Mrs. S.P. King [Susan Petigru King],
Author of "Lily."
Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #110 (Jul 1859).
A group of young men stood chatting at a street corner. A carriage dashed rapidly by. They all raised their hats, and a woman, lying back in this carriage, bowed, smiling faintly as she did so. The smile momentarily irradiated her grave face, and then faded as quickly.
"The St. Maur?" John Percy said, interrogatively. He was short-sighted.
"Yes, and looking very handsome," answered his cousin Louis.
"Who is the St. Maur?" asked the third of the group, Frank Egerton.
"Don't you recollect pretty Mrs. Wilson? You used to see her years ago."
"Ah! old Wilson dead and she married again?"
"All money, mon cher. Old Wilson is very much alive indeed. Did you not hear in Europe that there was a great scandal—Jack Cadurcis, etc.—divorce, and so on—she resumed her maiden name, and is known as Mrs. St. Maur. Some people for her, some against her. She goes nowhere except to drive and to church."
"Why don't she go away?"
"Her two little girls, I fancy, keep her here. The court gave them to the husband. She is very fond of her children, poor thing, and I suppose can't make up her mind to leave this place, where she has a chance of seeing them once a week."
"Do you visit her?"
"I constantly have the immense gratification of leaving my card; I should think there are several packs of them in her house by this time; the answer invariably is 'Not at home!' but I keep on trying—it costs very little, and some day I may slip in."
"Does she see no one?"
"Very few. I'll tell you with whom she is very Liée—that nice cousin of yours, Mrs. Vernon, and the beau-frère, Robert Vernon. It's the only house she goes into. See here, Frank, you are asking a great many questions about the lovely St. Maur. I don't like it."
"Why not?"
"Pour cause. I am very sorry I told you about the Vernons. You never would have known it for yourself, as they never speak of her. Now, don't try and take advantage of my amiability and get the start of me."
"Start in what?"
Louis Percy gave a knowing wink and laughed.
"Bless his innocent face!" he drawled; then looking at his watch he remembered an engagement, nodded, and walked off.
Frank Egerton also wished John good-morning and strolled down the street. He was busy with various thoughts; first, Mrs. St. Maur. He remembered her very well; he had admired her a long while; accident alone had several times interfered to prevent an introduction. He idly pictured to himself the difference in her life then and now. She had been a very decided married belle, the gayest person in society, the most fêted, the most popular. Thinking it over, he could not understand why he had never known her then. And now, solitary, disgraced, a mark for every licentious eye, a theme for every idle tongue. He had been interrupted in his questions by his flighty friend, Lonis—where was Cadurcis, whom scandal named with her? She looked very lovely as she dashed past a while ago—so serene, with all her gravity, and such a smile, transient as it was.
Thus meditating, Frank passed the Vernons' door; he had got into their square by some chance.
"I'll pay Lou a visit; I haven't been here for an age."
Mr. Egerton was a favorite with his cousin Lou. She was at home and very glad to see him, and rallied him on his good looks, and on his absence, and especially on his thoughtful air.
"You are quite pensive, child," she said; "you alarm me."
"My dear, I am bored. Nothing amuses me; all the people I know are so monotonous."
"Thank you."
"Oh, not you—you are sweet; but you are so taken up with Vernon and those fifty babies, it is a mere mercy of hazard that I catch you without your 'dearest love,' and the lesser loves occupying your entirely un-come-at-able attention. If you were only disengaged oftener, I should be enchanted and you enchanting."
"So much the better for me, then, and for Vernon, and for the fifty babies."
"Don't you know any nice women, Lou, whom a man could talk to every now and then? I saw such a pretty creature this morning; I heard her name, but I have been away so long it is unfamiliar—Mrs. St. Maur, I think, a widow;" and with a face of sublime indifference and polite inquiry Master Frank looked at his cousin.
"Now, Frank!"
"Well, Lou?"
"What is your interest in Mrs. St. Maur? You know very well who she is and all about her. Come, no deception with me. If I suspect a trap, I will shut you up in it sooner than put my own finger in danger, or Fanny St. Maur's either. Who has been talking about her to you?"
"Seriously, then, I saw her this morning driving, and I should like to know her, for her face interests me exceedingly—always did, and—"
"It is impossible. She goes nowhere—receives very few visitors—no young men—"
"Pardon me—Robert Vernon," interrupted Frank.
"Yes, That is true; but that can not be avoided, as he lives here, and then she has known him so long he is like a brother to her."
"And Mr.—Cadurcis?"
"Pray hush! You are talking nonsense and worse; she has not seen Cadurcis for centuries. Has he not got a wife as jealous as Othello? and besides, after Mr. Wilson's choosing to drag in his name as a pretext for the divorce, very properly Fanny broke off their intimacy, and—he married."
"Then you don't believe—"
"My dear Frank, I don't believe any thing, except that you are very pertinacious. How is your mother?"
"Very well, much obliged to your polite eagerness. And so Mrs. St. Maur is really—"
"How is your father?"
"My dear madam, every member of my family, in its remotest as well as its nearest branches, is at this moment enjoying, as far as I know, perfect health. 'Cease, cease, then, rude' creature, to interrupt me."
"'Cease, cease, then, stupid' creature, to interrogate me?"
"Dear Lou, present me to Mrs. St. Maur."
"Dear Frank, it is impossible."
"The word does not exist, vide Collot's phrasebook, anecdote 'Napoleon.' You might as well bring it about at once. Your life will be miserable till you do. I'll give you no peace, night or day. And you know, or you ought to know, that with my temper, by raising these obstacles, you invest Mrs. St. Maur with a fearful interest. I shall begin to think and dream of nothing else. But if I just see her, and chat with her, she will be but an acquaintance, and my frenzy will die out."
"Frank," Mrs. Vernon said, speaking earnestly and gravely, "you are not the first young gentleman who has pressed for an introduction to my poor friend. Her position is a peculiar one; and yet many women would not adopt the life that she has insisted upon. She is very unhappy, very sad; her troubles are recent, and weigh heavily upon her. Six months have passed since her divorce, and she absolutely refuses to leave her seclusion. Her heart is broken. I sometimes think that her reason will give way. She broods over her distresses without ceasing. She is morbidly sensitive, miserably depressed; for months she wept, until her sight failed her, and her beautiful eyes were almost destroyed. She is calmer now. I think gradually she will recover, in a measure, her spirits and mental health. She will never be again the gay, joyous, buoyant Fanny St. Maur, my playmate and my friend; but I hope to see her tranquil and resigned some day. I tell you this because I have a presentiment, a vague, undefined feeling—you know I am very superstitious—I believe in omens, warnings. As soon as you mentioned her name just now, a thrill ran through me, and a kind of fear of—I know not what. Let her alone; don't torment me any more—there's a good boy. You have scores of pretty women to talk to and to talk about. Forget Mrs. St. Maur."
"In the name of Heaven, Lou, what do you fear?"
"Every thing—nothing."
"Lou, do you believe me to be a gentleman and a man of honor, or do you take me for a scoundrel?"
"Certainly you are a man of honor—as men go," his cousin answered, laughing.
