The tide in Emilia's affairs which had led her to Geneva proved to be most auspicious and fortunate. Her home with Madame Lambert was happy and peaceful, and when that good friend had passed away there was no break in the even tenor of her days. The connections she had formed were lasting and endurable, and she was never without pupils. One family recommended her to another, and she was constantly employed, meeting respect everywhere. Her earnings were not large, but they were sufficient for her modest wants. Blessed with the companionship of a child whose loveliness and sweet disposition won the hearts of all who came into association with her, the life led by Emilia and her daughter may be likened to a peaceful lake nestling in a valley beyond the reach of storm and tempest. The love Emilia bore for Constance was deep and profound, and represented for the devoted mother the light and joy of the world. So years passed until Constance was seventeen.
All these years Emilia had heard no news from England, and had not seen a face she had known in her youth. The past was buried in a grave destined, as she believed, never to be disturbed, and there was not a cloud in the horizon to warn her of a coming storm. It was the happiest time of her life.
Constance had many young friends, and among them, as was natural--being a beautiful and accomplished girl, with winning and amiable manners--an unreasonable number of young gentlemen who adored her. Of these the favored one was Julian Bordier.
M. Bordier, his father, was the head of an important watch manufactory, a concern the reputation of which was world wide. The name of Bordier was famous; his sign-manual engraved on the back-plate of a watch was a guarantee of excellence. Consequently the Bordiers--father, mother, son, and two daughters--were rich.
Social grades are not so unfairly marked in Geneva as in other cities. To have been well introduced, to be well educated, to live a reputable life, to have good manners, form the open sesame to polite society. Emilia and her daughter supplied all these requirements, and their circle of acquaintance was large and reputable. It was through the young people that Emilia was introduced to the house of the Bordiers, and once admitted she was always welcomed with cordiality. In all respects Julian Bordier was a gentleman and a man of refined instincts; unhappily his sight was failing him, and the Genevese specialists seemed to be powerless in their efforts to arrest the affliction of blindness which threatened him. The effect which this had upon the love which grew between Constance and Julian was to instil into her feelings for him a sentiment of divine pity. Before they were absolutely aware of it their hearts were engaged.
Emilia watched the progress of this mutual affection with solicitous eyes, but she did not speak of it to her daughter. It was for Constance to introduce the subject, and that she had not done so was a proof that there had been no love-making between the young people. Constance believed her secret was not known, but the insight of a mother's love is keen and strong, and Emilia knew it almost before her daughter. The knowledge disquieted her. They were poor, the Bordiers were rich. But it was not in her power to guide the current; she must wait and hope for the best.
One night Emilia and Constance came home later than usual. They had been spending a musical evening at the Bordiers' house, and Emilia had noticed for the first time that Julian's attentions to her child were more than ordinarily marked. Now and again she looked apprehensively at M. Bordier, who was sitting in his usual corner, and seemed to be taking notice of his son's attentions to Constance; the father's face was grave and observant, but there was no trace of disapproval on it. This was comforting, but it did not remove Emilia's apprehensions. It was a fine night, and Julian walked home with them. It needed not a loving mother's insight to detect the newborn tenderness of Julian's manner when he bade Constance good-night and held her hand in his.
Mother and daughter derived delight from attending upon each other, but on this night Emilia dispensed with Constance's services. She brushed her own hair quickly, and then pressed Constance gently into a chair, and busied herself over the abundant tresses of her beloved child. With what loving care did she comb out the flowing locks, her heart beating with infinite love for this sweet and only treasure of her life! Then she coaxed Constance into bed, and knelt by the bedside and prayed.
"Mamma!"
Emilia rose from her knees, and bent her face down to Constance.
"Yes, dear child."
"I am almost afraid to speak, mamma."
"Is it about Julian Bordier, dear?"
"Yes."
"Tell me, my darling."
"You will not be angry, mamma?"
"Angry, darling--with you!"
"He is coming to speak to you to-morrow, mamma."
"He loves you, Constance."
"Yes, mamma."
"And you love him."
The young girl hid her face on her mother's neck.
