Page:Once a Week Dec 1861 to June 1862.pdf/717

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June 21, 1862.]
THE PRODIGAL SON.
707

ever suspected that a natural daughter of the colonel's existed, I know not. 'He was my brother,' he said, rather angrily; 'his money was his own, earned by himself; he did not inherit it, it did not spring from the family property—the Hadfield lands; he had a right to do what he liked with it—to fling it into the dirt if he thought fit—he has chosen to give it all to his servants. Perhaps I don't think so highly of them as he did, but that makes no difference. Sane or insane, the terms of bis will shall be carried out to the letter. I'll have no lawyers feasting on my poor brother's property, like so many crows on carrion. I'll not have the newspaper people printing the history of an old family, and the private life of a noble soldier and worthy gentleman, for fools to grin over at breakfast time. These Pichots shall have the money, and much good may it do them. Let them go and spend it as quick as they like, only let the infernal mulatto and his wife take their ugly faces out of the Grange, and away from Grilling Abbots—it makes me sick to look at them.' Madame Pichot was put into possession of my late uncle's property, and, with her husband Dominique, quitted the Grange.

"Let me come at once to the most sad—the most shameful part of this history."

He stopped, trembling all over. Then in a faint, faltering voice—his breathing very quick, and his heart beating with a painful violence—he said:—

"Time went on: and I—married the girlRegine Stephanie Pichot!"

"Married her?" cried Martin, starting up.

"Bear with me!" and Wilford held out his hands imploringly. "Think if this is dreadful for you to hear, how dreadful it must be for me to tell. I married her. The utmost secrecy was observed. The Pichots were the only witnesses. The ceremony was performed at Calais. Years ago there was an English clergyman residing there, prevented by his debts and his dissolute habits from returning to England. This man—half intoxicated—officiated: in a crumpled, dingy surplice, his voice thick, his hands shaking, his eyes bloodshot, he invoked the blessing of Heaven upon a union which made this Regine Stephanie Pichot, my wife!"

"And this marriage is valid?"

"Unquestionably. It is not possible to doubt it."

"And this Regine is—dead?"

"No, she still lives."

Martin turned very pale. In strange, constrained tones, he said slowly:—

"Then Violet Fuller is not your wife?"

He read an answer in the expression of wild despair he found on Wilford's worn face.

"O God!" cried Martin, with a great emotion, " but this is very awful."

Then he turned to Wilford almost savagely.

"How could you commit this dreadful sin?"

Wilford cowered down, covering his face.

There was a dead silence for several minutes.

"Spare me, Martin," he said, at length, in a feeble voice, "do not judge me yet. There is more to be told. Perhaps there is some extenuation for my sin. Let me go on."

"Go on," said Martin coldly.

"I will be as brief as possible. This marriage, completed under such auspices, arranged so strangely—the wife sullenly consenting without even the affectation of feeling—to marry the wretched boy who wooed her,—this marriage was not likely to result in much happiness. There was no happiness—there was no semblance of it even. Regine never loved me; never even pretended to love me. My vanity was hurt—my pride was deeply outraged; yet I consoled myself with the thought that time would work a change, and that as I did all that man could do to make her happy, so in the end she would appreciate my endeavours, and give me her affection. I bore with her angry silence, her repulse of my love, her apathy, her strange coldness, sustained by this hope. You know that I quarrelled with my father?"

"I have heard so—I know no particulars," said Martin gloomily.

"My marriage was clandestine, as you have heard. It was known but to the Pichots, and the clergyman who performed the ceremony; to not one other living soul. From my father and the other members of my family it was, of course, kept a profound secret. But he began to suspect my frequent absence from the Grange. He obtained some clue, how I know not, to the circumstances of my life in London. He tasked me finally with maintaining a degrading connection. He lost all command over his temper. He was carried by his rage beyond all bounds. He heaped insults upon the woman who was my wife, though he did not know it. He called her shameful names. It was more than I could bear. Then, in a paroxysm of passion, he struck me. I did not return the blow. But be sought to seize me by the throat; to avoid this, I thrust him from me, with some violence it may be, and endeavoured to escape from the room. His foot caught in the hearth-rug, he stumbled and fell heavily; his head struck against the fender, and the wound so inflicted bled profusely. I was driven from the Grange, to return after an absence of seven years, to be cursed anew—to see my father die, and learn that I was still unpardoned, cast off—disinherited.

"And for what—for whom had been our dreadful quarrel? For Regine—my wife! My wife!" (he laughed with a wild scorn.) "I quitted the Grange to discover that Regine was false to me—had been long carrying on a correspondence with another. The reason of her coldness was made apparent. I found letters, not of recent date, the terms of which admitted of no doubt. Her conduct had been shameful. She fled. The discovery tore the veil from my eyes. My love sunk down dead: it was mastered by my rage, my contempt, my despair. I let her go. The Pichots came to me. They asked me to provide lest their daughter should come to want: the while they professed to condemn her conduct in the strongest terms. I gave them nearly all the money I possessed to be silent, and to keep out of my sight. Judge that I made some sacrifices to effect this object, to bind these people to secrecy, though they were ever renewing their claims upon me. When I received intelligence of my father's serious