CHAPTER XXXIII.
ALFRED ELLERTON’S STORY.
Alfred Ellerton raised the fair face that was hidden upon his bosom, and tenderly kissed the rich, full lips of his wife; then wiping the tears from her splendid eyes, said:
“Rose, my wife, how came you here?”
She smiled, such a sweet, rare smile, as his tender words fell upon her ears, and fondly replied:
“Alfred, I forget everything now that I am here, and you call me by that dearest name—wife; and I would fain ignore all the past. But am I truly your wife?”
“Yes, dear, if you choose to remain such, after so many years of cruel desertion on my part. Why do you ask?” he added, a heavy frown clouding his brow.
“Why! Because all this weary time I have believed that I was a ruined, abandoned woman; that you had taken from me the dearest treasure a woman possesses—my honor—and then left me to bear my shame alone; that you had won my heart’s best affections but to trample them beneath your feet, and worse than all else—left my child fatherless, and without a name.”
“Hush, Rose, hush!” said the husband, soothingly, for she was becoming terribly excited, as the agony of years rushed over her heart and almost crushed her anew.
“I know all that you have suffered, my poor darling,” he said; “but listen, and I will make everything as clear as noonday. I will tell you all that has happened to me since I last saw your dear face. Sit here, dear, and calm yourself, for it is a long story.”
He placed her in a chair, but remained standing by her side, holding her hand in his own. Then he said:
“You are my own true wife, and have been for over twenty-five years, though I myself have sometimes feared that you had freed yourself from me during the years of our separation.
“You remember, doubtless, the day I received a letter calling me away on business. I went, bidding you a fond ‘good-by,’ but expecting to see you again in two or three days at most. My business took me aboard a vessel, where I met a friend who was just ready to sail for California; or, at least, he was ready to start in a few days. He urged me strongly to accompany him, and I was sorely tempted to give him the desired promise, for he pictured in glowing colors the fortunes so easily made in the land of gold. Finally I left him, promising to go home and talk it over with you, and if you consented, I would join him before the vessel sailed.
“It seemed such a good opportunity that I longed to improve it. And then I was so poor! I could not give you the comforts and luxuries which you seemed so fitted to enjoy, and I knew it would take years to gain them plodding on in the old routine of life. All the way home I planned how I would work and save the year or two I intended to spend in California—for I thought that sufficient time in which to make a fortune where gold was so plenty. I would deny myself everything, that I might gain a competence for my darlings; then home again on the wings of love, and the earnest welcome I should receive. Then I would build a palace fit for my treasures, and spend the rest of our days in peace and plenty.
“Charming picture! But how quickly its bright and glowing colors vanished and faded from my sight!
“On entering our little home, eager to clasp you and my boy to my heart, I found it deserted. I searched every room, but no wife’s glad smile greeted me; no baby’s chubby arms were outstretched, eager to come to me. At last, in your work-basket, I found a closely written letter, saying that you had gone back to your home to stay—that you did not love me, as I had believed you did, and that you could not longer live in the presence of one who constantly made you unhappy. You said you never wished to see my face again, and that I was free from that moment to go where I chose. You closed your cruel letter by positively forbidding me to seek you, saying you should not see me if I did; neither would you allow me to send you money, as you could not look for support from one whom you did not love.
“Hush, dearest, till I have finished,” he said, as she would have interrupted him.
“I know now that you did not pen one word of it; but I will tell you my story, and then you shall relate yours. You can imagine something of what my feelings were! At first I was stunned, overwhelmed; then grief filled my heart, and I was nearly crazy. Once I resolved to go to you and demand an explanation; but I knew your proud, willful spirit, and felt assured it would be of no avail. Ah! if I had but obeyed the instincts of my heart then, all this sorrow would have been spared us.
“But my own pride began to assert itself, and, in a fit of desperation, I hastily packed a few things in a valise, and, with an almost breaking heart, I went back to the city, found my friend, and started for California.
“There I toiled for many long, weary years, growing rich and prosperous beyond my most sanguine expectations, though I was often starving for a morsel of love—for a kiss and a smile from your sweet lips, and a glimpse of my baby boy. I still loved you, and clung to you, in spite of what I believed you to be—false!
“At last, about seven years ago, a man came among us who had lived near your former home. I immediately sought him and inquired after you and my boy. He told me that which made my blood boil, my heart furious, and realized who the schemer was—your vile brother! He said you returned home the day after I departed, and found a letter from me awaiting you, saying that I was tired of you, pronouncing our marriage a farce, telling you that I did not love you, and had left you forever. In a frenzy of grief and passion, you flew to the little casket where you had always kept our marriage certificate; but, lo! it was gone.
“I questioned him closely, asking how you had happened to leave home while I was gone. He said that you had received a letter the very day I left, saying that your father was ill, and you, somewhat alarmed at such an unusual occurrence, hastened to go to him; but finding him more comfortable than you expected, you returned the next day but one, fearing I would miss you.
