Stanton was glad to escape from the house after the interview described in the previous chapter; and observing that Van Berg was reclining under a tree at some little distance from the hotel, stolled thither and threw himself down on the grass beside him. But his perturbation was so evident that his friend remarked:
"You are out of sorts, Ik. What's the matter?"
"I've been settling this Sibley business with my aunt and cousin," snarled Stanton; "and some women always make such blasted fools of themselves. But they won't have anything more to do with him; at least, I'm sure my aunt won't. As for Ida—but the less said the better. I'm so out of patience with her folly that I can't trust myself to speak of her."
"Stanton," said Van Berg, gloomily, "you have no idea of the regret and disquiet which that girl has caused me as an artist. I have seen her features now for weeks, and I cannot help looking at them, for they almost realize my idea of perfection. But the associations of this beauty are beginning to irritate me beyond endurance."
"It was a motley crowd that I was the means of bringing to your table," said Stanton, with an oath; "and I've no doubt you have wished us all away many times."
Van Berg laid his hand on his friend's arm, and looked into his eyes.
"Ik," he said slowly, "I was your friend when I came here—I am your friend still. If I cannot love you better than I do myself, you must forgive me. But I shall never take one unfair advantage of you, and I recognize the fact that you have equal rights with myself. Ik, let us be frank with each other this once more, and then the future must settle all questions. The woman we both love is too pure and good for either of us to do a mean thing to win her. Do your best, old fellow. If you succeed, I will congratulate you with an honest heart even thought it be a heavy one. I shall not detract from you in the slightest degree, or cease to show for you the thorough liking and respect that I feel. It shall simply be a maiden's choice between us two; and you know it is said that the heart makes this choice for reasons inexplicable even to itself."
"Van, you are a noble, generous fellow," said the impulsive Stanton, grasping his friend's hand. "I must admit that you have been a fair and considerate rival. Even my jealousy could find no fault." Then he added, in deep despondency: "But it is of no use. You have virtually won her already."
"No," said Van Berg, thoughtfully, "I wish you were not mistaken, but you are. There is something in her manner towards me at times which I cannot understand; but I have a conviction that I have not touched her heart."
"She does not avoid you as she does me," said Stanton, moodily.
"No, she accepts my society much too frankly and composedly," answered Van Berg with a shrug. "I fear that I can join her anywhere and at any time without quickening her pulse or deepening the color in her cheeks. Now, Ik, we understand each other. Happy the man who wins, and if you are the fortunate one, I'll dance at your wedding, and no one shall see that I carry a thousand pounds weight, more or less, in my heart."
"I can't promise to do as much for you, Van," said Stanton, trying to smile. "I could not come to your wedding. In fact, Van, I—I hardly know what I would do—what I will do. A few weeks since and the world was abundantly satisfactory. Now it is becoming a vacuum. I fear I haven't a ghost of a chance, and I—I—don't like to think of the future. Ye gods! What a change one little woman can make in a man's life! I used to laugh at these things, and for the past few years thought myself invulnerable. And yet, Van," he added with sudden energy, "I think the better of myself that I can love and honor that woman. Did I regard her now as I supposed I would when you first uttered your half-jesting prophecy, what a base, soulless anatomy I would be—-"
"SACRE! here comes Sibley and others of the same ilk, gabbling like the unmitigated fools that they are."
Van Berg turned his back upon the advancing party in an unmistakable manner, and Stanton smoked with a stolid, impassive face that had anything but welcome in it. Sibley was just sufficiently excited by wine to act out recklessly his evil self.
"What's the matter, Stanton?" he exclaimed. "Your phiz is as long as if the world looked black and blue as a prize-fighter's eye. Is Sunday an off day in your flirtation? Does the little school-ma'am take after her Puritan daddies, and say 'Hold thy hand till Monday?' Get her out of the crowd, and you'll find it all a pretence."
Stanton rose to his feet, but was so quiet that Sibley did not realize the storm he was raising. Van Berg remained on the ground with his back to the party, but was smoking furiously.
By an effort at self-control that made his voice harsh and constrained,Stanton said, briefly:
"Mr. Sibley, I request that you never mention that lady's name to me again in any circumstances. I request that you never mention her name to any one else except in tones and words of the utmost respect. I make these requests politely, as is befitting the day and my own self-respect; but if you disregard them the consequences to you will be very serious."
"Good Lord, Stanton! has she treated you so badly! But don't take it to heart. It's all Yankee thrift, designed to enhance her value. We are all men of the world here, and know what women are. If it is true every man has his price, every woman has a smaller—-"
Before he could utter another word a blow in his face from Stanton sent him sprawling to the earth. He sprang up and was about to draw a concealed weapon, when his companions interfered and held him.
"I shall settle with you for this," he half shouted, grinding his teeth.
"You shall indeed, sir," said Stanton, "and as early, too, as the light will permit to-morrow. Here is my friend Mr. Van Berg," pointing to the artist who stood beside him, "and you have your friends with you. You must either apologize, or meet me as soon as Sunday is past."
