Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 28.
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On the day after John's departure, Mrs. Guyton received the following letter, without signature. It came from some person in the school where young Lydia had been placed:
"Madam: I feel it my duty to say that your daughter Lydia is receiving the attentions of a young man in this neighborhood, who cannot possibly be acceptable to her family. To my certain knowledge, they hold clandestine interviews at night, she stealing from her room at a late hour, to join him. My concern for her welfare, prompts me to send you this information."
Twice did Mrs. Guyton read this communication, without exhibiting a sign of disturbance. Then, taking a match, she lighted the gas, and holding the letter in the flame until it was consumed, flung the charred flakes from the window.
The letter was anonymous, and behind this fact Mrs. Guyton shielded herself. That it gave her the exact truth, she did not question for an instant; and yet, speaking in her external thought, she said, as the fire devoured the paper —
"The mean accusation of some jealous girl, afraid to sign her name."
Yet, she was sure in her heart it was not so; sure in her heart that Lydia was in peril, and should instantly be brought home. A week passed, and then came another letter, written by the same person — but without signature.
"Fearing," she said — the writer was a woman — "that a communication sent to you several days ago, may have failed in reaching its destination, I address you again on the subject of your daughter, now at school in this place. Do you know that she is receiving the attentions of a young man residing here, and that she is in the habit of meeting him at night, clandestinely? The young man is well enough in his way — but not the one that you could accept as Lydia's husband. Please look to the matter before it is too late! I have now, twice, given you warning, and so washed my hands clear of the whole matter."
"Anonymous!" And Mrs. Guyton shook her head. A lighted match — the gas in a flame — and then a little handful of black ashes were flung from the window.
"It won't do, my jealous young lady." A cold smile played over the lips of Mrs. Guyton, as she sat down, and took up a book that she had been reading.
With an eager interest which absorbed nearly every thought, did Mrs. Guyton wait the outcome which she believed to be at hand. If Lydia should contract a clandestine marriagewith a young man having neither social position nor wealth — the anger of her father would know no bounds. He would disown and disinherit her without remorse; and so she would be out of her stepmother's way. To make this separation permanent, would be an easy task to so clear-seeing and unscrupulous a woman as Mrs. Guyton. She had not very long to wait. One forenoon, less than two weeks from the receipt of her last anonymous letter, Mrs. Guyton heard the street door open, with a rattle of her husband's key in the lock, followed by his heavy tread, quicker than usual. He called her, as he came upstairs, and she answered from her chamber, where she happened to be.
The forewarned heart of Mrs. Guyton guessed truly the meaning of this unusual appearance of her husband. His face was pale and agitated, as he entered. An instant, he glanced around the room, and seeing that his wife was alone, shut and locked the door. Then drawing a letter from his pocket, he thrust it into Mrs. Guyton's hand, saying, in a desperate kind of way —
"Read that!"
As he stalked about the room, like an animal smarting with pain, his wife in her unruffled way, unfolded the letter, and read — ,
"To Adam Guyton, Dear Sir: — The thing's done, now, and there's no helping of it. I married your daughter last night, and she's my wife forever. I love her as my life, and for herself alone. I hope You will not be angry sir. I couldn't help loving her. We were afraid you wouldn't consent, and as we couldn't live without one another, we took the risk of getting married, being sure that when you saw how we loved one another, and couldn't live apart, you would forgive us. Dear Lydia wants me to write first. She will write tomorrow. Affectionately, your new son, James Brady."
"Well, that's a nice business, upon my word!" ejaculated Mrs. Guyton, showing considerable feeling. "Is the man a fool, and the girl mad?"
"Confusion! Curse him!" Mr. Guyton threw the words out with a raging force, his eyes in a flame, and white spots of foam on his lips.
"Had you any suspicion of this, madam?" He glared upon her like a devouring beast.
"I?" She drew her form to its utmost height, with an air of supreme astonishment. "I, sir? What do you mean by such a question?"
