CHAPTER XI.

A SEALED BOOK REOPENED.

One day shortly after the announcement of her engagement, Dorothy sought her mother, upon the departure of her last pupil, her face unusually grave and a trifle careworn.

"Mamma," she began, with some hesitation, "I have been thinking, and do you not think, that we ought to tell Clifford about--about our past?"

Helen turned upon her with a look of dismay, and flushed a startled crimson.

This was the first time during many years that their unhappy history had been alluded to by either; for, soon after taking up their residence in New York, Helen had forbidden the topic. She wished Dorothy to forget the harrowing past, even if she herself could not; hence it had been carefully avoided by both. She had gradually grown to hope, if not actually to believe, that those wretched experiences had been blotted from her memory; or, at least, had become so vague and indistinct that they no longer disturbed her peace. Their life, for the most part, had flowed on so smoothly and harmoniously, they were so devoted to and happy in each other, and also in their social relations; they had a delightful if not an elegant home, with every comfort and many luxuries, while each succeeding year seemed to hold more and more of promise for them, that this tragic chapter of the long ago had become, even to Helen herself, very like some dream belonging to a previous existence.

Hence Helen had not once thought of reviving the sad story in connection with Dorothy's prospective marriage, and when the girl gave utterance to her unexpected proposition she began to think, with a terror-stricken heart throb, that she had, perhaps, been very remiss in not having frankly confided to Mr. Alexander, when he had come to ask of her Dorothy's hand in marriage, the fact of her husband's disgraceful desertion of her, and that she was a divorced wife, practically living under an assumed name.

This unforeseen predicament came upon her like a crushing blow, and, for the moment, the old rebellion and resentment, which she thought she had long ago conquered, took possession of and mastered her with even more than the old-time bitterness and force.

How could she ever face it--this relentless test of her integrity! It was an ordeal before which she shrank affrighted. Did she need to face it? Why not let everything go on without uncovering this grave of the dead past, the outcome of which might prove very disastrous to Dorothy's bright hopes, and so break her own heart?

The Alexanders were proud, high-toned people. How would they receive such a revelation?

What if the story of John Hungerford's disgraceful career should ruin Dorothy's life at this supreme moment? Suppose, in spite of their apparently increasing affection for her, this aristocratic family should absolutely refuse their consent to the alliance of their son with the daughter of a divorcee? Oh, it was passing strange that she had not thought of all this before! It had been forced upon her now, however, with a shock that deprived her of every atom of strength, for she knew the truth must be told.

"How do you feel about it, dearie?" she at length forced herself to inquire, after an interval of silence, and to gain more time to think before voicing a more definite reply.

"Mamma, it seems dreadful! I cannot bear to revive unpleasant memories for you," Dorothy began, turning a troubled face upon her. "Still, we----"

"But, Dorrie, our own past cannot be questioned--our lives have been pure and above reproach. Why, then, is it necessary to disclose that for which we are in no way responsible?" Helen questioned, after another long pause. "We have not heard a word from--from him during all these years. He may be dead--I think he must have died, or we should have heard something. At any rate, he is dead to us! Why, then, resurrect all that dreadful story?"

Her voice quivered with repressed agony, and there was a note of despairing appeal in her tones that smote her listener keenly.

"But would it be quite honest not to tell Clifford? My name is really Dorothy Hungerford, you know," she gravely responded.

"The decree gave me the right to resume my maiden name, or to retain his--whichever I chose. If I preferred to keep the latter portion of his, I cannot think there would be any dishonesty in your being married as Dorothy Ford," Helen argued, but not feeling quite comfortable or honest in the position she had assumed.

"All the same, there would be a deceptive thought back of it--something to conceal from my husband, which might some time cloud our lives if it should be discovered later," Dorothy persisted, a troubled look in her eyes.

Helen groaned bitterly in spirit. She knew that the girl's attitude was the only safe one to adopt, but she shrank from the ordeal with a sickening dread.

"Have you no fear that this confession may cloud your life even before your hopes are realized?" she questioned, almost sharply, in her despair.

"Mamma, surely you do not fear _that_!" Dorothy cried, aghast, her face blanching suddenly snow white.

"The Alexanders are very proud," sighed her mother.

"Oh, I never thought of anything so dreadful!" said the girl unsteadily. "I have such faith in Clifford's love for me. The only reason I have hesitated was because I could not bear to wound you by recalling our trouble, by having to tell any one what you have had to bear. But now"--with a sudden dauntless uplifting of her head--"I must tell him immediately. If there is the least danger that this disclosure will change his regard for, or his intentions toward, me, or will make trouble between him and his people, it is better to know and meet it now than when it would be too late to remedy the mistake."