"I'll meet you now," cried Sibley, with a volley of oaths. "I want no cowardly subterfuge of Sunday."
Stanton hesitated a moment, and then said decidedly:
"No; I'm not a blackguard like yourself, and out of respect for the Sabbath and others I will have nothing more to do with you to-day; but I will meet you tomorrow as soon as it is light;" and Stanton turned away to avoid further provocation.
Van Berg thus far had stood quietly to one side, but his face had that white, rigid aspect which indicates the rare but dangerous anger of men usually quiet and undemonstrative in their natures.
"Now that you are through, Stanton, I have something to say concerning this affair," he began, in words that were as clean-cut and hard as steel. "If you propose to give this fellow a dog's whipping to-morrow, I will go with you and witness the well-deserved chastisement. But if you are intending a conventional duel, I'll have nothing to do with it, for two reasons. The first reason this fellow will not understand. Dueling is against my principles, and he knows nothing of principle. But even if I accepted the old and barbarous code, I should insist that a friend of mine should fight with a gentleman, and not a low blackguard."
"You use that epithet again at your peril," hissed Sibley, advancing a step towards him.
Van Berg made a gesture of contempt toward the speaker as he turned and said:
"You understand me, Stanton; it is not from any lack of loyalty toward you as my friend; but I would not be worthy of your friendship were I false to my sense of duty and honor."
"You are both white-livered cowards," roared Sibley. "One sneaks off under cover of the day—I never saw a fellow taken with a pious fit so suddenly before. The other, in order to keep his skin whole, prates of his dread lest his principles be punctured. the devil take you both for a brace of champion sneaks;" and he turned on his heel and was about to stalk away with a grand air of superiority, when Van Berg said, emphatically:
"Wait a moment; I'm not through with you yet. I give you but a brief half-hour to complete your arrangements for leaving the hotel."
"What do you mean?" said Sibley, turning fiercely upon him.
"I mean, sir, that your presence in that house is an insult to every lady in it, which I, as a gentleman, shall no longer permit. Curse you, had you no mother that you could thus insult all good women by the remark you made a few moments since?"
Half beside himself with rage, Sibley drew a pistol; but before he could aim correctly one of his companions struck up his hand and the bullet whizzed harmlessly over Van Berg's head.
There was a faint scream from the house, which indicated that the scene had been witnessed by some lady there.
The intense passion of the artist, which manifested itself characteristically, held him unflinching to his purpose.
"So you can be a murderer also?" he said, scornfully. "It would almost compensate a man for being SHOT, if, as a result, you could be HUNG."
Sibley's companions speedily disarmed him, strongly remonstrating in the meantime. He, in sudden revulsion, began to realize what he had attempted, and his flushed face became very pale.
"Let them leave me alone," he growled sullenly, "and I'll leave them alone."
"For Heaven's sake, Mr. Van Berg," cried Sibley's companions, "let the matter end here, lest worse come of it."
In the same steely, relentless tones, which made very word seem like a bullet, Van Berg took out his watch, and said:
"It is now four o'clock, sir. After half-past four, you must not show your libertine's face in that house again, while there's a lady in it that I respect."
"Burleigh is proprietor of that house," replied Sibley, doggedly; "and I'll stay up the entire week, just to spite you."
"Let us go to Burleigh, then," said the artist, promptly. "We will settle this question at once."
Sibley readily agreed to this appeal to his host, fully believing that he would try to smooth over matters and assure Van Berg that he could not turn away a wealthy and profitable guest; and so, without further parley, they all repaired to Mr. Burleigh's private office, arousing that gentleman from an afternoon nap to a state of mind that effectually banished drowsiness for the remainder of the day.
"Mr. Burleigh," began Sibley, indignantly, "this fellow, Van Berg, has the impudence to say that I must leave this house within half an hour. I wish you to inform him that YOU are the proprietor of this establishment."
"Humph," remarked Mr. Burleigh, phlegmatically, "that is your side of the story. Now, Mr. Van Berg, let us have yours."
"Mr. Burleigh," said Van Berg, in tones that straightened up the languid host in his easy chair, "would you permit a known and recognized disreputable woman to be flaunting about this hotel?"
"You know me better than to ask such a question," said the landlord, the color of his ruddy cheeks suddenly deepening.
"Well, sir, I claim that a man who bears precisely the same character is no more to be tolerated; and I have learned to respect you as one whom no consideration could induce to permit the presence of a human beast, whose every thought of woman is an insult."
"It's all an infernal lie," began Sibley. "I only made a slight, half-jesting allusion to that prudish little school-ma'am that these fellows are so cracked over; and they have gone on like mad bulls ever since."
Mr. Burleigh started to his feet with a tremendous oath.
"You made an 'allusion,' as you term it, to Miss Burton, eh!—the young lady who was put under my charge, and who comes from one of the best families in New England. I know what kind of allusions fellows of your kidney make;" and the incensed host struck his bell sharply.
