Chapter XXVII: The Cleaving Curse

Through many a clime ’tis his to go,
With many a retrospection curst,
And need the solace e’en to know,
Whate’er betide, it is the worst!—_Byron._

The fate of Mr. Deville was that of Tantalus. Than Orville Deville, there never lived a man with a greater thirst of ambition, and here was the spring of wealth, rank and honor within his reach, even at his lips, yet he might not drink of its water, guarded as they were by an awful Nemesis, whose avenging arm would be raised to hurl him down to the deep dishonor of detected crime!

Called Earl of Glen Lennark, with no apparent bar to his right, he might not retain his title or enjoy his estate, yet unwilling formally and finally to renounce his claim, he took the middle course of quietly leaving Scotland, ostensibly travelling for the benefit of his wife’s health.

The winter was passed in Italy; the spring in Germany; the summer in Switzerland; and autumn saw them on their way home.

Their nine months of continental travel had been without incident in their private life worth record.

And after a moderately pleasant voyage they landed late in October at the pier of Norfolk, whence they took a packet for the Potomac river.

They reached home early on a fine morning of the first week in November.

They found all things well. The homestead and farm and prospered under the care of John Fielding as overseer, and his wife as housekeeper.

The necessity that brought the master and mistress once more to their American home was manifest—Lady Adelaide would soon again become a mother. Mr. Deville, deeply anxious for the issue of this event, surrounded her with every aid and comfort that wealth, directed by affection and skill, could provide. Adelaide, whose wounded love and woman’s pride had subsided into patience and resignation, looked forward to her second maternity without dread and without desire.

In due time, early in December, Lady Adelaide Deville became the mother of a delicate little girl, so fragile that its life was scarcely expected to hold out beyond a few hours; but it survived and grew even in its feeble infancy the loving image of its mother.

Lady Adelaide slowly regained her usual slight average of strength, and it was the week before Christmas that she was sufficiently convalescent to resume her place at the head of the breakfast-table.

The christening of the heiress was fixed for the afternoon of Christmas-day, and a party of friends and neighbors were invited to assist at the ceremony.

It was upon this occasion that the youthful parents laid off their deep mourning, and with it much of the vague gloom and dread that had lately overshadowed their lives.

Their whole house was thrown open. The two drawing-rooms, thrown into one saloon, were decorated with wreaths and festoons of holly and mistletoe, lighted up by many-colored lamps that threw a rainbow-radiance over the scene, and warmed by two fine hickory-fires, in the wide old-fashioned chimneys at opposite extremities.

The two parlors across the hall were also thrown into one, and a long table, extending the whole length of the two rooms, was adorned with an elegant service of goldplate and Sevres-china, loaded with all luxuries of our own and other climes, and lighted up by three large rainbow-chandeliers. Such preparations for a christening-festival the old woods and watersides of St. Mary’s had never seen before.

On Christmas-morning, Mr. Deville, Lady Adelaide, and their household, had attended divine service at the parish-church, and at the close had brought the aged pastor and his family home with them to a late, but sumptuous dinner.

By the time the lamps were lighted, the guests invited for the evening began to arrive, and soon filled the saloon.

Never, even in the days of her bridehood, had Lady Adelaide looked so lovely as now, when, just within the drawing-room door, she stood receiving her friends. Her pale, golden hair fell in soft, shining ringlets down each side the snowy forehead and roseate cheeks; her clear, blue eyes beamed, and her blooming lips smiled with a mother’s holy happiness. She wore a robe of rich white lace, open over a dress of pale, blue satin; and a tiara, necklace, bracelet, and brooch of pure opals, completed her rich but delicate costume.

When all the guests were seated, and the hour for the ceremony had come, the venerable pastor advanced to the centre of the room, where, beneath the radiant light of the central chandelier, stood a marble statue—the angel of the annunciation—holding in his hand the baptismal font, a vase of Parian marble, in the form of a lily.

When the minister had taken his stand, the youthful parents, and the young sponsors, with the infant, came before him and formed a crescent. The guests gathered together, making an outer semicircle. The solemnity commenced. Very impressive is always the baptism of an infant; and most imposing was now the sacred ritual in the hands of the venerable pastor.

The ceremony was well-nigh over, when the minister lifted up his voice in an extempore prayer for this “first-born daughter of the house.”