"You are not sorry, mamma, are you?"
"I think only of your happiness, darling. I have no other object in life."
"Oh, mamma, you are the sweetest, dearest mother in the world. It is ungrateful of me; but, mamma, I cannot help it."
"I know, I know, my darling. What does his father say?"
"He dues not know--no one knows. Are you not surprised, mamma?"
"I think I have seen it for some time past, my sweet."
"And you never mentioned it, mamma--never even whispered it?"
"It was for you to speak first, Constance, and I waited."
"I can scarcely believe it. Oh, mamma, mamma, I love him, I love him!"
"Dear child! When does he intend to speak to his father?"
"After he has seen you. He did intend to speak to both of you first before he said a word to me, but somehow, mamma--I don't know really how it happened, nor does he--Mamma, you are crying!"
"I cannot help it, dear. You are my only one, my only one----"
"But, mamma, we shall still be together. Julian says so. We shall never, never be separated."
Emilia smiled sadly. "I have always liked Julian, dear, and if all should turn out well I am sure he will make you happy."
"He loves you dearly, mamma. I shall be glad when to-morrow is over."
"It will soon be over, dear child. Time passes quickly. Now go to sleep, my dear, dear child!"
They kissed and embraced again and again, and then Constance's head sank upon the pillow, and she fell asleep with her mother's arm encircling her neck. Emilia lay awake for hours. Her daughter's confession had revived memories of the past, and she could not banish forebodings. Of all the young men whom she knew, Julian Burdier was the one she would have chosen for Constance, but she dreaded the coming meeting with his father. She could not explain her fears, but she was haunted by threatening shadows. Daylight was dawning when she fell asleep, and she rose unrefreshed from her bed. Constance, dressed, was sitting by her side when she awoke. Never had she seen her daughter look so beautiful; love made her radiant with angelic loveliness.
"I want you to look very, very bright, mamma," said Constance. "I will help you dress."
Engrossed in her own happy dreams she did not notice the tired expression on her mother's face, which, after a little while, wore away beneath the influence of Constance's gentle ministrations.
"Julian will be here early, mamma," she said, when breakfast was over. "I don't know what to do with myself. Shall I go out, or remain at home? Hark! Yes; that is his step?"
"Go to your bedroom, darling," said Emilia, with fond kisses, "and wait till I call you."
Constance obeyed, and Emilia admitted the young man, who entered the room with flowers for Constance and her mother. She motioned him to a seat; she was palpitating with emotion, but she succeeded in preserving an apparently calm demeanor.
"You expected me," he said, after she had accepted the flowers and laid them aside.
"Constance told me you would come," said Emilia, gravely.
"Is she well?"
"Quite well."
Then there was an awkward pause, but soon the young man took heart of grace, and in modest, manly fashion laid his petition before Emilia.
"I cannot hope to be worthy of her," he said; "no man could be, but I can promise sincerely to do all in my power to make her happy. I love her very dearly. What can I say more? You will not refuse me?"
"If it depended upon me," said Emilia, speaking very slowly, "I should be contented to place my daughter's happiness in your keeping, for I believe you to be worthy of her."
"How can I thank you?" said Julian, impetuously. "It does depend upon you. Then all is settled. May I see Constance?"
She gently shook her head. "Not yet. I could have wished you had consulted me before you said anything to Constance. I am not blaming you--I know there are feelings it is difficult to keep in check, but I think it would have been better if you had confided in me first. I could then have advised you."
"To do what? You have no objection to entrusting me with her; and indeed, indeed, your trust shall not be misplaced. Perhaps you are right, but it can make no difference now that I know you approve."
"There is one," said Emilia, steadily, "to whom you should have spoken even before you addressed me or Constance."
"My father?"
"Yes, your father."
"Again, I daresay you are right. But I am sure of my father. He loves me, and will not thwart me----"
Emilia held up her hand. "Have you considered the difference in our position?"
"No--except that I have always felt that Constance is far above me, if that is what you mean."
"It is not what I mean. Parents are compelled to view such matters in a different light. I can give Constance no dowry."