"Send the porter here instantly," he said to the boy who answered.
"What do you mean to do?" asked Sibley, turning pale.
"I mean to put you out of my house within the next ten minutes," said Mr. Burleigh, emphatically. "You might as well have made an allusion to my wife as to Miss Burton; and let me tell you that if you wag your wanton tongue again, I'll have my colored waiters whip you off the premises."
"But where shall I go?" whined Sibley, now thoroughly cowed.
"Go to the nearest kennel or sty you can find. Either place would be more appropriate for you than my house. Mr. Van Berg and Mr. Stanton, I think you for your conduct in this affair. You are correct in supposing that I wish to entertain only gentlemen and ladies."
Sibley now began to bluster about law and vengeance.
"Be still, sir," thundered Mr. Burleigh. "One of the carriages will take you to the depot or landing as you choose. After that, trouble me or mine again at your peril. Now, be off. No, I'll not take any of your dirty money; and if these friends of yours wish to go with you, they are welcome to do so."
"We are only acquaintances of Mr. Sibley's," chorused his late companions, "and came in merely to see fair play."
"Well, you haven't seen 'fair play,'" growled Mr. Burleigh. "I've treated the fellow much better than he deserves."
Before Sibley could realize it, a carriage whirled him and his baggage away. His reckless anger having evaporated, the base and cowardly instincts of his nature resumed their sway, and he was glad to slink off to New York, thus escaping further danger and trouble.
Changes in the world without often make sad havoc in our content and happiness. Loss of fortune and friends, removal to new scenes, death and disaster, sometimes so alter the outlook that we have to ask ourselves: Is this the same earth in which we have dwelt hitherto? But the changes that can most blast and blacken, or, on the other hand, glorify the world about us, are those which take place within our souls.
Such a radical change had apparently taken place in Ida Mayhew's world. She was bewildered with her trouble, and could not understand the dreary outlook. She had come to the Lake House but a few weeks before, a vain, light-hearted maiden, looking upon life with laughing and thoughtless glances, and having no more definite purposes than the butterfly that flits from flower to flower, caring not which are harmless and which poisonous, so that they yield a momentary sweetness.
But now, for causes utterly unforeseen and half-inexplicable, all flowers had withered, and the old pleasures once so exhilarating were a weariness even in thought. Her world, once a pleasure garden, had been transformed into a path so thorny and flinty that every step brought new bruises and lacerations; and it led away among shadows so cold and dark, that she shivered at the thought of her prospective life.
Her heart had so suddenly and thoroughly betrayed her, that she was overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness and perplexity. The spoiled and flattered girl had always been accustomed to have her own way. Self-gratification had been the rule and habit of her life. If Van Berg had only admired and complimented her, if he had joined the honeyed chorus of flattery that had waited on her sensuous beauty, his voice would probably have been unheeded and lost among many others. But his sharp demand for something more than a face and form had awakened her, and to her dismay she learned that her real and lasting self was as dwarfed and deformed as her transient and outward self was perfect.
The artist seemed to her princely, regal even, in his strong cultivated manhood, his lofty calling and ambition, and his high social rank. As for herself, it now appeared that her beauty, whose spell she had thought no man could resist, had lured him to her side only long enough to discover what she was and who she was, and then he had turned away in disgust.
From their first moment of meeting, she felt that she had been peculiarly unfortunate in the impressions she had made upon him. Her attendant at the concert-garden had been a fool; and now he was associating her with a man whom he more than despised. She believed that he pitied her father as the victim of a wife's heartlessness and a daughter's selfishness and frivolity, and that he felt a repugnance toward her mother which his politeness could not wholly disguise. He was probably learning to characterize them in his mind by her father's horrible words—"froth and mud."
Such miserable thoughts were flocking round her like croaking ravens as she sat rigid and motionless in her room, her form tense from the severity of her mental distress. Suddenly Sibley's loud tones, and her cousin's voice in reply, caught her attention, and she opened the lattice of the blinds. She had scarcely done so before she saw Stanton strike the blow which had felled Sibley to the earth.
With breathless interest she watched the scene till Van Berg stepped forward. Then she sprang to a drawer, and taking out a small field-glass which she carried on her summer excursions was able to see the expression of the young men's faces, although she could not distinguish their words. The stern, menacing aspect of the artist made her tremble even at her distance, and it was evident that his words were throwing Sibley into a transport of rage; and when in his passion he tried to shoot Van Berg, she could not repress the cry that attracted their attention.
Her mother, in the adjoining room, commenced knocking at the door, asking what was the matter, but received no answer until Ida saw that the young men were coming toward the house. Then she threw open the door, and told Mrs. Mayhew that she had seen something that looked like a large spider, and that nothing was the matter. Without waiting for further questioning she flitted hastily down-stairs and from one concealed post of observation to another until she saw the angry party enter Mr. Burleigh's private office. A small parlor next to it was empty, and once within it, the loud tones spoken on the other side of the slight partition were distinctly heard.