"Had you no suspicion of this? I speak plainly, don't I?"
Mrs. Guyton stepped back a pace or two from the half madman who confronted her, yet without removing her eyes from his distorted countenance.
"The words are plain enough," she said, in a steady voice, the coldness of which gave a chill to the hot blood of her husband.
"But, I am yet in doubt as to their full meaning. Perhaps, in this excitement, you have forgotten who I am."
Mr. Guyton was never strong enough for this woman, when she set herself against him. In all the contests which had occurred, she manifested such a resolute spirit, and showed such a consciousness of possessing any amount of reserved force, that he shrunk from a desperate trial of strength. And so it was now, for he did not again repeat his accusing interrogation — but worked down his excitement, by pacing the floor rapidly. Stopping, at length, and confronting Mrs. Guyton, who had resumed the seat from which she had risen, he said, with bitter emphasis —
"I disown her from this hour! I cast her off utterly! She shall be to me as one dead! As for the man, I will spurn him as a dog, should he ever cross my path!"
"She is still your child," said Mrs. Guyton.
"Silence!" The fire flashed out in a sudden gleam. "Don't cross me here, madam — or there'll be trouble between us! She is my child no longer. A beggar's wife, let her live and die a beggar, for all I care."
"It's a hard thing to bear. What could have possessed the girl?" Mrs. Guyton dropped in these sentences skillfully.
"The devil possessed her!" said Mr. Guyton, brutally.
Mrs. Guyton covered her face with her hands, and actually expressed a few tears.
"None of that with me, madam! It won't do. The girl has made her bed — and she'll have to lie in it, even to the end!"
"She is so young," suggested Mrs. Guyton.
"There! there! None of that, I say!" Mr. Guyton spoke with angry impatience.
Enough for appearances had been advanced by this designing and cruel woman; and so, she said no more, but let her husband's indignation have free course.
It soon became apparent to Mrs. Guyton, that this act of Lydia's had touched her father very deeply. If he had felt regard for one of his children more than for another, Lydia might be called the favorite; and she was not to be cast off utterly without pain. She noticed an unusually drooping forward of his head, as if a weight were resting on his shoulders; and a severe abstraction of manner, from which, if he was disturbed, he came out with an unchecked impatience.
Two days after the letter from Lydia's husband was received, one came from Lydia herself. The post-mark, and hand-writing in the direction, indicating its source, Mr. Guyton, without breaking the seal, enclosed it in an envelop, and sent it back, unaccompanied by a word.
Two weeks had passed. Mrs. Guyton sat in the midst of her own children, three in number, with her thought dwelling in their future, which she resolved to make sunny and prosperous, no matter what other skies were darkened, or what other rights sacrificed, when the door was flung open, and Lydia came hastily towards her, across the room.
"Oh, mother!" fell eagerly from her lips.
But Mrs. Guyton lifted her hands in a repulsive attitude, and partly turning away, said icily, "Don't come near me!"
"Oh, mother!" repeated Lydia, in a choking voice, stopping midway of the room.
"Don't say mother to me. I am not your mother!" Lydia had never seen, in the face of her step-mother, such malignancy and hate as now smote upon her. All disguise was thrown off; as she felt, so she looked — a cruel and unrelenting enemy. "You have dug an impassable gulf between us — and it will lie there forever. Go from this house! You have neither part nor lot in it. It is your home no longer. A wicked, disobedient child, must take the punishment that is her due!"
A few moments Lydia stood in a kind of maze. Then a wild look of despair swept into her face, as if suddenly conscious of a new and fearful condition, from which escape was hopeless.
"Go!" The right hand of her stepmother waved, in imperious enforcement of the command.
"I must see my father," said Lydia, rallying herself, and speaking with some firmness of tone.
"Oh, very well!" replied the stepmother, mockingly. "See him, if you will. Call in the evening, when he is at home."
"I will wait until then," said Lydia.