"I want none. I want her."
"And with your father's approval, you shall have my consent. It is my duty to say this to you, and as you have consulted me first I should wish him to know that I have so expressed myself, and that my answer is in his hands."
"Very well, I will go to him at once. There is not the least doubt of his answer, and I have yours already."
"No," interrupted Emilia, firmly, but with a tender inclining toward the young man, "you have not mine already. I cannot give it to you definitely until I have seen or heard from your father."
"How precise you are," said Julian, in a gay tone; "but my dear Constance's mother cannot be wrong in anything she does." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "You will not turn me away without allowing me to see her?"
"I will not turn you away at all, but I cannot sanction anything more than kind friendship between you and my child till your father has spoken. Julian, do you not see that I am striving to perform a duty which I consider right?"
"Of course I do, and I am greatly to be blamed for worrying you. But let me see her for one moment. It is only to say good-morning and to shake hands. You would not have refused me yesterday."
"Nor will I now. I rely upon your honor, Julian."
"You may, implicitly."
She called her daughter, and turned from them while they spoke. They exchanged only a few words, but Constance's hand remained in Julian's and that was happiness enough for the present. Then Julian called out to Emilia:
"Good-morning. I shall be here again very soon."
She accompanied him to the door, and sent him away with a bright smile, but there was a fear at her heart which she could not have defined had she endeavored to set it clearly before her.
An hour afterward M. Bordier was announced.
"Constance," said Emilia, "I think you had best take a walk while I speak to Julian's father."
Constance kissed her mother in silence, and was leaving the room as M. Bordier entered it.
"Are you going for a walk?" he asked, holding out his hand.
His voice and manner were so affectionate that her heart was filled with joy. Emilia's heart also throbbed with hope.
"Yes, sir," replied Constance, raising her eyes timidly to his face.
"It is a bright morning, my dear," he said. "I am glad for your sake and for Julian's."
She wiped away the happy tears as she descended the stairs and out into the sunshine.
"I thought I would lose no time," said M. Bordier to Emilia, "although really it seemed as if I were not master of my own movements. Julian was so impatient that he almost thrust me from the house. We will not beat about the bush, my dear madam. Julian is my only son, and that which affects his happiness affects me almost as nearly."
"Then you have no objection to the engagement?" said Emilia, eagerly.
"None. Julian has related to me all that passed between you and him, and said you chided him for not coming to me first."
"I considered it the right course."
"Perhaps, but young people in love are impetuous, and do not reflect. We ourselves were young, and can recall the time when we were in their position." A shiver passed through Emilia at this allusion. "You made some reference to Julian about the difference in our circumstances. I intend to speak very plainly, you see, because I want the ground cleared once and for all, for all our sakes. Well, there is a difference, I admit, but it is not to be taken into account. You can give your daughter no dowry. It is not needed; I am rich enough to make the future easy for them. My son is a gentleman, your daughter is a lady. I approve of her, and I shall be proud to receive her into my family." Emilia gazed at him with swimming eyes; the fear at her heart was fading away. "She is a great favorite in our home, and we are all very fond of her. I am glad that the matter has come to an issue before Julian leaves Geneva----"
"Is he going away, then?" asked Emilia, startled at the news.
"For a short time only, I hope, and I shall go with him. His failing sight has caused us great anxiety, and the doctors here can do nothing for him. We intend to go to Paris, to consult an eminent specialist, and I trust he will come home quite cured. So that it is as well he has spoken to Constance. Indeed I suspect his projected departure caused him to open his heart to her earlier than he intended. Some persons are opposed to early marriages; I am not; and to judge from your looks you must be of my opinion. You married young?"
"Yes," replied Emilia, faintly. Her fears revived; her undefined apprehension of evil was beginning to take shape.
"Your name Braham, might belong to any nationality. Was your husband French?"
"He was English." Her throat was dry; she could scarcely articulate her words. M. Bordier looked at her in concern. "You are not well."
"A sudden faintness, that is all," said Emilia, in a firmer tone. She must not give way; her daughter's happiness was at stake. "It has passed off now."
