, he deferred that event as long as it was possible to
do so.

When Adelaide Lyster came as a governess-pupil to Miss Carleton's school
Marion Arleigh was just sixteen. Miss Lyster was not long before she
knew the rank and social importance of her beautiful young pupil.

"When you have the world at your feet," she would say to her sometimes,
"I shall ask you a favor."

"Ask me now!" said Marion, and then Miss Lyster told her how she had a
brother--a genius--an artist--whose talent equaled that of Raphael, but
that he was unknown to the world and had no one to take an interest in
his fortunes.

"One word from you when you are a great lady will be of more value to my
brother than even the praise of critics," she would say; and Miss
Arleigh, flattered by the speech, would promise that word should be
spoken. Adelaide Lyster spent long hours in talking of her brother--of
his genius, his struggles, his thirst for appreciation; the portrait she
drew of him was so beautiful that Marion Arleigh longed to know him. Her
wish was gratified at last. The drawing master who for many years had
attended the school died, and Adelaide besought Miss Carleton to engage
her brother. The astute lady was at first unwilling. Allan Lyster was
young, and she did not think a young master at all suitable. But
Adelaide represented to her that, although young, he was highly
gifted--he could teach well, and his terms were lower than most masters.

"There could be no danger," she said, "Miss Carleton's pupils were all
rich and well born--the young artist poor and unknown. They were all
educated with one idea, namely, that the end and aim of their existence
was to marry well, was to secure a title, if possible--diamonds, an
opera box, a country house and town mansion. With that idea engraven so
firmly on heart, soul and mind, it was not possible that there could be
any danger in receiving a few drawing lessons from a penniless, unknown
artist like Allan Lyster."

So Miss Carleton, for once laying aside her usual caution, engaged him,
and Adelaide Lyster told her favorite pupil as soon as the engagement
was made. The governess-pupil had laid her plans well. On her first
entrance into that high school where every girl had either riches,
beauty or high birth, Adelaide Lyster had sworn to herself to make the
best use of her opportunities, and to secure wealth at least for this
her beloved brother. Allan should marry one of the girls, and then his
fortune in life would be made. After passing them all in review she
decided on Marion Arleigh. Not only was she the wealthiest heiress, but
in her case there were no parents to interfere--no father with stern
refusal, no mother with tearful pleadings. When she was of age she could
please herself--marry Allan, if he would persuade her to do so, and then
he would be master of all her wealth. She began her management of the
somewhat difficult business with tact and diplomacy worthy of a
gray-headed diplomatist. She spoke so incessantly of her
brother--praising his genius, his great gifts--that Marion could not
help thinking of him. She studied the character of this young heiress,
and played so adroitly upon her weakness that Marion Arleigh, in her
sweet girlish simplicity, had no chance against her.

When Allan Lyster came, to all outward appearances no one could have
been more reserved; he rarely addressed his pupils, never except on
matters connected with the lesson. He never looked at them. Miss
Carleton flattered herself that she had found a treasure. Allan was not
only the cheapest master she had ever had, but he was also a model of
discretion. Yet none the less had he adopted his sister's ideas and made
up his mind to woo and win Marion Arleigh.

"It is well worth your while to try," said his sister. "There are no
parents to interfere; she will be her own mistress the very day she is
of age."

"But she is only about seventeen now," said Allan; "there will be so
long to wait."

"The prize is well worth waiting for. Half the peers in England would be
proud and thankful to win it. If you play your cards well, Allan, in one
way or another you must succeed. Let me tell you the most important
thing to do."

"What is that?" he asked, looking admiringly into his sister's face.

"Persuade her to write to you, and mind that her letters to you contain
a promise of marriage. Do you see the importance of that?"

"You are a clever woman, Adelaide; with you to help me I cannot fail."

And he did not fail. Adelaide had arranged her plans too skillfully for
that. She began by saying how much Allan admired Marion; then, seeing
the idea was not displeasing to the young heiress, she gradually told
her how he was certain to die of love for her.

If a wise mother had trained the girl, she would have been less
susceptible; as it was, the notion of a handsome young artist dying for
her was not at all unpleasant. She was seventeen, and had never had a
lover. Other girls had talked about their flirtations; nothing of the
kind had ever occurred to her. True, whenever she went out she could not
help noticing how men's eyes lingered on her face; but that one should
love her--love her so dearly as to die for her, was to her romantic
imagination strange as it was beautiful. Adelaide Lyster could play upon
her feelings and emotions skilfully as she played upon the chords of a
piano.

"I was saying to Allan yesterday how sorry I am that he ever came to
Miss Carleton's. What do you think he said?"

"I cannot tell," replied Miss Arleigh, her beautiful young face flushing
as she spoke.

"He said, ah! that he would rather love you unhappily than be blessed
with the love of a queen; he would rather look upon your face once than
gaze for years on the loveliest of all created women. How he worships
you! Are all men of genius destined to love unhappily, I wonder?"

"Is he so very unhappy?" asked the young lady, sadly.

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