As she listened to the words which Van Berg and Mr. Burleigh addressed to the man whom all in the house had regarded as her accepted lover, or at least her congenial friend, her cheeks grew scarlet, and when he was dismissed from the house, she fled to her room; wishing that it were a place in which she might hide forever, so overwhelming was her sense of shame and humiliation.
How could she meet the guests of the Lake House again? Worse than all, how could she meet the scornful eyes of the man who had driven from the place the suitor that she was supposed to favor as he might have scourged away a dog.
She could not now explain that Sibley was and ever had been less than nothing to her—that she had both detested and despised him. She had permitted herself to touch pitch, and it had of necessity left its stain. To go about now and proclaim her real sentiments toward the man who apparently had been her favorite, would seem to others, she thought, the quintessence of meanness. She felt that she had been caught in the meshes of an evil web, and that it was useless to struggle.
Despairing, hopeless, her cheeks burning with shame as with a fever, she sat hour after hour refusing to see any one. She would not go down to supper. She left the food untasted that was sent to her room. She sat staring at vacancy until her face became a dim pale outline in the deepening twilight, and finally was lost in the shadow of night. But the darkness that gathered around the poor girl's heart was deeper and almost akin to the rayless gloom that positive crime creates, so nearly did she feel that she was associated with one from whom her woman's soul, perverted as it was, shrank with inexpressible loathing.
"Ida is in one of her worst tantrums," whispered Mrs. Mayhew to Stanton; "I never knew her to act so badly as she has of late. I wouldn't have thought that such a man as you have found Sibley to be could gain so great a hold upon her feelings. But law! she'll be all over it in a day or two. Nothing lasts with Ida, and least of all, a beau."
"Well," said Stanton, bitterly, "she is disgracing herself and all related to her by her inexcusable folly in this instance. Those who pretended to be Sibley's friends at dinner, are now trying to win a little respectability by turning against him, and the story of his behavior is circulating through the house. All will soon know that he shot at Van Berg, and that he made insulting remarks about Miss Burton. It will appear to every one as if Ida were sulking in her room on Sibley's account; and people are usually thought to be no better than their friends."
"Oh, dear!" half sobbed Mrs. Mayhew, "won't you go up to her room and show her the consequences of her folly?"
"No," said Stanton, irritably; "not to-night. I know her too well. She will take no advice from me or any one else at present. To-morrow I will have one more plain talk with her; and if she won't listen to reason I wash my hands of her. Where is Uncle?"
"Don't ask me. Was there ever a more unfortunate woman? With such a husband and daughter, how can I keep up appearances?"
Stanton walked away with a gesture of disgust and impatience.
"Curse it all!" he muttered; "and their shadows fall on me too. What chance have I with the snow-white maiden I'd give my life for when followed by such associations?"
Mr. Burleigh was one of those fortunate men who when the weather is rough outside—as was often the case in his calling—can always find smooth water in the domestic haven of a wife's apartment. Thus Mrs. Burleigh soon learned the cause of his perturbation; and as she knew Jennie Burton would hear the story from some one else, could not deny herself the feminine enjoyment of being the first to tell it, and of congratulating her on the knightly defender she had secured; for the quarrel had come before Mr. Burleigh in such a form as to make Van Berg the principal in the affair.
Miss Burton's cheek flushed deeply and resentfully as she heard the circumstances in which her name had been spoken, and she said with emphasis:
"Mr. Van Berg impressed me as a chivalric man from the first day of our meeting. But I wish he had paid no heed to the words of such a creature as Mr. Sibley. That his life was endangered on my account pains me more than I can tell you;" and she soon grew so white and faint that Mrs. Burleigh made her take a glass of wine.
"Death seems such a terrible thing to a young, strong man," she added, shudderingly, after a moment, and she pressed her hands against her eyes as if to shut out a vision from which she shrank. "May he not still be in danger from this ruffian's revenge?" she asked, looking up in sudden alarm.
"I'm afraid that he will be," said Mrs. Burleigh, catching the infection of her fears. "I will have Mr. Burleigh see that he is kept away from this place."
Soon after, as Miss Burton was passing through the main hall-way, she met the artist, and stepping into one of the small parlors that was unoccupied, she said:
"Mr. Van Berg, I wish to speak with you. I wish both to thank you, and to ask a favor."
"Please do the latter only," he replied, smiling.
"Mr. Van Berg," she resumed, looking into his face with an expression that made his heart beat more quickly, "your life was endangered on my account this afternoon."
"That's a pleasant thought to me," he said, taking her hand, "that is if you are not offended that I presumed to be your knight."
"It is a dreadful thought to me," she answered, earnestly; then in a strange and excited manner she added: "You cannot know—death to some is a horrible thing—it prevents so much—I've known—let it come to the old and sad—I could welcome it—but to such as you—O merciful Heaven! Grant me, please grant me, the favor I would ask," she continued, clinging to his hand. "They say this man Sibley is very passionate and revengeful. He may still try to carry out his dreadful purpose. Please shun him, please avoid him—in mercy do. I've more than I can bear now; and if—if—" and she buried her face in her hands.