"Now I am serious, and you wish to jest. Do you believe me capable, after what you have said and implied, of wishing to trifle with, or to injure in any way, a woman who seems so crushed and broken—one so unhappy, and striving so bravely to live down public prejudice against her? No, you can trust me—you can believe me. Before, I simply admired Mrs. St. Maur; now, I respect her, and commiserate her sad fate. You may do as you please. I will not press you; but I should be glad to prove to you and to her that I am a sincere and respectful admirer. Do you believe me?"
Mrs. Vernon stretched out her hand confidingly to him, and looked into his handsome eyes with a gratified expression.
"You are honest, Frank, though Vernon says that you are tricky."
A hot flush crossed Egerton's brow. He bit his lip; and it was singular to watch how expressive such regular and perfect features could be; every line darkened and deepened.
"Vernon be—"
"Good Heavens! I should not have said that, Frank. Please forget it—or set it down to involuntary admiration. Come, smooth your face once more. You won't? Then you shall never see Fanny."
"And if I smooth it?"
"Then—perhaps—perchance—maybe—"
"Out with it, you teasing woman."
"Drop in this evening at nine o'clock. She takes tea here."
* * * * * * *
Mrs. Vernon's drawing-room clock struck nine. Lou was a little nervous. She feared that she had been hasty in her promise. She glanced frequently in the calm faces of her companions, and tried to fancy that she had done a very ordinary and commonplace thing. Was not Frank Egerton her own first cousin? Fanny St. Maur a cherished friend? Why should Fanny's prohibition exclude Frank more than Robert? Robert Vernon sat near Mrs. St. Maur at this very moment, looking at her, as he often did, very steadily, very earnestly. He held her scissors, stooped to pick up her ball of worsted, was ready with an answering smile when she turned toward him, evidently gave her much thought, and yet in so quiet a way that he was neither obtrusive nor conspicuous.
His brother was reading aloud. Both ladies had their hands employed. Mrs. Vernon rather neglected the slipper for "dear William" that she was pretending to work upon so diligently; but Mrs. St. Maur never ceased plying her fingers. It was a knitted shoe for the last of the "fifty babies."
There was a ring at the street-bell. Lou was very nervous indeed. The door opened—enter Frank Egerton.
Mr. Vernon glanced inquiringly at his wife, but rose to meet cordially his wife's cousin. Lou fluttered up to him, with a sort of feigned surprise, but broke down: she was too honest for that. Robert nodded coolly to the new-comer, and looked at his neighbor; she was very pale, and seemed annoyed.
"Fanny, allow me to present my cousin, a very precious cousin. Mr. Egerton—Mrs. St. Maur."
The great hazel eyes slowly lifted their white lids and black lashes; there was a movement of the tremulous red lips, a bend of the small head, and Mr. Egerton discreetly turned away after a profound bow.
"I am very silly," Mrs. St. Maur murmured to Robert, "but I am so unused to meeting strangers. Why has Lou received this evening?"
"God knows. And this empty-headed coxcomb too; we were getting on very well without him."
"You do not like him?"
"Well enough. Did you never know him?"
"No."
"There is no great harm in him. He is a flirt, fond of conquest; men generally like him very much. I don't believe in him myself."
"Believe in what?"
"Tn his honesty, sincerity, and so on. He is too selfish to be trusted, and too vain."
"He is handsome," Fanny said.
"Yes, very handsome."
"Will you take me home, Robert? I can slip away unobserved presently. Lou has broken her agreement with me, and I am off."
"If you wish it, certainly."
"Perhaps you had better go first. Leave the room now, and I will join you in half a second. Get my hood and shawl for me, and have them ready so that I can not be overtaken and dragged back, for I don't know of what Lou is not capable this evening."
He obeyed instantly; he seemed anxious to facilitate his friend's departure.
This conversation had taken place in undertones while the host and hostess were doing the honors of a newly acquired and very fine painting to Mr. Egerton at the opposite end of the room.
But Frank saw more of the lady seated beneath the light of the shaded reading-lamp than he did of the picture.
In five minutes he had taken a mental portrait of her.
Very still she sat when Robert had gone. Gracefully thrown back in the deep chair, her luxuriously perfect figure, in its exquisitely simple and fresh dress of gray silk, was nestled into the dark velvet of the cushions. Her face had the sadness of past suffering in every soft line; and constantly a quiver around her mouth, and a transient shade upon her brow, seemed to say that the nerves were deplorably shaken, the mind seriously disquieted, beneath the tranquil surface.
It was a face to study and to love; to move with tenderest sympathy a generous heart.
Presently she sighed, and was about to get up. Egerton almost guessed her intention, for he moved quickly toward her, and before she could escape he was at her chair. She rose hastily then.
"What do you wish, Fanny?" asked Mrs. Vernon.
"Nothing," she said, provoked at her own feelings and at Lou's question.
"I saw you this morning, Mrs. St. Maur," Frank remarked, coolly taking Robert's vacated seat next her. "What fine horses you drive! You are more successful than myself. I can not get a pair to suit me."
He rambled on, talking of horses, saddle-horses, trotting-horses, equipages, grooms, rides, drives, in the most matter-of-fact and dullest manner, and had the desired effect. Mrs. St. Maur regained her composure, and was only a little bored, and thought Lou's cousin very uninteresting.
Then he put a direct question—forced her to reply; took a volume of poems from the table, and began to be agreeable. The conversation became mutual. Fanny smiled her rare, beautiful, arch smile. It brightened her sad face magically. Frank made a capital hit—a telling "word"—it was witty, pointed, original. It was something that struck her fancy and corresponded to her own thoughts. She dropped the tiny shoe, and, with a silvery laugh, glanced up at him from her velvet cushions. Their eyes met full for the first time. Do you believe in electric shocks that lie in eye-beams? Something new—something he had never known before—awoke in his breast as those eyes dwelt for a second on his. It was delicious, and he felt it to be dangerous. Fanny colored violently, but it was from a different motive; she saw Robert Vernon's surprised face watching her from the open door, her shawl and hood upon his arm—watching her rising, deepening flush.
Her flexible lips curled impatiently. She arose, and, with a slight bow to Mr. Egerton, wished Mrs. Vernon good-night.
"Going, my dearest child? Why so early?"
"Good-night."
She kissed her friend hastily and unaffectionately, held out her hand kindly to Mr. Vernon, and was gone.
"I shall see you to-morrow, Fanny," said downcast Lou. "But I wish you would stay."
There was no answer. The guest had flown.
Lou went to her piano, turned over the music; Frank was talking with the most unconcerned air to her husband. No allusion was made to Mrs. St. Maur. They were deep in business. Frank was saying, "We are but a young firm; and my partner impressed upon me, when I went to Europe, to have no dealings with any one who required more than my word to trust me. If a man can not rely upon my word, and if people lack confidence in me, I would rather turn my back upon them at once, although I should lose by it."
"You are right there," Mr. Vernon said.
"Of course I am. He who will break his word will break his oath, He who will stoop to deceive will steal a purse."
"To deceive men. But women, Frank?" put in Lou. "What is the theory about that?"