Every head was bowed and every heart was raised and every tongue engaged in that petition, when—hark!

Suddenly through the room rang a deep, bell-toned, authoritative voice, that commanded—

—“_Pause!_”

And all, struck dumb with amazement, paused.

“_The first-born daughter of Orville Deville is beyond your prayers._ _Living_, no home on earth sheltered her! _Dead_, no grave on earth received her! Born like a wild beast in a cavern, she was devoured by the wild beasts of the wilderness,” spoke the awful voice of the invisible.

A thrill of horror ran through the assembly, rousing them from the stupor of astonishment into which the first word of the unseen speaker had plunged them.

“What is this? Who is it? Where is she?” ran in startling whispers through the room.

“Look at Lady Adelaide!” exclaimed one of the guests. And all eyes were turned towards the spot where, whiter than the marble, Lady Adelaide leaned, half-fainting, against the statue.

Mr. Deville sprang to her side, and whispering:

“Be firm, Adelaide! I pray you be firm!” He led her to a side-sofa, and laid her reclining upon it.

Then returning to the minister, he said:

“Reverend sir, if you please we will cut short this formula, until the intruder is turned out! Friends, I pray you excuse this strange interruption,” he added, turning to his guests. He then gave directions to the attendants to search the premises for any stranger that might be upon them. But through all his action, in all his aspect there was a pallor, a tremor, a dread, strange and undefined, but visible to every observer.

The house and grounds were searched, but no vestige of the intruder could be discovered. The servants were closely questioned, and all information that could be gained from them was, that one of their number had seen a tall, dark woman, of exceeding beauty, glide through the shadows of the night, and disappear in the gloom of the forest. This might, perhaps, be set down to the credit of imagination.

The master of the house then dismissed his servants with the order that supper should be immediately served. And in a half hour it was announced. The guests filed into the supper-room, and took their places at the table; but the spirit of the festival was departed. At the head of the board sat the mistress of the house, as pale and still as marble. At the foot sat the master, whose forced composure and spasmodic efforts at gayety were too palpable to be pleasant. The prolonged supper came to an end at last, and the company adjourned to the saloon, where various parlor games had been prepared for their entertainment. The youthful and more elastic spirits of a portion of the company, rebounding from their temporary depression, entered eagerly into any scheme of evening amusements, and diverted themselves with various games of puzzles, forfeits, parlor magic, etc. Their elders passed the evening in conversation, chess and backgammon, until a late hour, when all adjourned to the music-room, where, with Lady Adelaide seated at the piano, and the best singers of the neighborhood gathered around her, they were enlivened by a series of choice Christmas-songs and ballads.

Finally, the parting bowl of egg-nog was served, and the company took their late leave, and set out for their respective homes, to talk over the mysterious event of the evening, for which no satisfactory explanation had yet been offered.

When all the guests had departed, the married pair found themselves alone together in the hall, scarcely daring to lift their eyes, or to encounter each other’s gaze.

“You are quite exhausted; you had better go to rest, love,” said Mr. Deville.

“And _you_—will you not also come?”

“I have letters to write in the study.”

“_Mr. Deville, it was her voice!_” said Lady Adelaide, laying her hand upon his arm, and gazing searchingly in his face.

He started slightly, but did not reply.

“_Oh, did she speak the truth of her child’s fate?_” she asked, with an agony of anxiety in her intense look and eager tone.

“Good heaven, I do not know, Adelaide, if the voice spoke truth, or what voice it was that spoke!”

“_Her babe devoured by wild beasts! oh, it is horrible!_”

“No more, my Adelaide! oh, speak no more of that, I implore you!”

“Ah, heaven! if I could but banish it from my _mind_ as from my _tongue_!”

“Think, then, that we have been the subjects of some deep deception! _We know that she died and was buried!_ Therefore the vision at Glen Lennark and the voice here were alike deceptions, practised upon us by some skilful juggler, whom I shall bend all my faculties to unmask and discover.”

“Mr. Deville, you know we purposed to travel into the wilderness, and seek the home where _she_ lived and died, and make inquiries on the spot.”

“Yes! we will do so, just as soon as the state of the roads will admit of our travelling. And now, dear love, go seek your rest. I will join you before long,” said Orville Deville, with a soothing caress, as he took up and placed a night lamp in her hand.

And the husband went to his study, and the wife to her nursery.