"And can my poor life be of such value to you, Miss Burton?" he asked, in a deep low tone.
"Ah! you cannot understand," she said, with a sudden and passionate gesture, "and I entreat you not to ask me to explain. From the first you have been kind to me. I have felt from the day we met that I had found a friend in you; and your risk, your care for me to-day, gives you a peculiar claim as a friend, but in mercy do not ask me to explain why I am so urgent in my request. I cannot, indeed I cannot—at least not now, in this place. Something happened—Sudden death in one young, strong, and full of hope, like you, seems to me horrible—horrible. In mercy promise to incur no risk on my account," she said passionately, and almost wildly.
"My poor little friend, how needlessly frightened you are!" he said, soothingly and gently. "There, I will promise you anything that a man of honor can. But a word against you, Jennie Burton, touches me close, very close. As said the Earl of Kent, 'It invades the region of my heart.'"
She looked up swiftly and questioningly, and then a sudden crimson suffused her face. With a strong and uncontrollable instinct she appeared to shrink from him.
"Kent served one who had lost the power to make return," she said, shaking her head sadly as she turned away.
"Let me reply with Kent again," he earnestly responded. "'You have that in your countenance'—in your character—'which I would fain call master'; and I am mastered, nor can I be shaken from my allegiance. I can at least imitate Kent's faithfulness, if not his obtrusiveness, in the service of his king. You have already claimed me as a friend, and so much at least I shall ever be. Let me win more if I can."
She became very quiet now, and looked steadily into his flushed, eager face with an expression of sorrowful regret and pain that would have restrained him had a ten-fold stronger and more impetuous love been seeking utterance, and by a gesture, simple yet eloquently impressive, she put her finger to her lips. Then giving him her hand she said, with strong emphasis:
"Mr. Van Berg, I would value such a FRIEND as you could be to me more than I can tell you."
"I shall be to you all that you will permit," he said, gently yet firmly. "As you now appear I could as soon think of urging my clamorous human love on a sad-eyed saint that had suffered some cruel form of martyrdom for her faith, and then, as the legends teach, had been sent from heaven among us mortals upon some errand of mercy."
"Your words are truer than you think," she replied, the pallor deepening in her face. "I have suffered a strange, cruel form of martyrdom. But I am not a saint, only a weak woman. I would value such a friend as you could be exceedingly. Indeed—indeed," she continued hesitatingly, "there are peculiar reasons why I wish we might meet as friends occasionally. If you knew—if you knew all—you would not ask to be more. Can you trust one who is clouded by sadness and mystery?"
He took her hand in both of his and answered, "Jennie Burton, there could no greater misfortune befall me than to lose my faith in you. I associate you with all that is most sacred to me. Every instinct of my heart assures me that although the mystery that enshrouds your life may be as cold as death, it is, as far as you are concerned, as white as snow."
"Yes, and as far as another is concerned also," she said solemnly. "Your trust is generous, and I am very, very grateful. Perhaps—possibly I may—some time—tell you, for you risked your life for me; and—and—there is another reason. But I have never spoken of it yet. Good-night."
"Stay," he said, "I cannot begin being a true friend to you by being a false friend to another. I am ashamed that I have been so preoccupied with myself that I have not spoken of it before. Mr. Stanton resented Sibley's insulting language more promptly than I did. I have been basely accepting a gratitude that rightly belongs to him, and I assure you he is in far more danger from Sibley than I am."
Her brow contracted in a sudden frown, and there was something like irritation in her tones as she said:
"Danger again! and to another, for my sake! Must I be tortured with fear and anxiety, because a low fellow, true to his nature, will be scurrilous? Mr. Van Berg," she continued, with a sudden flash of her eyes, "are you and Mr. Stanton quarrelling with Mr. Sibley on your own account, or on mine? From henceforth I refuse to have the remotest relation to such a quarrel. No remarks of a man like Sibley can insult me, and hereafter any friend of mine who lowers himself to resent them, or has aught to do with the fellow, will both wound and humiliate me."
"After such words, Miss Burton," Van Berg answered with a smile, "rest assured I shall avoid him as I would a pestilence. But remember, I have been as guilty as Stanton, yes, more so; for Stanton received the first provocation, and he is naturally more impetuous than I am. But I have been thanked, as well as warned and justly rebuked. I think," he added, as if the words cost him an effort, " that if you will kindly ask Stanton to have nothing more to do with Sibley, he will accede to your wishes; and whatever he promises, he will perform."
"Is your friend, then, so honorable a man?" she asked.
"He is, indeed," replied Van Berg, earnestly, while a generous flush suffused his face, "a true, noble-hearted fellow. He shows his worst side at once, but you would discover new and good traits hin him every day."