"I don't know the theory; but I know my practice. It may be romantic—what you will; but to deceive a woman is worse, a thousand times, than deceiving a man; for women have no redress, and must suffer wrong in silence and in tears. Good-night. I am growing melodramatic. By-the-way, I was never near Mrs. St. Maur before. What a pretty woman she is still! She must be thirty—how much? I like her face. There is a great deal of thought in it."
"A great deal of suffering and past anguish," Mr. Vernon said.
"I should say so. She must have had a great deal to make her life miserable."
"And to change one of the brightest natures into one of the most desponding—one of the most confiding into one of the most suspicious."
"That is saddest of all," Frank said, as he took his leave.
Meanwhile Robert Vernon silently walked home with Mrs. St. Maur. The silence fretted her, and vet she did not break it.
"What is the matter, Robert?" she asked at last.
"Nothing."
"Are you put out at my keeping you waiting just now? Indeed I could not avoid it."
"Dear Fanny, don't think me so unamiable and so childish!"
"What is it, then?"
"Shall I tell you, Fanny?"
"I wish you would."
"My dear, avoid Frank Egerton."
"Avoid Frank Egerton! why don't you tell me to avoid the King of Oude—Louis XIV.—something practicable or possible? Avoid Mr. Egerton! Really, unless I went to call upon him—"
"That is all—avoid him. I warn you—I will say no more."
"Now, you are unkind."
"Unkind to you, Fanny—when I am, may that hour be my last."
"You will make me hate a man I never saw before, and never expect to see again, if he brings dissension between us."
"I don't wish you to hate him—but Frank Egerton came to that house this evening to meet you. Lou likes him, and has allowed him to make a cat's-paw of her, and no one should cry out with more indignation if she heard the title applied to her foolish little self—no one would more strenuously fight for Egerton and deny any such imputation."
"Why do you suppose that he came to meet me?"
"Did you not see that Lou expected him? are not her doors always closed, by your request, and by strict orders to her servants, when you take tea there?"
"And suppose he did ask Lou, and suppose she was so foolish, and suppose he has met me—what more? what else? The deed is done, but I see no results."
"The future—the future."
"But there is no future," Fanny said, impatiently. "What has Mr. Egerton to do with my future?"
"He will manage to see you again."
"I doubt it—and if he did?"
"He will make love to you."
"He dare not. And if he did—suppose he did 'make love' to me—what then? Am I forced to listen to him?"
Robert was silent.
"Will you not answer me? Will you not speak?"
"I have spoken. If you wish me to say more—here it is. I know Frank Egerton: he is as brave a man, as bold a man, as was ever born, and as daring. He has fixed his attention upon you, and I have not seen you for many months give any one the smile, the look that you gave him just now."
"This is insulting, Mr. Vernon; what would you imply?"
"I imply nothing, dearest Fanny; you asked me to explain the uneasiness that I feel—you have urged it, and I am doing so. Egerton is young, handsome, impassioned, fascinating, clever, brilliant—but I don't trust him. He is selfish, he is vain; he thinks all things fair with women. You may be impressed, caught, drawn on—don't be angry—don't frown or take away your hand from my arm—but I am anxious for you; I dread this man's acquaintance—his attentions will compromise you—and if you should care for him, oh, Fanny, nothing that you have suffered, nothing that is past, will equal in bitterness, in desolation, what will fall upon you then. Be warned, my child, be warned!"
"I can not be angry with you because you seem so much in earnest; but pray get rid of those absurd ideas. I am very safe, I assure you; and if I had, at first sight, gone distracted about Lou's wonderful cousin, all this would surely put me on my guard. You take it so seriously that I wish to joke about it." She sighed, as she went on, "If I were likely to get into such mischief, why have I not fallen in love with you, Sir? and tried to make a conquest of your gravity?"
They were at her own door now. Robert rang the bell before he answered:
"You read Alphonse Karr—don't you recollect what he says? 'A woman may fall in love with her friend by accident, but a man whom she has never seen has a thousand more chances than he.' God bless you, Fanny. Don't stay out in this cold. Good-night!"
* * * * * * *
The danger was over—no bones broken, but a carriage shattered and overturned, and two horses madly tearing down the road. It was a lady's carriage, and she herself, rescued by her servants from the wreck, sat very quietly on the freshest piece of turf, on the road-side, to consider what should next be done.
It was a solitary green lane, and no vehicle in sight.
"You must walk back to town as quickly as you can," she said to her footman, "and get a carriage; John will stay here with me until it arrives."
At this very instant, in the distance, appeared a horseman: he came riding quickly up. There are such chances every day of our lives (their only fault is that they are too commonplace, and would be unworthy of a romance-writer; but this is an everyday tale, and only sets down facts). Frank Egerton sprang to the ground, and eagerly and respectfully offered: his services to Mrs. St. Maur.
Fanny was annoyed and perplexed. She answered coldly, feeling herself blush, and remembering all that had been said by Robert Vernon only three days back. But there was no gainsaying the decided directions and words of the new-comer. Before she could prevent it, her footman was mounted on Mr. Egerton's horse, and Mr. Egerton himself seated beside her. She folded her arms and bit her lip. She was growing angry; but her anger seemed thrown away upon her companion. He looked so genuinely happy—so perfectly happy. There was not a suspicion of disrespect, of triumph, of deceit, in his voice, his look, his manner. Fate had favored him; and he was enjoying to its fullest extent the exquisite pleasure of seeing her—talking to her.
If he flattered her, it was by the profound deference which showed itself in the midst of his admiration. His eyes followed her every moment; not with the bold commendation of a man who is impertinently scanning a woman's charms, but with the enthusiastic delight of a boy gazing upon the creature who has become the star of his hopes and imagination.
Was this ingenuous, open-hearted gentleman the monster against whom Robert Vernon had raised so strong an array of dislike and warning? Fanny St. Maur was no ingénue, no unsophisticated "young thing of sixteen." She had seen the world, and had ample cause to know its treachery, and to beware of "wolves in sheep's clothing;" but there was in Frank Egerton an appearance of truth, of simplicity, of "heart," which disarmed her from this first moment. Had he made one mis-step, said one word to awaken her mistrust then or afterward, this story would never have been written. But he knew his rôle perfectly; he played his part with sublime consistency.
How pleasantly he chatted away—how he amused and interested her! Smile followed smile, breaking at first slowly over her face; and then she caught herself replying—taking up the ball and tossing it back to him, jesting, laughing. Her eyes sparkled; her white hands playfully re-learned their old tricks of gesture—she forgot!
For one short half hour she forgot that gayety and herself had no longer partnership; that joy and youth and hope had fled forever for her.
The awaking was sudden. It was like a fresh stab through an old wound. She was very pale and still and silent.
Frank watched her with a growing sadness on his own bright face; he lowered his voice and was quiet too. The carriage was seen approaching, the footman following on the borrowed horse.
"May I come and see you?" Frank asked.
She shook her head. "I am sorry, but I decline all visits; my health is not strong enough to admit of society." This was her formula d'usage.
"I am very, very sorry," he said. "And shall I then never see you again? Is it not hard to make an acquaintance which is so precious, and lose it at once?. Can you not put me, as Lou's cousin, on the same footing as Lou's brother-in-law? I don't mean that I can ever hope to be so great a friend of yours, but let me come sometimes to try and amuse you. I will read to you, talk to you; you can send me away whenever you are tired of me."