"English? And you are English also?"
"Yes."
"I remember when the good Madame Lambert brought you here, that there was some curiosity felt as to your nationality, but Madame Lambert silenced it by saying that you would prefer not to refer to the past. That was woman's talk, and it soon ceased. Your daughter bears Madame Lambert's name, Constance."
"Madame Lambert wished it."
"Were you and she related--excuse my interminable questions, but now that we are about to become closely connected we should know more of each other's antecedents."
"We were not related."
"Ah, well. While I am away I may run over to England. I should not be sorry for the opportunity of calling upon your friends there."
"I have no friends there."
"Some relatives surely."
"None."
"Well, your late husband's relatives."
"M. Bordier," said Emilia, summoning all her courage to her aid, "there are in the world persons whose past is so fraught with unhappy memories that it is painful to revive them. Such has been my past, and the simple references you have made have opened wounds I hoped were healed. Pray question me no more."
"I will not," said M. Bordier, kindly, but also with a certain gravity which impressed itself strongly upon Emilia, "we will say nothing more about it at present, and I ask your pardon for causing you pain. But still, when the formal preliminaries to the marriage between Constance and Julian are prepared--which cannot be done until Julian and I return to Geneva--some necessary information of your past will have, of course, to be given to make the contract legal and binding. Until then we will let the matter drop. And now allow me to assure you that I give my consent to the engagement with satisfaction and pleasure. Julian's mother and I have often discussed the future of our children, and shall be quite satisfied if they marry into families of respectable character. That is all we ask, and all we consider we have a right to demand. As to worldly prospects, we will make that our affair, being, I am thankful to say, able to provide for our children and the mates they may choose."
He held out his hand to Emilia, and with old-fashioned courtesy kissed her, saying, "You and your daughter will make our house your home while Julian and I are absent."
"How long do you expect to be away?" asked Emilia.
"It depends upon what the specialists say of Julian's sight. But under any circumstances we shall be absent for at least three months, I expect. Of course the young people will correspond. The first part of their courtship will have to be done by correspondence."
Soon after M. Bordier's departure Constance returned, and was made happy by the account of the interview. Emilia said nothing of M. Bordier's references to the past, a theme which had only been dropped to be taken up again when M. Bordier and Julian came back to Geneva. The evil day was postponed, but Emilia would not darken the joy of the lovers by speaking of it, or by hinting at her fast-growing fears of what the final issue would be. M. Bordier had made it clear to her that it was absolutely necessary that those who formed matrimonial connections with his children must be persons of respectable character. What was she? What was her darling Constance? Unknown to all in Geneva, where they were both respected and loved, they bore the maiden name of the mother. Let this fact be revealed, let the story of her life be made public, and they would be irretrievably disgraced, their position lost, their happiness blasted. Julian remained in Geneva two days after Emilia's interview with M. Bordier, and now that there was no restraint upon the relations between the young lovers, Emilia recognized how irrevocably Constance's happiness was linked with Julian. Was it to be left to her, the fond, the suffering mother, to wreck the future of the child she adored? Was it fated that she should be compelled to say to Constance, "You cannot wed the man you love. He is a gentleman, with an unstained record. You are a child of shame, and are not fit to associate with respectable people. Take your rightful place in the world--in the gutters--and look at me and know that I have put you there." Yes, this, in effect, was the judgment she would have to pronounce. The agony she endured during those two happy days of courtship is indescribable; but she schooled herself to some semblance of outward composure, and successfully parried the solicitous inquiries of those by whom she was surrounded. As to what was to be done, she would not, she could not think of it till Julian and his father were gone. They were to be away at least three months; within that time much might be accomplished--she did not know what or how--but she would pray to God to guide her. So she suffered in silence, and kissed Julian good-by, and sat quiet in her room while the lovers were exchanging their last words of affection. Were they to be indeed the last? Were they never to meet again, to fondly renew their vows of unchangeful love? It was for her, the tender mother, to answer these questions. She was the Sibyl who held in her hands the skeins of fate. It was for her to shed light or darkness upon the future of her darling child.