"But could you bear it, Dorrie?" almost sobbed Helen. "Think, dear, what the worst would mean to you."

"_Whatever_ comes, I _must bear it_! I cannot, will not, live a lie!" was the low-voiced, firm, but almost inaudible reply.

"I know you are right, dear; but it seems so unjust that the innocent should have to suffer as we have suffered for the sins of another," said Helen rebelliously.

Throughout their conversation there had been running in her mind, like a mocking refrain, a portion of the old Mosaic law--"visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children," et cetera--and she found herself vaguely wondering who could have formulated such a law. She could not believe God had made it, for God was good--Love, and surely there was nothing good or lovely about this seeming curse. Yet it had been handed down for ages--a menace to every generation. It was certainly very cruel. Here was Dorothy, a beautiful, cultivated girl, well fitted to grace the position her lover could give her, and now, to have her brilliant prospects blighted just on the verge of fulfillment seemed too dreadful to contemplate.

Again there had been a long silence between mother and daughter, during which each had battled with her troubled thoughts and conflicting emotions.

At length Dorothy arose, and, going to Helen, knelt down before her, leaned her elbows upon her lap, and dropped her pretty chin into her small, white hands.

"Mamma, I am sure we will not have to suffer for being true," she said, lifting a clear, smiling look to her. "How faithless we are! How disloyal of me to think anything so unworthy of the best man that ever lived! I am not going to fear that telling the truth, in order that I may go to Clifford with a clear conscience, will spoil my life; he is too high-minded, too noble, to allow a wrong for which I am in no way responsible to part us. But--even if I knew it would, I should tell him all the same; it is the only honorable course to pursue," she concluded, with a look in her beautiful eyes that bespoke a purpose as unflinching as the spirit of a martyr.

Helen bent and kissed her on the forehead.

"You shame me, dear; but I know you are right," she said humbly, but adding, with a shiver of repugnance: "Do you want _me_ to tell him, Dorrie? If it will save you----"

"No, indeed, mamma, dear! I could not think of subjecting you to anything so dreadful," interposed the brave girl, a quiver of repulsion in her tones. "I wish _I_ could have saved _you_ this trial," she went on yearningly; "but I knew it would not be right to keep the truth from Clifford, and now I want to tell him myself, because--I must look straight into his dear eyes as he listens; then I shall know----"

"Oh, darling, forgive me if I have aroused a doubt in your thought--have implanted a fear in your heart, that he will not stand the test!" cried Helen remorsefully, as Dorothy's voice suddenly faltered and failed her.

"You have not," returned her companion, almost defiantly. "_I know he is true blue_. I will not think anything else."

So Dorothy told her lover her story, "looking straight into his eyes," when he came to her that evening, keeping nothing back, nor trying to gloss anything over; and when she was done, like the true-hearted man he was, Clifford Alexander gathered her into his arms, murmuring fondly:

"Sweetheart, put it all out of your mind; never give it another anxious thought, for it belongs among the shades of the dim past, and the present and the future are all that concern us now. Just know that I love you for what you are, and that I honor your mother for the noble woman that she is. She has shown wonderful fortitude during all these years, and deserves the highest esteem of every one. As for your--that man--whether he be living or dead, he has passed forever out of your life; so be happy, dearest, and let none of these memories ever cloud your dear eyes again, or cause your dear heart a single tremor."

"Clifford! Clifford!" tremulously breathed Dorothy, while she clung to the strong arm enfolding her. "I knew you would not fail me."

But she was quivering in every nerve with repressed excitement, from the reaction produced by the blessed assurance of his unimpeachable loyalty, the unfailing love that was the light of her life, and had safely weathered this crucial hour.

"Fail you, Dorothy!" he repeated, surprise and reproof blending in his tones. "Could I fail to cling to what is my very life? I am glad you told me, however; it shows the confidence you repose in me, and proves your absolute integrity," he concluded, with a smile that made her thrice glad she had not been tempted to withhold the truth from him.

Helen's troubled heart was also set at rest, when, later, they sought her with radiant faces, and Clifford delicately yet feelingly referred to her early trials, and earnestly begged that she would allow him to be to her, through all her future, a son in truth as well as in name.

Thus, with all fear regarding Dorothy's future forever dispelled, as she fondly believed, she joyfully resumed her preparations for their approaching union.