He pleaded so like a child for a new toy that Fanny could not restrain a smile. Was this the man she was to fear?
"Well, I will not press you any further. I shall come, and you may dismiss me if you choose—unless you forbid me from ringing your bell!" She merely shook her head again; he put her in the hack, and stood looking at her until the coachman turned his horses and drove away. He then saw after her broken carriage, advised with the servants concerning it, and returned to the city.
Did you ever see a blood-hound track his prey? Did you ever see a cat play with a mouse? Did you ever see a man boldly or stealthily pursue a woman for her destruction, night and day, with patience, calmness, ardor, determination? It is a very pretty sight to those who like the sport. An amateur of such things would have delighted in noting the consummate skill with which Mr. Egerton—gentleman and man of honor—set out upon the glorious chase, hunted down the trembling, foolish, imprudent, lonely, weak creature, upon whom he fixed his lordly eyes, and brought her—to what we shall see. Of course she should have taken care of herself; of course she was old enough to know that man is the natural enemy of woman, etc.; but methinks Mr. Egerton, so accomplished a sportsman, ought to have selected different game, and not have brought his energies to the easy task of running down a "stricken deer," a wounded bird, whose drooping pinions and weary flight said at least, "Pity me!"
* * * * * * *
"Dear Mrs. St. Maur,—Pray send me the book you promised. I ought to be at work, but I am not. The fact is—but what is the use of writing about facts? When may I come and see you again? Write, if it be only one word—any thing, so it comes from you.
"Yours respectfully,
"Frank Egerton.
"Monday."
"What a pertinacious child he is!" Fanny exclaimed to herself as she read this. "But how can I be angry with him? He is so honest, so simple, so unlike what I have heard of him—so very unlike my preconceived notions. He is impetuous, but it is the impetuosity of a fresh-hearted boy. Am I deceiving myself? Is he deceiving me?"
"The servant is waiting," suggested Fanny's maid.
She hurriedly wrote:
"Dear Mr. Egerton,—You may come tomorrow evening. I send the book, but indeed I think you must be the idlest young man in this city. Very truly yours,
"F. St. Maur.
"Monday."
"I will ask Robert to drop in to-morrow evening; it shall not be a tête-à-tête," she thought.
Robert Vernon listened with perfect calmness to Fanny's announcement of this second visit in expectancy. She explained why she thought it neither imprudent nor unwise to receive this young gentleman. "You do not know him," she said; "you acknowledge that your acquaintance is very slight. Accident has thrown him in my way; he amuses me, and I never saw a more ingenuous, frank person. Indeed, you are prejudiced without cause."
"Perhaps so."
"Any way, what is the harm? He can not hurt me at all."
"Do you mean now to receive generally?"
"I don't think so."
"You had better."
"You will come to-morrow evening?"
"Indeed, you must excuse me."
Fanny persisted, and at length he said, "Very well," and hastened off.
The evening came: her little girls had spent the day with her—she was very sad, and her eyes showed traces of tears when her visitor entered. He said nothing, but looked the sympathy that delicacy forbade his uttering. Their conversation was broken and not brilliant. She was evidently too much out of spirits to talk, or even to listen.
At length Fanny broke a pause by saying abruptly,
"This must be your last visit."
"Impossible! Why so? In what have I offended you?"
"In nothing. But— Indeed it seems absurd to seek for a reason. You will excuse my interdiction, believing that I am obliged to do so. I was wrong to let you in last week. I am wrong in speaking to you as I am doing now. We are utter strangers; and the truth is, Mr. Egerton, my position is a difficult one:" she colored deeply. "Your visits will excite remark; they already displease the few friends that I have."
"Who has the right—"
"To object to you? No one does so personally; it is only as you affect me, and give conversation to Mrs. Grundy."
"And are you so subservient to the requisitions of gossip and scandal?"
She looked steadily at him, and there was a pause.
"I feel that what I am going to say is not just what I ought to say. I have never been able to learn the phrases of society, to mould myself on the exact pattern of my neighbors. We are strangers, who, I grant you, seem to have a kind of sympathy for each other; we would, I make no doubt, grow into very good friends; but this can not be, and I am going to tell you why. Our acquaintance has sprung up like a mushroom, and now we must gather it, and not being sure whether it is the safe or the poisonous kind, it is wisest to throw it away. Do you understand me?"
"Not in the least."
"I think you do; but I will, nevertheless, go on and make myself clearer. I pass for being a very clever, shrewd woman; but I am in reality one of the least discerning, and the most credulous. Experience," she sighed, and her brow contracted, "has little profited me. I still have an obstinate belief in what people say. I like and dislike blindly. I listen and credit just as I pluck roses—I never can remember the thorns until my hand bleeds from them."
"Well?"
"The attentions you offer me, the pleasure I take in receiving them are, perhaps, a whole thicket of roses. You still look puzzled—frankly then, since you will have the fond de ma pensée. I am warned against you, as an insincere and unreliable person, who will only impose upon my credulity, profess an interest sufficient to interest me, and then go off and laugh at the simplicity of a woman old enough to be wiser. Spare me the storm I see threatening such thunder-bolts. You must not be angry—you forced me to be candid."
"I will not storm," Frank said, very calmly; "but who has given you such a picture of myself? By what authority has any one dared to accuse me of a character or practices which they would find impossible to prove?"
"Of course, you need not ask that. I speak selfishly, as they do—only for myself. I have a foolish way of taking every one au sérieuz—of giving way to involuntary confidence, and am, therefore, too easy a prey for designing men or women who— But enough of this. Believe me, Mr. Egerton, my own impressions of you are most agreeable, most prepossessing; do I not prove it by explaining my reasons, instead of coolly closing my doors?"
"Will you believe me in return?" He stood up before her grave, earnest, eager. "You can ask my cousin, Mrs. Vernon, what I said of you ten days since: before I knew you, I liked you; I wished to know you. From the first moment of my introduction I felt that I was right in my anticipative regard. You say you are impulsive—so am I—with this difference; you have liked a great many people, I have liked very few. I offer you my friendship, such as it is. If I knew you a thousand years I would not feel more secure of myself than I do at this moment. I don't believe in time as the sole promoter of good feeling. I can not understand why I have been belied to you. Trust me, I am not what you have heard; don't seek to find me so. Give me the privilege of visiting you, and proving that I am an honest man."
"I believe it."
"Thank you. I am satisfied."
"What an absurd conversation!" Mrs. St. Maur said, smiling. "We are behaving like people in novels—not like a lady and gentleman who were not bowing acquaintances a fortnight since. I fear you think me very unconventional."
"It is just that which I admire in you; if you were like every body, dear Mrs. St. Maur, you would not be half so—what shall I call it?—so lovable."
"Lovable!" she repeated, "lovable—there is not—" She checked herself. "So, then," she continued, "we have vowed 'eternal friendship' in spite of opposition; but, remember"—and she raised her beautiful hand with its pink, shining, almond-shaped nails, a hand for a queen, a royal hand—"remember that to deceive me is an inglorious and shabby thing. It is like passing off a counterfeit bill on a blind man; taking his silver in exchange, and that, too, when the poor duped idiot has told you 'I can not see.'"