She turned away with a low laugh. "Since you are so loyal to your old friend," she said, "I think you will prove true to your new one. I shall put Mr. Stanton to the test, and discover whether he will give up his quarrel with Mr. Sibley for the sake of such poor thanks as I can give. Once more, good-night."
She was hastening away, when he seized her hand and said:
"Why do you go with averted face? Have I offended you?"
She trembled violently. "Please do not look at me so," she said, falteringly. "I cannot endure it. Pity my weakness."
His hand tightened in its warm grasp, and the expression of his face grew more ardent.
She looked up with a sudden flash in her eyes, and said, almost sternly:
"You must not look at me in that way, or else even friendship will be impossible and we must become strangers. Perhaps, after all, this will be the wisest course for us both," she added, in a gentler tone.
He dropped her hand, but said firmly, "No, Miss Jennie, you have given me the right to call you my friend, and I have seen friendship in your eyes, and friends at least we shall be till the end of time. I shall not say good-night. I shall not let you go away and brood by yourself. I have learned that cheering others is the very elixir of your life; so, come into the parlor. I will find Stanton and our friend with the soprano voice, and the guests of the house shall again bless the stars that sent you to us, as I do daily."
She smiled faintly and said:
"I'll join you there after a little while," and she flitted out into the darkening hall-way, and sought her room by a side stair.
A few moments later Stanton, finding the object of his thoughts did not appear among the guests who sought to escape the sultriness of the evening on the wide piazzas or in the large, spacious parlor, began to wander restlessly in a half-unconscious search. A servant was just lighting the gas in the small and remote reception-room as he glanced in. The apartment was empty, and no echoes of the words just spoken were lingering.
A little later Miss Burton came down the main stair-way in her breezy, cheery manner, and his jealous fears were quieted.
He joined her at once, saying that it was the unanimous wish that she should give them some music again that evening.
She would join with him and others, she said; and her manner was so perfectly frank and cordial, so like her bearing towards a lady friend to whom she next spoke, that he fairly groaned in despair of touching a heart that seemed to overflow with kindness toward all.
Van Berg soon appeared, but Miss Burton, on this occasion, managed that the singing should be maintained by quite a large group about the piano, and on account of the sultriness of the evening the service of song was brief.
While Van Berg was leading a hymn that had been asked for by one of the guests, Miss Burton found the opportunity of saying, "Mr. Stanton, I wish to thank you for your chivalric defence to-day of one who is poor and orphaned. Mr. Van Berg told me of your generous and friendly course. Thus far I can believe that your conduct has been inspired by the truest and most manly impulses. But if in any way you again have aught to do with Mr. Sibley, I shall feel deeply wounded and humiliated. I refuse to be associated with that man, even in the remotest degree. Your delicate sense of honor will teach you that if any further trouble grows out of this affair no effort on your part can separate my name from it. The world rarely distinguishes between a gentlemanly quarrel and a vulgar brawl, especially where one of the parties is essentially vulgar. As a gentleman you will surely shield me from any such associations."
Stanton, remembering his appointment with Sibley, bowed low to hide his confusion.
"I would gladly shield you with my life from anything that could cause you pain," he said, earnestly.
"I do not make any such vast and tragic demands," she replied, smilingly, and holding out her hand; "only simple and prosaic self-control, when tipsy, vulgar men act according to their nature. Good-night."
He was about to kiss her hand, when she gently withdrew it, remarking:
"We plain people of New England are not descended from the Cavaliers, remember."
He watched until in despair of her appearing again that evening, and then strolled out into the night, feeling in his despondency that no star in the summer sky was more unattainable than the poor and orphaned girl, the impress of whose warm clasp still seemed within his hand.
For some time Ida Mayhew neither heeded nor heard the choral music in the parlor below, but at last a clearer, louder strain, in which Van Berg's voice was pre-eminent, caught her attention and she started up and listened at the window.
"He is singing songs of Heaven with Jennie Burton, and I—can there be any worse perdition than this?" she said in a low, agonized tone.
As if by a sudden impulse she quietly unfastened the door that led to her father and mother's room. Perceiving that her mother was not there, she stole noiselessly in, and turned up the lamp.
Mr. Mayhew reclined upon a lounge in the deep stupor of intoxication, his dark hair streaked with gray falling across his face in a manner that made it peculiarly ghastly and repulsive.
"This is my work," she groaned. "Jennie Burton made a noble-looking man of him last evening. I have made him this." She writhed and wrung her hands over his unconscious form, appearing as might one of Milton's fallen angels that had lost Heaven and happiness but not the primal beauty of his birth-place.
"Well," she exclaimed with the sudden recklessness which was one of her characteristics, "if I have caused your degradation I can at least share in it;" and she took an opiate that she knew would produce speedy and almost as deep a lethargy as that which paralyzed her father; then threw herself, dressed, upon her couch, and did not waken until late the following day.