As Lady Adelaide entered this holy sanctuary of sleeping innocence, a silent prayer arose from her heart—an earnest petition for the safety and welfare of her own infant charge.

The clean and quiet chamber seemed indeed the very abode of peace and security. The silvery moonlight, stealing in through the white-curtained windows, and falling upon two white-draped cribs, filled the room with a soft, subdued radiance.

Lady Adelaide entered, and went first to the nearest crib, when she put aside the muslin curtains to look at the little sleeper, Perdita. Spite of all the gloom and terror that overshadowed her mind, the lady smiled faintly as she gazed. It is said that the attitude in unconscious slumber indicates not only the momentary mood, but the prevailing disposition and character. The posture unconsciously assumed by little Perdita was almost always one of defiance, of hostility, or of assault. Now, her attitude was wonderfully bellicose. She was lying on her side, her little limbs bent as for a spring, her little elbows doubled, her tiny fists clenched, her baby lips compressed, her infant brow frowning; yet all in deep sleep. Turning with a sad smile from this fierce, unconscious little combatant, Lady Adelaide went to the other crib, and drew aside the curtains to look upon the angel brow of her own, scarcely more beloved child. The peace of heaven was on this babe’s face. The youthful mother gazed with pure joy for a few still moments, and then, breathing a blessing upon both the children, she passed into her own chamber, offered up her evening prayers, and retired to rest.

Meantime Orville Deville had entered his study, and seated himself at his writing-table, to indite those letters whereof he had spoken. He drew the paper before him, and essayed to commence his task. But by some strange fatuity he was unable to withdraw his thoughts from the one subject of Lionne Delaforêt to fix them upon his work. Do what he might, his mind, as turns the needle to the magnet, turned ever to the lost girl. We all know the stupefying, the soporific effect of concentrated thought. Therefore it might have been that Orville Deville dropped asleep and dreamed what follows:

But it appeared to him thus: that he had sat there, with his elbow resting upon the table, and his head bowed upon his breast, in a stupor of perplexity and conjecture as to the meaning of the mystery that had so troubled them all at Glen Lennark and at River-view, until his very blood seemed slowly curdling in his heart and brain. It was then that the door swung silently open, and a shadowy form glided in and paused before him. He raised his eyes and saw a tall figure of a woman, shrouded in black, and closely vailed. Her white arm was raised to throw aside her vail, and the features of Lionne were revealed before him. White and motionless as monumental marble was that beautiful face. Compressed and colorless were those full-curved lips. Still and burning as two midnight stars were those bewildering eyes!

Held by a spell resembling terror, the sinful man gazed on without the power of withdrawing his eyes from the vision. At last his stiffened tongue and frozen lips moved in a hollow whisper, and—

“_Lionne!_ living or dead, what would you with me?” he asked.

“_To warn you!_” spoke the deep and terrible voice from the almost moveless lips.

“How say you—to warn me?”

“Ay! the lion roars before he springs! the serpent hisses before he stings—all creatures warn their prey before they strike! _all save man_!”

“What mean you?”

“I, a woman, would be more generous than man, and not less so than beast or reptile.”

“Again, in heaven’s name, what mean you?”

“I would warn before I strike!”

“Explain!”

“Look to your child and save her, if you can! for, by my own wrongs and sufferings, and by the mangled body of my murdered infant, I have sworn to sacrifice your child to her manes!” and, raising her white arm with its hand towards heaven, as if to record there her oath, the dark vision of the woman glided away.

“Lionne! Girl! Fiend!” exclaimed Deville, starting up, as if to stop her.

The spell was broken. Once more his blood flowed freely through his veins, his power of respiration returned. He stared around,—the dark form had vanished.

Was it a vision? a dream? a reality? He could not decide.

“I have lingered here too long,” he said; and rising, he went up-stairs and entered his wife’s chamber. He moved softly, so as not to awaken her. The door connecting with the nursery was open, and he caught a glimpse of the peaceful scene within—the white-curtained windows, the white-vailed cribs, and the fair moon-rays, flooding the room with soft light—a pure and holy scene, a heavenly contrast to his dark vision in the study!

Turning from it to look upon the face of his reposing wife, he met the eyes of Adelaide fixed in solicitude upon him.

“Awake yet, love? That is not well.”

“I could not sleep. And you, you look weary Orville.”