Egerton did not answer; his looks were eloquent enough. He pressed the beautiful hand, and took his leave.
* * * * * * *
Weeks passed, and the whole city knew that Mrs. St. Maur received the visits of Mr. Frank Egerton. Mrs. Grundy had always prophesied this. She shook her wise head, and had a great deal to say about it.
Lou Vernon was uneasy. She felt that she had been instrumental in bringing fresh gossip upon her friend. She spoke to Fanny, and suggested that Mrs. St. Maur should drop her new acquaintance. But Fanny laughed, and protested against such capriciousness.
"Why on earth do you all attack poor Frank Egerton? Upon my word he is a very ill-used person; and it is not right for you, Lou, who must know how good he is, to join the outcry."
Lou applied to her brother-in-law.
"It is useless," Robert said, gloomily; "the mischief is done. It may never be worse. Encourage her to receive others; you will never succeed in making her banish Egerton until—"
"Until what?"
"Until he banishes himself."
"You keep, then, to your idea that he is flattering his vanity at her expense?"
"I do."
"Can't we stop it?"
"Stop the wind; stop the waves. We have to deal with an impetuous woman, ensorcelée by an unprincipled man."
"Oh, Robert, unprincipled!—who thinks so?"
"I do. I call any man unprincipled who, however honorable in his dealings with men, thinks no pledge binding with women."
"But he does not think that; on the contrary—"
"My dear Lou, time will show who is right, you or I. God grant that it may be you."
* * * * * * *
The moon was shining straight into the window. It was a spring night, balmy, fresh, perfumed.
Two figures were clearly visible by its radiance. Is that softly-bright face, framed by the heavy braids of golden hair, the sad and pensive face of Fanny St. Maur? How much younger she looks! what a serene light in her hazel eyes! what a tender smile rests ever and anon upon her lips! And who has wrought this change? There sits the magician enjoying his good work. Frank Egerton has drawn his low chair close to hers, and watches her as she speaks; but he is restless, gets up, walks about, returns and buries his head in his hands.
"What ails you?" Fanny asks at last. "You remind me of a polar bear prowling up and down his cage."
"I am not happy."
"Singular announcement! which you give as a reply, just as one might say, 'I have a headache.' Who is happy, my poor Frank?"
"I might be."
"Why are you not, then?"
"Because it does not depend upon myself."
"On whom?"
"On you."
"What can I do for you?" she asked, evading the reply. "Tell your papa to advance more largely? Invite my pretty cousin, Rebecca Palmer, to tea when next you come? Tell Lou to make you godfather to—"
"Hush! you hurt me with this trifling. You must have long seen it. Fanny, I love you dearly, with my whole heart, with my whole soul. I have never loved any woman but you. I have never told any woman that I loved her. I have never loved till now. You are every thing to me. I think of you from morning till night, from night till morning; sleeping or waking, you are ever present. I can do nothing but think of you. At my business, I sit dreaming. My body goes into society, my spirit is only where you are. I can't express to you what I feel. I have no words in which to say my love. Look at me—don't turn away—don't weep—for God's sake listen to me and love me!"
"Oh, Frank! Frank!" it was all she could say.
"Don't you believe me? Don't you feel that I love you?"
Her tears were falling fast and passionately; she wiped them away with eager haste.
"Don't speak to me of love. I have nothing to do with love. How can you grieve me so? We were, I thought, so happy—these past weeks have taken me away from my bitter life, and you wish to plunge me back into the black gulf? Have you no pity for me?"
"Fanny, this is unpractical and idle talk. Did you suppose that I could know you, see you, and not love you? Why should you not love and be loved."
"Because"—and she shuddered, and her face had its old look of pain, her eyes their weary sadness—"because you know my history; you know what I am, a divorcée, scorned by virtuous women, who live respectably with husbands whom they despise. For what do you take me? for a woman of intrigue? I am not one."
"Nor could I love you if I thought you were."
"I could not, I dare not love again. If the Past did not arise between us, there are many other reasons; my own suspicious temper, my—"
"A strong, brave, generous heart is above suspicion."
"True: unless bitter experience has so crushed that heart that it neither reasons nor is itself. There is a madness—stay—in the book I was reading this morning—here it is—Bulwer, in speaking of his heroine Nora: 'Sound physiologists agree that madness is rarest among persons of the finest imagination; but these persons are, of all others, liable to a temporary state of mind in which judgment sleeps, imagination alone prevails with a dire and awful tyranny. A single idea gains ascendency; expels all others; presents itself every where with intolerable blinding glare. Nora at that time was under the dread, one idea: I am freed, because not even benefits or confiding tenderness could bind to me one human heart. Free! but between me and every fresh nature stands suspicion as a upas-tree. Not a hope that would pass through the tainted air but falls dead under the dismal boughs. I love—I, whom the Past has taught the impossibility to be loved again? I should but debase every bright impulse by the curse of my own distrust. At each word of tenderness my heart says, How long will this last? when will deception cease? Look not at me with those reproachful eyes; they can not reverse my purpose; they can not banish suspicion from my sickened soul; create a sunshine in the midst of this ghastly twilight.'"
Fanny read these lines with deep emotion; her trembling voice could scarcely articulate. "They were written for us," she continued. "Turn away your 'reproachful eyes,' and let this all end at once and forever."
"You ask of me an impossibility. I love you! I love you—how dearly you can not understand."
"I do not love you."
"Are you sure of that? Oh, consider before you answer me. I will wait. I will not urge you now to accept my love; but, when you will, say 'Come,' and I will be at your feet."
"I am older than you."
"I know it."
"I am exacting, willful, imperious."
"I know all your faults."
"Such an alliance would drive your family wild with indignation."
"That is their affair, not mine."
"Are you prepared for the scandal, the talk, the unkind remarks, the false position you will occupy? Many doors will be closed upon you for my sake."
"How coolly you are arguing! Is this a business affair? a matter of calculation? of pros and cons? Your calmness maddens me."
"Do you think me very calm? I am calm as one who stands on the edge of a precipice; below, yawns a frightful abyss, threatening horror and death; beyond, is a sort of earthly paradise; a narrow plank, whose strength is yet untested, is flung across, and invites my weary, longing feet. Do you wonder that I pause and measure the danger?"
"Trust to the plank—it is of solid oak; sound to the core: if it fails you, may its ruin follow yours!"
Fanny shook her head. "Better stay where I am; sad, but safe."
Yet she listened, and he spoke with all the fiery ardor of youth and passion and first love (!). It was twelve o'clock. "Go home," she cried; "I will not hear or say a word more."
He left her, and the next morning before she was awake came a letter: "Dearest on earth, dearer than heaven—"
She hastily answered:
"I have given you no right to address me thus. I am bewildered; like a boat at sea without mast or rudder. I perceive that I am in danger, and I feel helpless; but I insist upon liberty to direct my course as well as I can. Don't call me vacillating, for although I give you no leave to love me, I wish you to think well of me."