Stanton was sorely troubled over his rash promise that he would meet Sibley at daylight on Monday morning. After Miss Burton's words he felt that he could not keep his appointment, and yet he shrank from the ridicule he believed Sibley would heap upon him. His perturbation was so great that he hunted up Van Berg before retiring, and told him of his dilemma. The artist greatly relieved his mind by saying:
"I think we both have had a lesson, Stanton, in regard to quarreling with such fellows as Sibley, although I hardly see how we could have acted differently. But villains are usually cowards after their passion cools and they become sober. The case in hand is no exception. Burleigh tells me he has just learned that Sibley took a late boat to the city, and so does not mean to keep the appointment to-morrow. Therefore, sleep the sleep of the just, old fellow. Good-night."
The throbbing pain in Ida's head was so great when she awoke on Monday that she half forgot the ache in her heart. She found that her father had gone to the City and that the day was well advanced. Her mother sat looking at her with an expression in which anxiety and reproach were equally blended.
The unhappy woman had learned from her husband's habits to know what remedies to employ, and so was able gradually to relieve her daughter's physical distress; but Ida's weary lassitude and reticence were proof against all her questions and reproaches. It seemed as if nothing could rouse or sting her out of the dull apathy into which she had reacted after the desperate excitement of the preceding day. She pleaded illness, and stubbornly refused to go down to dinner. At last her mother, much to her relief, left her to herself, and went out to drive with Stanton, hoping that she might hit upon some plan of action in regard to the two difficult problems presented in her husband and daughter.
Towards evening Ida slowly and languidly dressed for supper, and then sauntered down to the main piazza for a little fresh air.
The poor girl did not exaggerate the shadow that had fallen upon her association with Sibley, and her supposed grief and resentment at his treatment. Two or three whom she met bowed coldly and distantly, and one passed without recognition. Even Jennie Burton had been indignant all day that one of her sex could be infatuated with such a fellow; and in her charitable thoughts she would be glad to explain such perversity as the result of a disordered and uncurbed fancy, rather than of a depraved heart.
It was not strange, however, that she should suppose Ida's manner and indisposition were caused by Sibley's ignominious ejectment from the house, when her own mother and cousin shared the same view.
What an unknown mystery each life is, even to the lives nearest to it!
As with slow, heavy steps, Ida approached the main entrance, she noted the distant manner of those she met, and divined the cause; but her apathy was so great that neither anger nor shame brought the faintest color to her cheeks.
She stood in the doorway and looked out a few moments; but the lovely summer landscape, with the cool shadows lengthening across it, was a weariness, and she turned from it as the miserable do from sights that only mock by their pleasant contrast.
The piazza was nearly empty, but before she stepped out upon it she saw not far away a gentleman reading, who at last did cause the blood to rush tumultuously into her face.
At another time she would have turned hastily from him; but in her present morbid mood she acted from a different impulse. The artist had not observed her approach, and standing a little back in the shadow of the hall-way she found a cruel fascination in comparing the man she loved with the low fellow whose shadow now fell so darkly across her own character. She looked steadily at his downcast face until every line and curve in his strong profile was impressed on her memory. In the healthful color of his finely-chiseled features there were no indications of that excess which already marred Sibley's countenance. The decided contour corresponded with the positive nature. The unhappy girl felt instinctively that if he were on her side, he would be a faithful ally; but if against her, she would find his inflexible will a granite wall against all the allurements of her beauty. The face before her indicated a man controlled by his higher, not lower nature; and in her deep humiliation she now felt that even if he knew all that was passing in her heart, he would bestow only transient pity, mingled with contempt.
She believed she could hope for nothing from him; and yet, did not that belief leave her hopeless? To what else, to whom else could she turn? Nothing else, no one else then seemed to promise any help, any happiness. Her wretched experience had come as unexpectedly as one of those mysterious waves that sweep the sunny shore of Peru. Whither it would carry her she did not know, but every moment separated her more hopelessly from him who appeared like an immovable rock in his quiet strength.
She was turning despondently away when she heard Jennie Burton's voice, and a moment later that young lady mounted the adjacent steps and said to Van Berg:
"See what a prize I captured at this late season. Roses early inAugust are like hidden treasures. See, they are genuine hybrids.Have I not had rare good fortune?"
Van Berg rose at once, and met her at the top of the steps; and Ida, who still remained unseen in the hall, now stepped forward into the doorway, so that she might not seem a furtive listener, as he was standing with his back towards her.
"Had I my way, Miss Burton," said the artist, "you should have this rare good fortune every day of the year."
She blushed slightly, and said, rather coldly, "Good evening, MissMayhew," thus rendering Van Berg aware of the latter's presence.The artist only frowned, and gave no other recognition of Ida'sproximity.
"Since you can't have your way, I shall make the most of my present good fortune. Is not that a beautiful cluster?"
"It is indeed, with one exception. Do you not see that this defective bud mars the beauty of all the others?"
