Baron Trigault's Vengeance [125]
his assumed part, and revealed himself in his true character. He declared he bitterly regretted that our love affair had ended so disastrously. It was deplorable to think that so happily conceived and so skilfully conducted a scheme should have terminated in bloodshed. And the blow had fallen just as he fancied he had reached the goal; just as he thought he would reap the reward of his labor. In a few weeks' more time he would undoubtedly have gained sufficient influence over me to persuade me to elope with him. This would, of course, have caused a great scandal; the next day there would have been a family conclave; a compromise would have been effected, and finally, a marriage arranged with a large dowry, to hush up the affair. 'And I should now be a rich man,' he added, 'a very rich man--I should be rolling through the streets of Paris in my carriage, instead of being on board this cursed ship, eating salt cod twice a day, and living on charity.'
"Ah! it was no longer possible to doubt. The truth was as clear as daylight. I had never been loved, not even an hour, not even a moment. The loving letters which had blinded me, the protestations of affection which had deceived me, had been addressed to my father's millions, not to myself. And not unfrequently I saw Arthur Gordon's face darken, as he talked with evident anxiety about what he could do to earn a living for himself and me in America. 'I have had trouble enough to get on alone,' he grumbled. 'What will it be now? To burden myself with a penniless wife! What egregious folly! And yet I couldn't have acted differently--I was compelled to do it.' Why had he been compelled to do it? why had he not acted differently?--that was what I vainly puzzled my brain to explain. However, his gloomy fears of poverty were not realized. A delightful surprise awaited him at New York. A relative had recently died, leaving him a legacy of fifty thousand dollars--a small fortune. I hoped that he would now cease his constant complaints, but he seemed even more displeased than before. 'Such is the irony of fate,' he repeated again and again. 'With this money, I might easily have married a wife worth a hundred thousand dollars, and then I should be rich at last!' After that, I had good reason to expect that I should soon be forsaken--but no, shortly after our arrival, he married me. Had he done so out of respect for his word? I believed so. But, alas! this marriage was the result of calculation, like everything else he did.
"We were living in New York, when one evening he came home, looking very pale and agitated. He had a French newspaper in his hand. 'Read this,' he said, handing it to me. I took the paper as he bade me, and read that my brother had not been killed, that he was improving, and that his recovery was now certain. And as I fell on my knees, bursting into tears, and thanking God for freeing me from such terrible remorse, he exclaimed: 'We are in a nice fix! I advise you to congratulate yourself! 'From that time forward, I noticed he displayed the feverish anxiety of a man who feels that he is constantly threatened with some great danger. A few days afterward, he said to me: 'I cannot endure this! Have our trunks ready to-morrow, and we will start South. Instead of calling ourselves Gordon, we'll travel under the name of Grant.' I did not venture to question him. He had quite mastered me by his cruel tyranny, and I was accustomed to obey him like a slave in terror of the lash. However, during our long journey, I learned the cause of our flight and change of name.
"'Your brother, d--n him,' he said, one day, 'is hunting for me everywhere! He wants to kill me or to deliver me up to justice, I don't know which. He pretends that I tried to murder him!' It was strange; but Arthur Gordon, who was bravery personified, and who exposed himself again and again to the most frightful dangers, felt a wild, unreasoning, inconceivable fear of my brother. It was this dread that had decided him to burden himself with me. He feared that if he left
"Ah! it was no longer possible to doubt. The truth was as clear as daylight. I had never been loved, not even an hour, not even a moment. The loving letters which had blinded me, the protestations of affection which had deceived me, had been addressed to my father's millions, not to myself. And not unfrequently I saw Arthur Gordon's face darken, as he talked with evident anxiety about what he could do to earn a living for himself and me in America. 'I have had trouble enough to get on alone,' he grumbled. 'What will it be now? To burden myself with a penniless wife! What egregious folly! And yet I couldn't have acted differently--I was compelled to do it.' Why had he been compelled to do it? why had he not acted differently?--that was what I vainly puzzled my brain to explain. However, his gloomy fears of poverty were not realized. A delightful surprise awaited him at New York. A relative had recently died, leaving him a legacy of fifty thousand dollars--a small fortune. I hoped that he would now cease his constant complaints, but he seemed even more displeased than before. 'Such is the irony of fate,' he repeated again and again. 'With this money, I might easily have married a wife worth a hundred thousand dollars, and then I should be rich at last!' After that, I had good reason to expect that I should soon be forsaken--but no, shortly after our arrival, he married me. Had he done so out of respect for his word? I believed so. But, alas! this marriage was the result of calculation, like everything else he did.
"We were living in New York, when one evening he came home, looking very pale and agitated. He had a French newspaper in his hand. 'Read this,' he said, handing it to me. I took the paper as he bade me, and read that my brother had not been killed, that he was improving, and that his recovery was now certain. And as I fell on my knees, bursting into tears, and thanking God for freeing me from such terrible remorse, he exclaimed: 'We are in a nice fix! I advise you to congratulate yourself! 'From that time forward, I noticed he displayed the feverish anxiety of a man who feels that he is constantly threatened with some great danger. A few days afterward, he said to me: 'I cannot endure this! Have our trunks ready to-morrow, and we will start South. Instead of calling ourselves Gordon, we'll travel under the name of Grant.' I did not venture to question him. He had quite mastered me by his cruel tyranny, and I was accustomed to obey him like a slave in terror of the lash. However, during our long journey, I learned the cause of our flight and change of name.
"'Your brother, d--n him,' he said, one day, 'is hunting for me everywhere! He wants to kill me or to deliver me up to justice, I don't know which. He pretends that I tried to murder him!' It was strange; but Arthur Gordon, who was bravery personified, and who exposed himself again and again to the most frightful dangers, felt a wild, unreasoning, inconceivable fear of my brother. It was this dread that had decided him to burden himself with me. He feared that if he left