His reply disarmed her:
"Dear Mrs. St. Maur,—All that you claim you claim justly; and believe me that not in thought, word, or deed, will you suffer harm or annoyance from me. I am waiting—I can not say patiently—but in spite of all that fills me with doubt, I am happy, very happy; and never has spring, with its songs and flowers, been so pleasant to my senses as this day. I have thrown myself into the stream and slumber; when I am dashed against a rock, it will be time enough to awake; till I do, and may I never! I am yours, simply and for no end, asking nothing but that you will let me see you as usual, that you will think well of me, and that you will do with me what you will. I am trusting to Time, your favorite test. See if he do not prove my friend in the end, by showing you how faithfully and entirely I am yours,
"Frank Egerton."
And so the spider has woven its web, and the innocent dew-drops glisten upon it, and a full-grown fly, that knows spiders and webs, is yet attracted by the pretty natural diamonds, reflecting in the sunlight, and she draws nearer and nearer. The sun is rising higher in the heavens each moment: presently the scorching rays will drink up the dew, but the fly has ventured too close! Poor fly! simple fly!
Day by day, Egerton's influence increased; all the more surely, because for the first time in her life the most impulsive, uncontrolled of women was prudent, and full of hesitation and doubt. She was firm and decided to a certain point; she would bind herself by no promise; enter into no engagement, although she felt each hour that Frank was dearer to her, and that to dismiss him seemed impossible.
Time passed. If not lovers, they were nearly so; if not betrothed, they were virtually pledged. It was on both sides apparently "All for Love, and the world well lost." Fanny avoided Robert Vernon's grave looks, Lou's anxious questions. Frank spent every moment of his time not demanded by his business at Mrs. St. Maur's. She lived in a Fool's Paradise, and was happy, supremely happy. Regret, remorse, past, present, future, her children, society, every thing was swept from her mind, and one beautiful head, with its dark, passionate eyes, one voice, one human being made her world! Don't envy her; don't blame her! The dream was sweet, but ah, the awaking!
This could not last: Frank grew impatient. He was to wait upon her decision an eternity, but the eternity was drawing to a close. Fanny performed an act of the most daring hardihood and virtue.
"Go away," she said, "for a week; consider over all that I have said: I will do the same. On your return, we will decide if we are necessary to each other."
The week was very long to both. It ended like the eternity, and Frank presented himself once more.
It was hard to speak at first. Fanny was more anxious than she cared to acknowledge even to herself. His first words were,
"Are you mine?"
"Yes!"
He folded her in his arms, close to his heart.
"I am yours," he said, "through life—till death. No obstacle—none can part us now. Yours, forever and forever!"
* * * * * * *
"And must you go, darling?" Frank asked.
"Indeed I must. My uncle has always been very kind to me: he is ill, and has written to tell me so. It is only one of his usual attacks—it will not keep me a week. You will scarcely have time to miss me."
"You think so? Give me your hand: let those books alone. What a beautiful hand it is! and you look so lovely in this light."
"I am not lovely at all."
"You are to me, and that is enough for me. Who can compare with you in shoulders, arms, hair, eyes—"
"Oh! don't take an inventory of my perfections."
"Let me finish—and yet, after all, what is your beauty to me? I don't love you for your hands, and arms, and eyes; it is yourself—yourself—you! But, Fanny, let me look at you! are you crying? Oh, Fanny, tears, such passionate tears—what is it?"
"I don't know; I am wretched. I have been for days."
"For Heaven's sake, why?"
"Frank, do you love me?"
"You, only you, on earth."
"Will it last? will it last?"
"I have said it—I have sworn it! What can I do to convince you, to make you happy?"
She kneeled down beside him and he laid her head tenderly on his shoulder, stooping to kiss again and again her sorrowful eyes, her quivering lips.
"What is the matter? Are you jealous again? for you know you are a little jealous."
"Yes, I am jealous, and I am teasing, and I am sad, when I ought to be cheerful. Bear with me! think how much my spirit had been crushed, how broken I was before I knew you. I can not entirely recover all at once. And then, to-night, a vague presentiment of some coming misfortune haunts me."
"You are too superstitious."
"Pardon that with all my other failings."
"Shall I write to you—will you write to me?"
She grew more cheerful; but as they were about to separate some hours after, she threw herself into his arms suddenly, vehemently exclaiming, in the deep, low tone of concentrated passion, "a woman's passion, half-fierceness and half tears," "Love me! oh, love me!"
"I do; Iwill. I am wayward; but I am true to you. What can I do to make you happy?"
* * * * * * *
Fanny St. Maur was pacing her drawing-room with eager steps and agitated manner.
"What does it mean?" she said, aloud; "what does it mean? He can not—he can not—"
There was a ring at the street bell—a parley with the servant—a man's step upon the stair; was it his? It must be, and yet— She flew to the door: Robert Vernon entered.
"Dear Robert!" she said, and stopped.
"I wished to see you on your return, Fanny, but I feared you might not be alone. I would not have ventured up had not your servant assured me that there were no visitors."
"I am alone, as you see," she said, forcing a smile.
Robert asked her a few questions about her journey, her uncle's late illness, herself, her children. She answered mechanically—listlessly—then impatiently.
"Does my presence annoy you?" he asked, finally.
"Annoy me! when did you ever annoy me? Robert, if ever you cared for me help me now! my brain is on fire, my mind distracted."
Oh, the kind pity of Vernon's face as he took the burning hand in his, and gazed mournfully at the poor stricken creature before him!
"Command me in any way, my child. I have never failed you yet—have I?"
"Never, never! but I do not know how you can help me." There was a silence, broken only by her convulsive sobs; each breath seemed to come with effort from her struggling bosom.
"I must speak," she said, at length; "your sympathy soothes me, and, besides, you may reassure me. It is only my fancy—there can be nothing wrong. Of course I expected to see Mr. Egerton to-day; he knew when I was to return. He did not come; and, lest there should be some mistake on his part about my arrival, I wrote to him. He replies by verbal message that he is engaged this evening."
Robert Vernon set his teeth firmly. Fanny continued: "Can you understand it? Has any thing happened among the Egertons? Perhaps—"
"Dearest Fanny, do not lose yourself in idle conjectures. Wait. Mr. Egerton will himself explain."
"Wait!" she repeated; "wait! with a serpent gnawing at your heart—suspicion barbing every fang. Robert, would he dare? has he been trifling with me? deceiving me? Has he pledged his honor and his word to love me through life till death; has he sought me in my sorrow and my deep grief; has he tracked me day and night with devilish skill to bring fresh misery upon a heart that was yet bleeding, when he deigned to stretch out his hand to stanch its wounds? Has he come, like the Samaritan, to succor the wounded man by the wayside, and, instead of wine and oil, pours melted lead and heaps fiery coals upon each bruise, each gaping agony?"
"Hush, hush, my poor child, my poor Fanny!" She was beside herself, wild with indignation, terror, doubt, despair.
"You will see him soon; he will explain. Have patience, faith."
"Faith! Yes, that is his word—the false word with which he has brought me to this. And you do not reproach me? You do not say, 'I warned you; I bade you beware of this traitor—this—'"
"Be calm—calm yourself, Fanny. Are you engaged to Mr. Egerton? plighted to him?"
"Solemnly. Do you think that unless he had sworn his truth and love to me, unless we were pledged by every sacred vow, I should feel as I do now?"