"A 'worm I' the bud fell on its damask cheek.' I took it out and killed it, and was in hopes that if I placed the injured flower in water with the others it might still make a partial bloom. You will think me absurd when I tell you I felt sorry for it, and thought how many roses and lives would be more perfect were it not for some gnawing 'worm i' the bud.'"
"The 'worm' in Shakespeare's allusion," said the artist, lightly, "is redeemed by its association and symbolism; but the one that has been at work here was a disagreeably prosaic thing that you rightly put your foot upon. The bud, as it now appears, suggest the worm more than anything else. So, please, let me cut it out; for art cannot tolerate anything so radically marred and defective. Its worm-eaten heart spoils the beauty of the entire cluster."
"I fear you artists become too critical and exacting. Well, cut it out. I will submit to art in roses, but feel that marred and defective lives should have very different treatment."
"That depends. If people persist in cherishing some worm of evil, they cannot expect to be held in the same esteem as those who are aiming at a more perfect development. There, now! does not our cluster appear much better?"
"Yes; and yet I cannot help feeling sorry for the poor little bud that has missed its one chance to bloom, and all will wither unless I hasten to my room and put them in water."
In her prejudice against Ida she had not looked towards her while talking with Van Berg, but in passing, a hasty glance almost caused her to stay and speak to her, for she thought she saw her eyes full of unshed tears. But her glance was brief and her prejudice strong. Miss Burton had not a little of the wholesome feminine intolerance for certain weaknesses in her sex. She would counsel a wife to endure a bad husband with a meek and patient spirit. But gentle as she was, she would scorn the maiden who could be attracted by a corrupt man, and almost loathe her for indulging in such an affinity. She could pity Ida—she could pity any one; but the poor girl's unfortunate association with Sibley, and her seeming interest in him, would subordinate pity to indignation and contempt. Her thought was this:
"Miss Mayhew is still a maiden free to choose. Shame on her that she chooses so ignobly! Shame on her that she turns her eyes longingly to fetid pools, instead of upward to the breezy hills. What kind of nature is that which prompts such a choice?"
The artist was more capable of Jennie Burton's indignation and contempt than of her pity; and although he knew Ida still stood in the doorway he did not turn to speak to her. His very attitude seemed to indicate to the unhappy girl a haughty indifference, and yet she was so unhappy, so in need of a kind word or reassuring glance that she could not turn away.
"What a wretched mystery it all is," she thought. "I ought to hate, yet I love him. Proud as I have thought myself, I could kneel at his feet for one such word and glance as he just gave Miss Burton. For contempt I return him honor and admiration. I cannot help myself. By some strange perversity of my heart, I have become his very slave. How can he be so blind! He thinks me pining for a man that I despise and hate more than he ever can, though the fellow attempted his life. Sibley has come between me and that which is more than life—my chance for happiness and right living. I shall become desperate and bad, like him, if this continues. How strange it is that some sense, some instinct does not tell him there that the girl who stands so near is lavishing every treasure of her soul upon him!
"That poor little rose-bud represents me to his mind. How ruthlessly he is pulling open its heart! Will he see anything else there save the work of the destroyer? Can it not awaken a thought of pity? I will—I must speak to him."
She took a hesitating step or two towards him. She could almost hear her heart beat. Twice, thrice, words died upon her lips. When was she ever so timid before! If he would only give her an encouraging glance! If he would only turn a little towards her and relax that haughty, unbending attitude—-
"Mr. Van Berg," she said at last, in a voice that was constrained and hard from her effort to be calm, "you seem very vindictive towards that poor little flower."
He turned partially towards her and coldly said, "Good evening Miss Mayhew;" then, after a second, added carelessly: "I admit that this worm-eaten bud is rather vexatious. It has—what is left of it—exquisite color, and in form nature had designed it to be perfect; but" (with a slight contemptuous shrug) "you see what it is," and he tossed it down into the roadway.
Her face was very pale and her voice low, as she answered: "And so you condemn it to be trampled under foot."
"I condemn it! Not at all. Its own imperfection condemns it."
"The result is all the same," she replied, with sudden change of manner. "It is tossed contemptuously away to be trodden under foot. Dull and ignorant as you discovered me to be, Mr. Van Berg, I am not so stupid but that I can understand you this evening. Imperfect as I am I could pity that unfortunate flower whose fragrance rose to you like a low appeal for a little consideration, at least. Would it not have bloomed as perfectly as the others if the worm had let it alone? But, I suppose, with artist, if roses or human lives are imperfect, that is the end of them. Misfortune counts for nothing."
Van Berg listened in surprise to these words, and his haughty complacency was decidedly disturbed. He was about to reply that "Evil chosen and cherished was not a misfortune but a fault," when she turned from him with more than her former coldness and entered the house.
An impulse that he would have found difficult to analyze led him to descend the steps and pick up the symbolic bud, now torn and withering fast, and to place it between the leaves of his note-book.
If she had only seen this act it would have made a great difference; but, ever present to her thought, it lay where he had tossed it, the emblem of herself.