The Bay State Monthly. Volume 2, No. 6, March, 1885

"I hope not. What is the use of illusions?"

"Yes, what?"

"Well, Elizabeth, it is not I that have disturbed them this time; you must thank him for that."

"Him?"

"Yes, he has come. I have just been leaning over the banisters, and saw him come in." Elizabeth did not look dreamy now. "He did not come forward at all in the modest, charming way of the other one, which you know irresistably wins hearts," went on Mrs. Eveleigh; "he marched along straight into the parlor and asked to see you, just as if he owned the house and all that was in it. So he does own somebody in it, I am afraid, poor child."

The girl's face was white, her violet eyes looked black and shadowed by heavy lines.

"Is it—?" she began.

"Oh, yes, my dear, it is your husband. He has come to claim you, no doubt. If he cannot get the wife he wants, he will have somebody at the head of his table. And, then, my dear, you know you are an heiress, not a person of no account."

"Nonsense," returned the other; "the marriage is not proven. He may have come with news."

At this moment a servant brought up Archdale's card. On it he had written a line begging to see her. Elizabeth showed it to her companion.

"See," she said, "you are mistaken. Probably we are free, and he wants to tell me of it first,—first of anyone here, I mean. That is not arbitrary, nor as you said, at all."

"Very well, dear; only, don't crow till you are out of the woods. Would you like to have me receive him with you?"

Elizabeth hesitated.

"No. I thank you," she said. "You are very kind, but perhaps it would be better to go by myself."

"As you like." And Mrs. Eveleigh's pride laid a strong hand upon her swelling curiosity, so that with an indifference well acted she sat down to her work. But as she lost the sound of Elizabeth's step on the stairs she rose again and looked breathlessly over the banisters, trying to catch the greeting that went on in the room below. But either through accident, or because the girl knew the character of her companion, the door closed behind Elizabeth, and Mrs. Eveleigh heard nothing. If she had done so, the greeting was so simple that she would have gained from it no clue of what was to follow. Archdale came forward, bowed low, and held out his hand to her as simply as Katie's husband might have greeted Katie's friend, and possibly have brought her some message. Elizabeth felt this as she laid her hand in his for a moment, a smile of relief and anticipation came over her face; and in reply to his question she answered: "Yes, we are all well, thank you." It was after the first moment that the embarrassment began, when at her look of hope and questioning his eyes fell a moment, and when raised again gave no answer to it. Both realized then how hard fate had been to them. But even yet Elizabeth would not quite give up the cause. She steadied herself a little by her hand on the back of the chair before she sat down in it, asking with the smile still on her lips, but not spontaneous as before.

"You have brought good news?"

"No," he said. "I am afraid you will not call it good news." He looked away as he spoke, but after a moment turned toward her, and their eyes met. Each read the meaning in the other's face too plainly to make reserve as to the real state of things possible. "The cause of all this cruel delay is explained at last," he went on. "The Sea-Gull on her way back to England was wrecked. All Bolston's papers are lost. He had a fever brought on by cold and exposure, and after he had lain for weeks in an Irish inn, he waked into life with scarcely his sense of identity come back to him. He writes that he has begun to recover himself, however, and that by the time we send the papers again, new copies, he shall be able to attend to the business as well as ever. For our work, he might as well be at the bottom of the sea."

Elizabeth turned pale.

"When did you learn this?" she asked.

"A fortnight ago. I ought to have told you of it before, but I hated to pain you."

She looked at him firmly. Then smiled a little through her paleness.

"Yes, it does pain me," she said. "But I don't despair. We are not married, you and I, Mr. Archdale, and I wish Katie would throw aside her nonsensical scruples. What matter whether Mr. Harwin was a minister? Why will she not let it go that it was all fun, and marry you? I think she ought."

"I think so, too," he said. He did not add his suspicions that Katie was acting upon the covert suggestions of his father which had so disturbed her conscience that she declared she must be satisfied that the whole thing was a falsehood of Harwin's.

"I wish we could find him," said Elizabeth.

"So do I", answered Archdale under his breath. She looked at him quickly and away again, feeling that her last wish had not been a wise one. "Yet" pursued Archdale, "you see that if Harwin's story is false, the whole matter drops there, and that would make it simpler, to say the least of it. Katie does not like the idea of having the court obliged to decide about it. She says it seems like a divorce."

Elizabeth flushed.

"Do I like it?" she said. "But anything is better than this."

"Yes," he answered, then seemed as if he would like to take back his frank confession. She smiled at him.

"Don't try to soften it, Mr. Archdale. We both mean that. You speak honestly because you are honest and understand what I want, too; because you are wise enough to believe in the absurdity of this whole affair."

"You did not think it absurd at first," he answered.

"I was overwhelmed. I had no time to consider."

"No," he said, "only time to feel."

"Don't speak of that day," and she shuddered. "If I were to live a thousand years, there never could be another so horrible."

He had risen to go. He stood a moment silent. Then:

"You are so reassuring," he said. "Yet, how can either of us be assured? Perhaps you are my wife."

"Never," she said, and looked at him with a sudden coldness in her face.

"If a minister has married us," he answered, "nobody has yet unmarried us."

The gravity of her expression impressed him.

"God has not married us," she said. "I shall never admit that." There was a moment's silence. "Poor Katie!" she added.

"Yes, poor Katie,—and Mistress Royal."

Elizabeth smiled sadly.

"You remember that?" she asked. "It would not be strange if you forgot everybody but Katie, and yourself."

"It would be strange if I forgot you, since you are,—what you are."

"I foresee," she answered, "that we shall be good friends. By and by, when you and Katie are well established in your beautiful new house I shall visit you there; Katie invited me long ago, and you and I are going to be good friends."

Chapter XII—Perplexities

Although Elizabeth had been so brave before Archdale, yet as soon as he had gone she sank into her chair and covered her face with her hands, as if by this she could shut out the visions of him from her mind. She lived in the land of the Puritans, and Indiana had not been discovered. She knew that those words which ought to have been so sacred but which she had spoken so lightly were no longer light to her, but that in the depths of her heart they weighed like lead and gave her a sense of guilt that she could not throw off. Even if they proved nothing in law, they had already brought a terrible punishment, and if,—if—. With a low cry she started up. Life had grown black again. But she was not accustomed to give way to emotions, still less to forebodings. In a few moments she went back to her embroidery, and to Mrs. Eveleigh.

Archdale left Mr. Royal's house with a new comprehension of the woman he had married in jest. Somehow, he had always considered that Katie and he were really the only sufferers. Young, petted, rich, and handsome, it had not come forcibly home to him before, however much his courtesy might have assumed it, that this young woman whom, though he thought she did well enough, he had no high opinion of, could actually suffer in the idea of being his wife. But he saw it now through all her brave bearing, and his vanity received its death-wound that morning.

Three days afterwards he was at Katie's home; he tried to feel that he had the old right to visit her. "Your friend is so brave," he said, "she puts courage into me. Katie, why don't you feel so, too?"

"Ah!" said the girl looking at him tearfully, "how can you ask that? It is she who has the right to you, and I have not."

"She wants it as little as mortal can," he answered. "I think except as your betrothed she does not even like me very well, although she was so kind when I came away." And he repeated Elizabeth's parting prophesy.