"Then I must believe that there is some accident, something we do not understand just yet, which prevents his coming. Believe in him still—in spite of every thing, believe in him. Try to sleep. Your face is flushed, your hand feverish; you are over-fatigued, overexcited. Take off this pretty dress, and keep it in all its freshness until he can see how sweetly you look in it. To-morrow you will know all about the detention, and will smile at your own uneasiness."
Like a child she wished Robert good-night, and obeyed his directions. He called her maid, saw her leave the room, and then his brow darkened with an angry frown. "Scoundrel!" he muttered; "and no man will refuse him his hand, no mother her daughter, no door will be shut in his face, and the world will still call him honorable! But patience, patience—for her sake, patience."
Shall we visit the sleepless pillow of Fanny St. Maur? Shall we watch beside her as, restless and miserable, the hours slowly and drearily chime upon her ear, and the black and weary night melts into the bright and weary day? Oh, sad heart! sad heart! cease thy wild complainings.
"No rest for thee but dying,
Like waves whose strife is past."
What a sermon is this woman! See her! She sits with bended head, her elbow on her knee, her chin upon her hand, outwardly calm, inwardly devoured by such raging thoughts that, like the stream banked up, if you but remove the barrier, it can never be controlled again.
She does not read, she can not write; impossible to pass a needle through a piece of canvas, and fancy herself occupied. Every book either recalls him or seems to answer gloomily to her own position. She tries to pray—she prays for peace, rest, peace. What wild, ineffectual prayers! She strives to give her heart to God, and one man's image fills it! "Give me back, oh! give me back," she cries, "the calm sadness in which, three months ago, I was slowly gathering comfort. This tempest is destroying me. Peace, peace, peace!"
Night comes, day has gone—no word, no sign, and thus time creeps on till another week is added to the world's age, and each minute is marked in indelible blows on the watchful face and sickened mind of Fanny St. Maur.
At last! He is announced, he is coming, he is there—there, in that room where they parted! But for her pride, even then she would have thrown herself upon his breast, and sobbed out her terror and her anguish, and her deep, deep love!
He offers his hand as if they were mere acquaintances; he is pale and very self-possessed. She gives him her hand mechanically, and looks at him with wild, staring, miserable eyes.
He speaks of this thing and of that; she answers like an automaton: she is stunned. But at length her tumultuous thoughts, her maddening thoughts must have vent.
"Am I dreaming?" she asks. "Is this you? is this myself? what is it? I am going mad, I think. Answer me. I have every right to feel outraged and indignant. I know of nothing to produce this conduct. What have I done? Where have you been? Answer me. Why do you give me so much pain? Why have I not seen you? heard from you?"
"Because"—and Frank Egerton's voice was as unmoved as if he were answering his footman or speaking to his dog—"because our intimacy is ended, our engagement ceased."
Fanny started up, confronting him with disdain—scorn, contempt, flashing fearfully from her worn face.
"Repeat that," she said; "repeat your words. I can not take them in."
"We parted forever when we parted the last time. I had not meant to come at all, but I have come, and you must hear me patiently. I did not intend to offer any explanation, but I will do so. A union between us is impossible; my family oppose it. To love you renders it necessary for me to give them up, and to abandon society. I am young. I have my way to make in the world. I can not consult alone my own pleasures and wishes. Absorbed by you, my whole life was in this house and nowhere else. I am twitted on all sides for my reckless devotion. Every man I meet alludes to my romantic and unpractical views for the future. It is best for both of us. You were unwilling to love me; you can return to what you were, and you will soon forget me."
Slowly, like one who speaks in her sleep, she asked,
"Why have you not told me this before? Why have I waited in this dire suspense all this wretched week? You might have given me at once the merciful dagger-stroke, and not have broken me on the wheel."
"Had I come here at first I never could have spoken at all. It has cost me a mighty effort—but I did not think that you would have felt it so much. You look ill."
"I had not thought the old man had so much blood in him," Fanny repeated, bitterly. "You strike, and wonder to see the blood flow. But this is folly. We are acting a play—a very cruel one tome. You are testing me—trying the strength of my attachment. I have so often doubted your sincerity—you have so implored me to have faith in you—to believe in you—that, wearied of my peevish distrust, you are seeking to see if I really could think you dishonorable. The test is unkind, overwhelming—I have no strength to bear it. End the game; you are destroying me."
Timidly, but tenderly, she placed her hand on his shoulder, and tried to smile.
He did not move nor speak. Doggedly he looked ahead, as if he were not aware of her action.
"Would you wish me to believe that you have deceived me?"
"I have never deceived you. In what I said, in what I vowed, I was entirely sincere. Circumstances compel me to retract those vows; but I made them honestly."
"Honestly! honestly! Yours is not the tongue to use that word. Your code of morals does not demand honesty as its foundation. An honest man does not swear 'during convenience,' or 'depending upon circumstances.' He does not give to another claims upon him which he forgets and dishonors."
"I do not forget them—I do not dishonor them. I break them for your sake and for mine. Be magnanimous, and forgive me; or else hate me."
"So"—she spoke with withering scorn—"you see no degradation to yourself, no breach of honor, in this wanton baseness? You would not dare cunningly to delude a man into trusting you—to make him risk his last dollar, his credit, his hopes, his all, in some wild scheme—and then when the poor idiot, forgetting his past failures and blasted fortunes, looks for a future of rest and peace, withdraw yourself from the connection, and scatter the venture to the winds! But I am raving—I am wild—I am foolish; my brain turns—I do not know what I say—I can not tell what I feel. Heaven, earth, right, wrong, justice, honor, love, faith, truth, all is one cruel chaos. Help me! save me! There are strange lights before my eyes—dark phantoms chase me with their sneering, wicked faces! Frank, I love you—I love you so wildly and so deeply, that—I think—I fear—"
She fell to the floor. He caught her up with eager haste, and rang for assistance.
Physicians came and exchanged grave looks. Mrs. Vernon, with streaming eyes, asked their opinion, their fears. "The brain," was all they said. She nursed her friend day and night. Painful was the ordeal; unflinchingly she bore it. There was a weight of remorse heavy on the little woman's conscience. Fanny's incoherent and burning words soon revealed the mischief that had been done; and what sad and bitter hours Lou passed at her bedside! To see the prostrate and wasted form of this late charming woman, to watch the fever in its fatal course, was terrible enough; but Robert Vernon's anguished face, his deep, reproachful eyes, his utter misery, was the overflowing drop in her cup of penitence and sorrow. And yet they could only guess at the truth. Neither would question Mr. Egerton; and the fever was supposed to have originated at --, the residence of Fanny's uncle, whence she had come so recently, and where typhus was numbering its victims by scores.
"Those are mine," Robert said, when the luxuriant and beautiful golden hair was shorn, braid after braid, from the burning head of the sufferer. She snatched at them herself, and wound a long tress about her thin, transparent wrist, and smiled; saying, softly, "You think it pretty, darling?" Then she plucked it away with a shudder, shrieking, "It stings me! Kill that snake—that wily, creeping snake! It has stung me to the heart, and mocks me with its glittering, savage, cruel eyes!"