"Excuse me, no! You cannot wait until then. My word is law here; and I say that you cannot remain for even one minute under this roof. So, take your departure!"
Literally staggering back, in a sudden weakness, from the wolfish eye of her stepmother, Lydia went from the room. Mrs. Guyton followed, to see that she left the house, and literally pursued her to the very street door. The poor misguided child had come alone, to the city, in order to get reconciled, if possible, to her father and stepmother. What of her marriage? Was there any hope in it? Any basis of character or moral quality in the young man to whom she had given in trust, the well-being of her life? Not much basis, we regret to say. He was, however, rather weak than wrong; and under right external influences, would have made a man of ordinary standing — good enough in his way — but of no force in society. His education was defective, and he lacked both the ambition, and mental activity, which lead to self-improvement.
The easiest way for a young man to get along in the world, who has not the ability to advance himself, is to marry a rich wife. At least, such is a current opinion. Young Brady chose this method, and finding in Lydia Guyton a fair subject for conquest, set himself to the task of winning her favor. He understood some of the arts to be used, and was successful. Lydia fell into the snare laid for her feet, and forgetful of prudence and duty, cast the fatal dice that changed, in an instant, her whole relation to society. Alas, poor child! Not for herself had she been wooed and won; but for the money which her sordid and mean-spirited suitor believed would accompany her hand.
She had come alone, as we have said, in order to effect a reconciliation. The distance from the town in which she had been going to school was over two hundred miles, and it had taken all the money that remained in her possession, to pay the expense of getting home. Lydia had expected anger, harsh words, and stern rebuke; but was not prepared for anabsolute expulsion from her father's house. No wonder that she staggered away from the door with unsteady feet; nor that people turned and looked after her, strangely. Where was she to go? It was over two years since she left home for school, and in that time, girlish friendships in the city had died out. Moreover, the selfish isolation in which her father had chose to live, had so circumscribed their friends and neighborly relations, that Lydia was little more, at this time, than an unknown one, in the place of her nativity.
Where then, was she to go? Alas, for the poor child! there was not, in all that great city, a single door at which she might enter, in confidence of a welcome such as she needed under the circumstances. There were some families, where, at mention of her name, she would have been received with formal politeness; but, she shrunk from an exposure of herself, and so, exhausted with long travel, and faint from heartsickness, went wandering from street to street, in the long afternoon of a warm June day, until the burden of weariness was so great, that it seemed to her she must fall by the way. Many times, she more than half resolved to seek her father at his counting-room; but a dread of exposing herself there, held her back.
Four long hours of wandering in the street, and then, almost blind with headache, and scarcely able to stand from exhaustion, Lydia came a second time, to her father's door. It was now in the fast deepening twilight, and the day's warmth had given place to the evening's colder atmosphere, in which she shivered as if plague-stricken. Timidly she rung the bell — timidly, in sad consciousness that her right to enter was now a questioned right. She did not know the servant who opened the door.
"Is my father in?" she asked, making a movement to enter. But, quickly pressing the door against her, the servant said, almost roughly,
"You can't get in, Miss. Your father will not see you. So, don't come here again!" And then shut the door in her face.
At this moment Henry came up the steps. "Oh, Henry!" exclaimed the wretched creature, reaching her hands eagerly towards her brother. But he retreated from her as from a thing polluted and scorned.
"Don't touch me!" he said, roughly; and then hurrying past her, entered and closed the door.
"I must go in! I must see father!" murmured Lydia, rallying herself in desperation; and springing to the bell, she rang it vigorously. But no one came. Again she rang — but the door remained shut. Faint, and frightened at her alarming position — thus homeless and the night falling — Lydia stood for several minutes, leaning against the iron railing. Then, with slow, hesitating steps; halting and faltering; faint, and dim-sighted from pain and weakness, she moved aimlessly away, losing herself in dusky streets, down on which the darkness was rapidly falling.
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