“You found I had been there and gone, leaving, as you believed, that heartless letter behind me. He said you fainted when you read it; and only revived when the cries of the little one attracted the attention of some one passing, who entered, and came to your assistance. Soon after you disappeared, and were only heard from when your brother returned from abroad, bringing our boy with him, saying he had found you in Naples, where, dying, you left Ralph to his care.
“These were the facts which I gathered from the man. I immediately closed up my affairs and started for home, nearly heart-broken at the loss of you, and the knowledge of what you must have suffered, believing me false, and resolving to claim my boy, and bring to justice the villain who had thus heartlessly plotted our ruin.
“I realized at once why he had done this wicked thing—that he was resolved to destroy the whole family of Ellertons (even to the sacrificing of his only sister), because one of them had married the girl he loved.
“The day I arrived in ——, I went directly to Squire Moulton’s house. I was passing up the avenue, with bitter and revengeful thoughts in my heart, when I heard voices within a sort of arbor near by. I stopped to listen, and glancing between the branches I saw you (oh, how it makes my heart ache even now to think of it!) in soiled and tattered garments, pleading with your brother to take you to his heart again, and to give you your child.
“I knew you at once by your voice, and by the haughty grace with which you lifted your head when he called you a beggar, and you answered:
“‘I am no beggar!’
“I nearly betrayed myself then, for I was about rushing forward to clasp you in my arms, when I remembered that you would not know me, for I had disguised myself so that your brother should not recognize me until I had sounded him, and found out where my boy was. So I resolved to listen to what passed between you. I crouched among the bushes, and there remained until you fled from the place; then, when the heartless man followed, I showed myself, and half cajoled, half threatened him, into hiring me to steal those pictures from you.
“He engaged me, and I immediately followed you, saw you when you fainted, picked you up, took you into a cab, and while we were being driven to a house where I knew you would find kind attention, I took the locket from your bosom, leaving a fifty-dollar bill in its place, together with a few words, telling you to go to the post-office in a fortnight.
“Oh! how I longed to wait until you revived, and tell you all. But I resolved that I would not reveal myself until I could bring you the proof of our marriage.
“I knew well enough that your brother had stolen it, and I felt assured I could get it from him before many weeks passed. But I followed him from place to place, never gaining the opportunity I sought.
“At length he left the country, and I, determined not to be thwarted, immediately followed. I have at last succeeded in my efforts, and here is our marriage certificate, proving beyond a doubt that you are my lawful wife. I got discouraged many and many a time, and once went to the house where I had taken you when you fainted, but you were gone, and had left no address behind you, so I lost track of you, though I did not cease to blame myself for leaving you so long in ignorance of the true state of affairs. I ought to have gone to you in the beginning, and thus saved you all these years of suffering. Can you—will you forgive me, that I did not?”
She smiled, and sealed his forgiveness with a kiss as he bent over her; then said, eagerly:
“But the pictures, Alf; where are they? You did not give them to him?”
He too smiled as she uttered the old, fond name, and replied:
“I took them to an artist, had them faithfully copied, then had another brooch made exactly like the original, and carried it to your scheming brother, who immediately threw it into the fire. But here is the original, safe and uninjured for you.”
He drew it from his bosom, unfastened from his neck the chain to which he had it attached, and clasped it around her own.
She seized it with eager, trembling fingers, opened it, and gazed with tender, tearful eyes upon the faces within. Then turning to her husband, she wailed:
“But, Alfred, where is our boy? Oh! I have not seen him since I left him long years ago in Naples, though I begged and pleaded with my brother to take me to him.”
There was a look of pain upon Alfred Ellerton’s fine face as he raised his eyes and glanced around upon the group in front of them.
“Here! Oh! mother! mother!” suddenly exclaimed a choking voice; and Ralph suddenly rushed forward, threw himself at his mother’s feet, and hid his tearful face in her lap.
She raised his head and drew it to her bosom, put back the heavy black locks from his brow, and gazed earnestly into his flushed face. Then suddenly her mother’s heart spoke, and she cried, in tenderest accents:
“Oh, my boy! oh, my boy! can it be? Yes, it must be; my heart tells me that you are my child—my long-lost deserted boy!”
She rained kisses upon his brow, cheeks, and lips, while her own fast-dropping tears mingled with his.
Alfred Ellerton regarded them with looks at once fond and proud, stern and sorrowful, until at length he said: “Has my son no word for his father?”
Ralph rose to his feet at once, while the hot blood mounted to his brow.
He realized that his father knew what he was—that all his plots and evil deeds were known to him; and he stood sad and humble before him, his heart nearly bursting with shame and sorrow for what he had done—also with joy and gratitude that he had found a father and a mother, and that there was no longer a doubtful stain upon his name.
He raised his eyes, and met the sorrowful gaze of his parent, and stretching out his hands, as if beseeching his love and forgiveness, he uttered the one word:
“Father!”
“My son!”
Their hands clasped, and father and son wept tears which were an honor to their manhood, and the sight of which caused other eyes to fill.