CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MARQUIS.
But the events of the night are not over. As soon as I had seenmademoiselle comfortably ensconced in my old room up stairs, I returnedto the sitting room, where the marquis still lingered. He was standingin the window when I entered, and turned with quite a bright face togreet me. But that brightness soon vanished as he met my glance, and itwas with something like dismay that he commented upon my paleness, andasked if I were ill.
I told him I was ill at ease; that events of a most serious nature weretranspiring in the house; that he was concerned in them heavily,grievously; that I could not rest till I had taken him into myconfidence, and shown him upon what a precipice he was standing.
He evidently considered me demented, but as he looked at me longer, andnoted my steady and unflinching gaze, he gradually turned pale, anduttered, in irrepressible anxiety, the one word--"Honora!"
"Miss Urquhart is well," I began, "and is as ignorant as yourself of theshadows that hover over her. She is all innocence and truth, sir. Honor,candor and purity dwell in her heart, and happiness in her eyes. Yet isthat happiness threatened by the worst calamity that can befall asensitive human being, and if you hold her in esteem--"
"_Ma foi!_" he broke in, with violent impetuosity. "I do not esteem her;I love her. What are these dreadful secrets? How is her happinessthreatened? Tell me without hesitation, for I have entreated her to bemy wife, and she--"
"She thinks it is a parent's whim, alone, which keeps her fromresponding fully to your wishes," I finished. "But madame's objectionshave deeper ground than that. Miserable woman as she is, she has someidea of honor left. She knew her daughter could not safely marry into ahigh and noble family, and so--"
"What is this you say?" came again in the quick and hurried tones ofdespair. "Mrs. Urquhart--"
"Wait," I broke in. "You call her Mrs. Urquhart, but she has no claim tothat title. She and Edwin Urquhart have never been married."
He recoiled sharply, with a gesture of complete disbelief.
"How do you know?" he demanded. "They are strangers to you. I have knownthem in their own home. All the world credits their marriage, and--"
"All the world does not know what transpired in this house sixteen yearsago, when Edwin Urquhart stopped here with his bride on his way toFrance."
He stared, seemed shaken, but presently hastened to remark:
"Ah, madame, you acknowledge that she is his wife. You said bride. Onedoes not call a woman by that name without acknowledging a marriageservice."
"The woman he brought here was his bride. Edwin Urquhart is no commoncriminal, Marquis de la Roche-Guyon."
It was hard to make him understand. It was hard to undermine his trust,step by step, inch by inch, till he found no hope, no shred of doubt tocling to. But it had to be done. If only to avert worse calamities andmore heart-rending scenes, he must know at once, and before he tookanother step in relation to Miss Urquhart, just what her position was,and to what shame and suffering he was subjecting himself by acceptingher love and pledging his own.
The task was not done till I had shown him this diary of mine, andrelated all that had just occurred in the room below. Then, indeed, heseemed to comprehend his position, and completely crushed andhorror-stricken, subsided into a dreadful silence before me, the linesof years coming into his face as I watched him, till he became scarcelyrecognizable for the lordly and light-hearted cavalier whose dreams oflove I had so fearfully interrupted some half hour or so before. Fromthis lethargy of despair I did not seek to rouse him. I knew when he hadanything to say he would speak, and till he had faced the situation andhad made up his mind to his duty, I could wait his decision with perfectconfidence in his fine nature and nice sense of honor.
You may, therefore, imagine my feelings when, after a long delay--anhour at least--he suddenly remarked:
"We have been a proud family. From time immemorial we have heldourselves aloof from whatever could be thought to stain our honor orimpeach our good name. I cannot drag the unfathomable disgrace of allthese crimes into a record so pure as that of the Roche-Guyon race.Though I had wished to bestow upon my wife a name and position of whichshe could be proud, I must content myself with merely giving her thecomfort of a true heart and such support as can be provided by a lovingbut unaccustomed hand."
"Marquis--" I commenced.
But he cut my words short with a firm and determined gesture.
"My name is Louis de Fontaine," he explained. "Henceforth my cousin willbe known as the marquis. It is the least I can do for the old Frenchhonor."
'Twas so simply, so determinedly done that I stood aghast as much at theserenity of his manner as the act which required such depth of sacrificefrom one of his traditions and rearing.
"Then you continue to consider yourself the suitor of Miss Urquhart," Istammered. "You will marry her, though her parents may be called upon toperish upon the scaffold in an ignominy as great as ever befell twoguilty mortals?"
The answer came brokenly, but with unwavering strength:
"Did you not say that she was innocent? Is she to be crushed beneath theguilt of her parents? Am I to take the last prop from one so soon to bebereft of all the supports upon which she has leaned from infancy? If Icling to her, she may live through her horror and shame; but should Ifail her--great heavens! would we not have another life to answer forbefore God? Besides," he added, with the simplicity which marked hiswhole bearing, "I love her. I could not do otherwise if I would."
To this final word I could make no rejoinder. With a reverence unmingledwith the taint of compassion, I took my departure, and being anxious bythis time to know how my young charge was bearing her seclusion, I wentto the room where I had left her, and softly opened the door.