“I fell into a doze by my study-table, and had an attack of incubus, I think. What a night this has been!”

“Pray; prayer will compose your mind,” said Adelaide.

“The children, are they well?” he asked.

“Of course they are! I visited them the last thing,” said Adelaide.

“Nevertheless, I will go and see them,” said Mr. Deville, passing into the moonlit chamber. He drew aside the curtains of one crib, and saw the little Perdita, who had turned over and thrown herself into a new attitude of defiance. He left her, approached and drew the curtains of the other crib, when a cry escaped him!

“What is the matter?” exclaimed his wife, starting up in affright.

“Your child, Adelaide! Where is she?” cried the father, breathlessly.

“In the crib, where I laid her!” exclaimed the poor mother, springing from her bed and hastening into the room.

“No, she is not in the crib!” said Orville Deville, wildly.

“She is! she must be!” cried Lady Adelaide, running thither and tossing about the bedclothes in a distracted manner.

“Oh, my child! my child! where is she? where is she?” continued the almost distraught mother, running about the room, and throwing things around, in her frenzied search.

The confusion awakened little Perdita, who began to scream with mingled fear and anger; and roused Keziah, who slept on a pallet in a corner of the room, to be near the children at night, and who now raised herself up and looked around in stupid amazement.

“Keziah! Keziah! _where_ is my baby?” screamed the distracted mother.

“Sleeping soundly in the crib, ma’am, for sartain!” answered the wondering nurse.

“No, no, she is gone! she is gone! Oh, my child! my child!” cried Lady Adelaide, wringing her hands and running wildly about, searching madly the places that she had searched vainly before.

“Fore marster, then, the fairies must o’ got her!” exclaimed Keziah, starting up and joining in the vain quest.

“It is of no use; the child is not in this apartment. Keziah, hasten at once and wake up all the women-servants, while I rouse up the men! The house and grounds must be thoroughly searched. Adelaide, will you lie down?—No, I see rest is impossible to you! Come along, then, with me!” said Mr. Deville. And taking down a cloak, he hastily wrapped it around the form of his wife, drew her arm within his own, and led the way from the room. The servants, male and female, were aroused, informed of the abduction, and set upon the search.

The men, led on by their master, hurried with lanterns through the grounds to intercept, if possible, the retreat of the abductor.

The women, following their frantic mistress, ran from room to room through the house.

No clue to the lost child or her abductor could be found.

It was near morning when Orville Deville and his men returned to the house from their fruitless search, to find Lady Adelaide prostrated upon the parlor-couch, with her frightened women around her. Their quest had been equally vain, though desperately prolonged, until the strength of the agonized mother utterly succumbed and she sank swooning upon the floor.

In this condition she was found by her afflicted husband. She was immediately conveyed to bed, and all usual means used for her recovery. But she was only roused from that swoon to fall into bitter anguish and dreadful ravings that reached their climax in delirium and convulsions, and then subsided again into exhaustion and insensibility.

In a state nigh desperation, Mr. Deville flung himself upon his swiftest horse and galloped away, first to despatch the family physician to the relief of his suffering wife, and then to raise the constabulary force of the county, and set them upon the track of the abductor.

Let us hasten to the result.

The most strenuous efforts, the most vigilant quest of the constables, united as they were by the whole force of the county people, failed of even obtaining the slightest clue to the flight of the fugitive.

Advertisements were put in all the papers, handbills were posted in every public thoroughfare, and large rewards were offered for the recovery of the child; but all in vain?

Lady Adelaide was prostrated by a long and nearly fatal nervous fever, during which her delicate frame vibrated between life and death. Once more, however, her youthful constitution gained the victory, and she arose from her bed of death—she arose, but oh! to what a life of almost unappreciable sorrow!

Pause one moment, reader, to try if you can conceive the awful nature of this mysterious bereavement, worse than of death!

Had her child only _died_, she would have wept gentle tears over its grave, and cherished a tender memory of its little earthly life, and in time would have found sweet resignation with the thought that its soul was with God. But her child was lost, stolen, carried off—she knew not whither—to what a life of poverty, privation and exposure—to what sufferings of hunger, cold and disease—to what future temptations of want, vice and misery—to what final fate worse than death—she could not know! It was a sorrow for which there was no help but in prayer; no comfort but in faith; no hope but in God.