"Is she any better?" Mrs. Vernon asked, on the twentieth day of her friend's illness. "Is there any hope?"
The doctor paused before he replied. He was a kind-hearted man, and did not need to inquire if Mrs. Vernon loved the poor senseless thing lying so restlessly before them, turning her head with ceaseless beat from side to side.
"Will she recover?"
"We must almost wish that she will never recover," he said, very gravely and sadly. "Prepare yourself. Should Mrs. St. Maur live, it will be without her reason. Her mind has fled, I fear, forever."
"O God—great God! You are not in earnest? You are not sure?"
"It is almost certain. Her mind has been tasked, I fancy, beyond its strength for many, many years. An excitable temperament, too great sensitiveness, a constant strain upon her nerves, and a lack of self-control, have predisposed her to this end. I may be mistaken; let us still hope it. Courage, my dear Mrs. Vernon; don't give way, now."
* * * * * * *
"You wished to see me?" Mrs. Vernon said, an hour or two after this painful, this frightful intelligence. She spoke to her cousin.
He held out his hand: she folded her arms and looked at him.
"Never! never!" she exclaimed, with vehement energy, trembling but firm. "How dare you meet my eye? How dare you venture to this house?"
"I dare do any thing," he said, haughtily.
"Do you boast of it? It is rare, I hope, to find a man who makes a matter of pride of what should fill him with shame and remorse."
"You are bitter, Louisa, and unjust."
"Thank God, I am neither a villain nor a liar; bitter I may be, my injustice I do not perceive."
"You condemn me unheard."
"Let me hear you then; our interview must be short, for your victim needs me. That sounds well, does it not? You have lived a romance, complete in all its volumes. Reynolds could accept you as a hero."
"Of what do you suspect me?"
"Ah! it is for me then to speak! What have you done? I will tell you; for during these long wretched days my poor Fanny's unconscious lips have revealed almost the whole story, have confirmed what I suspected and dreaded. You have, with specious words and actions, forced and wheedled yourself into the confidence and affections of a woman who never had harmed you, never sought you—who believed in you, tended you, loved you, ia spite of warning, in spite of prejudice. You offered her your life—resented her doubts—entreated her faith. She told you her faults, her history; she laid before you the obstacles in yourselves, in society; she begged you for your own sake even more than for hers, to wait; 'Let both be wise and neither hasty'—were not those her words ?—she has repeated them so often. You called her natural hesitation 'coldness,' 'calculation;' you won her heart, deserted and abandoned her without provocation, without compunction. Ah! a woman's heart! such a mere trifle! her affections, such frivolous possibilities! What are they? You can't see them, touch them—they don't exist therefore."
"Don't you believe that I love her?"
"You! You love Frank Egerton so fully and entirely that you have not room to care for any thing else."
"Judge by my future life if I love her or not. I was happier in those few weeks than I ever was or ever shall be again—than I ever care to be. But our union was a mad dream. Every thing was against us. It is more for her sake than for mine that I have thus decided. As she is she will command the respect of the world, the esteem of her children. In my love I forgot at first all that I remembered afterward, and—"
"Your cold-blooded reasoning disgusts and wearies me. It was for her to decide whether she accepted the new views that you deliver with such apparent self-satisfaction. I blame her for listening to you, for falling into the pit which your false hands digged. You never have loved her, never! If your conscience acquits you of infamy, so much the better (or worse) for you."
"Infamy!"
"Oh! don't raise your voice at me. Don't flash your eyes. I repeat, infamy. You are at liberty to quit my presence when my words don't suit you. There are some positions which engage a man's whole existence; this was one. I sometimes think that this was a wager. If so, you have won it. Acknowledge you bet with John Percy, or Louis, or Stanhope Grey, that you would face the consigne of Mrs. St. Maur's doors, and make a fool of the guarded mistress of the mansion. Enjoy your triumph like a gambler, who plays with an honest greenhorn and beats him with cogged dice and marked cards! Oh, Frank! Frank! my blood runs in your veins, we are near of kin; if my son, my little Charley, my curly-headed five-year-old boy, should live to be what you are! Have you no compunction? no remorse?"
"None. I did what I thought was right; I would do it again. How is Mrs. St. Maur today?"
"Shall I tell you? Dr. Bennett says—can you bear it? will not even you be touched?"
"Say on."
"There are but two alternatives—death or madness. We have lost forever that bright vision, that mournful wreck, her past and her present—we have lost forever poor, hapless, doomed Fanny St. Maur."
Tears drowned the words. Egerton's head was buried in his hands. Presently he went to his cousin; he was pale as death.
"Does any one know?" he asked.
"The cause of her illness? No. You are safe," she said, with withering scorn; "and any way, who is there to defend her? Who is there to wreak vengeance on the man who has destroyed her? Only Robert Vernon, who loves her, and has long loved her, but whose interference to protect her would but widen the misery, increase the scandal. But beware of him, Egerton; never cross his path, nor give him an opportunity. You are trembling. A coward too?"
"I disdain to answer you. In this, as in all else, you misunderstand me. We part now for life. I forgive you your harsh words—may you learn to forgive me!"
* * * * * * *
In a private mad-house, not far from the great city, a pretty country place, cheerful and comfortable, resides Fanny St. Maur.
She is very quiet this morning. Her short, waving hair gives her a very youthful look; her light, girlish figure is dressed with care and elegance. You would scarcely think, to see her, that she neither reasons nor understands. Lou Vernon has come to pay her daily visit—it is a daily penance.
Fanny knows her, and likes to see her. Fanny is seldom violent, but always sad.
Robert Vernon joins them: he looks like an old man. He kisses Fanny on her white forehead, and smoothes back the rich ringlets that fall over it. She smiles, and calls him "Father," and holds his cold, trembling hand in hers, stroking it fondly with her rose-tipped fingers.
She cries and shivers when they get up to go away, and tells them how lonely she is except when the moon comes to visit her and brings a few stars, but Mars has quarreled with her recently; and so she prattles on in a silly way, and they leave her.
Years have passed. Her daughters are grown women, and well married. They do not neglect her, but she is the great grief and blot of their lives; yet they like to talk of her to Mrs. Vernon, to recall how bright and graceful and charming she was, and they cherish Robert Vernon as her friend and theirs.
They know nothing of the last events of her worldly life; but one evening, at a concert, Mr. Vernon saw Georgiana, the elder girl, about to speak to Frank Egerton. Not that Mr. Egerton sought her, but she remembered having seen him at "poor mamma's," and held out her hand to him as he passed. Robert moved swiftly between them, caught Georgy's hand, and said, distinctly and slowly,
"Never recognize that — person! he is my bitterest enemy; and but for reasons that you must never ask, he or I would have died long before this."
The two men exchanged looks of dire hatred. Frank scornfully curled his proud lip, and seemed about to speak, but a shadow crossed his brow, his eyes fell, and he turned and moved away.
Has this man of honor a conscience? is his rest easy? his life happy? I do not know. I do not care to know.
For her—since it is God's will—she breathes, exists. Better, far better, had she died. But for such sorrows there is still a mightier punishment—to live with reason, recollection, memory, feelings, thought, all strong, yet blighted—alive, yet withered, sapless, dead!