“Good evening, Madame Desmoines,” said Marion, lightly; “I hope I see you well in health? Do you like my husband?”
“His poetry has made me rather disappointed with himself; but he is all the better for having such a wife,” returned the Marquise, with engaging courtesy.
“I am only afraid of his being too fortunate ... in some things!” Marion said laughingly; “so, to make the balance even, I am going to inflict on him the misfortune of taking me home. That is, if he will.”
“That misfortune is the best of all his fortunes this evening,” was Perdita’s reply; “and I am enough his friend to be glad of it.”
While these courtesies were passing between the ladies, Philip, who perceived that something serious was the matter, had risen and placed himself by Marion’s side, and they now moved away together, while Fillmore appropriated Philip’s vacated chair. When the young poet and his wife went to make their adieux to Lady Flanders, her ladyship said to Marion, “I saw your husband flirting with that little Marquise. Don’t you let him do it! She’s the most dangerous woman in this room, and the only one who is cleverer than I am. But I’m clever enough to see through her, and I hope you are!”
And with this benediction the young couple set out homewards.
THEdrive back to Hammersmith was not a particularly agreeable one. Philip began by maintaining a grave silence: he felt his dignity somewhat impaired by the almost peremptory summons to come home before the party was half over, without any reason given or time for consideration allowed; and he suspected that it might be due to some new jealousy on Marion’s part toward Perdita, which made him prefer to leave the conduct of the conversation in her hands. Lady Flanders’ parting observations had been peculiarly apt from this point of view, and Philip secretly owed her a grudge for them; the rather since, although his own conscience acquitted him well enough in the matter, there was no denying that Perdita’s language had been open to the charge of ambiguity. Marion, however, could not have been aware of this, and her suspicions, if she had any, must have been aroused by some communication from a third person. Now it was manifestly undesirable that any third person should be permitted to come between husband and wife at all, much more that the interference should have any weight ascribed to it, except as an interference. Marion was in the wrong, therefore, to begin with, be her own grievance what it might; and Philip deemed it incumbent on his self-respect to let her bring forward her explanations without any motion on his side to anticipate them.
As for Marion, she was silent at first from excitement, which, from whatever cause arising, always had a perverse or contradictory effect upon her demeanor; causingher to laugh at what was serious, and to be reticent when volubility would have seemed more natural. Moreover, having so much to say, she did not know what to say first; and the matter in hand being, from her point of view, of great importance, she desired to make as few mistakes as possible, especially at the beginning. She saw, too, that Philip was not in an especially good humor, and she wished to mitigate his displeasure before unloading her heart to him. She had, up to this time, full confidence in his love for her; but she was conscious that what she had to propose would be somewhat trying to his generosity; and she desired to start with as prosperous a breeze as possible.
Accordingly, she pulled off her glove within her muff (which was large enough to have allowed of much more extensive evolutions) and slipped her warm hand into Philip’s. He, however, had his gloves on, and was not expecting her demonstration; and between his unreadiness and his glove it did not succeed very well. To make matters worse, he said:
“Didn’t you bring your gloves with you, my dear? ’Tis a very cold night.”
“Oh, yes; but I didn’t feel cold,” she replied carelessly, returning her hand to her muff; and then, feeling that this was not a hopeful opening, she added: “It was too bad to take you away so early, Philip; but I thought you wouldn’t mind when you knew.”
Kensington roads were not so smoothly paved then as they are now, and the wheels rattling over the cobblestones prevented Philip from hearing what she said. He said, “What?” and she, with a sense of being rebuffed, only felt inclined to reply, “You seemed to be enjoying yourself so much, I was sorry to take you away.”
“The enjoyment was nothing, one way or the other,” he returned; “but it seemed rather absurd to make so sudden a retreat—don’t you think so?”
“You would not think it absurd if you knew my reasons: I could not help it,” said Marion quickly.
“Well, I am ready to hear them,” rejoined Philip, with an air of judicial impartiality.
Marion had some resentful reply on the tip of her tongue, but she checked herself in time. “I think I would rather wait till we get home,” she said at length. “We cannot talk comfortably in this noise.”
Philip signified his assent to this arrangement by folding his arms and leaning back in his corner of the carriage; and very few words more were exchanged between the new husband and wife during the rest of the drive: so that by the time they arrived at the house, both felt as if they had in some intangible way been injured. But Marion had the more elastic temper of the two, and she reminded herself that Philip had, after all, some reason to be out of sorts; and when she turned to him at last, in the solitude of their room, it was with a face smiling, though pale.
“Now, my Philip, you are going to be astonished!” she said. “In the first place, I have been reading a letter written to you.”
Philip looked a little blank, running through in his mind all the imaginable persons who might have written him letters which he would not have wished Marion to read; but he almost immediately replied, “Why didn’t you speak of it before we left home?”
“I put it in my pocket and didn’t read it till after we arrived: it was from Mr. Fillmore, Philip” (Philip’s brow relaxed) “and the reason I opened it was that I was expecting one from him and thought this was it. But it was not. It was about something ... I should never have expected. I hope you will think about it as I do. Oh, how happy I should be then!”
“Sit down, my dear,” said Philip. “What is the matter?”
“It is about that miserable legacy. It seems to haunt us like an evil spirit. What do you think, love—there was a codicil in the will, as I said, and the money is left in such a way that if I refuse it, it might come to you, unless you refuse it too. And I hope—”
“Come to me!” echoed Philip in amazement. “How is that?”
“It is the wording of the codicil that makes it so,” said Marion. “It says, ‘To my nearest acknowledged relative,’ or something of that sort, and that might be you.”
“It might be I, if it were not the Marquise Desmoines,” returned Philip, with a short laugh. “You forget her.”
“No, I didn’t forget her; but Mr. Fillmore says that she will not acknowledge that she is his daughter at all. And you are the next nearest to her.”
“I never in my life heard of twenty thousand pounds going begging in this fashion,” said Philip, bringing his hands down on the arms of the chair. “Anybody would think it was poisoned. So she maintains she is not his daughter?”
“It is very strange of her: there must be some reason besides what she says,” remarked Marion. “I remember when she stood by the bed where he was lying, poor dear, she called him ‘father;’ and though he could not hear her, I could.”
“Well, that is not legal proof, after all.”
“But the letters in the packet she gave me to keep—those would be legal.”
“They might or they might not. There’s no telling.”
“I will send them to her, so that it may be known.”
“No. She gave them to you to keep for her. You cannot return them with courtesy until she asks for them. And ’tis easy to understand why she should wish them to remain unread. If Mr. Grantley was really her father—”
“Philip, do you doubt it?”
“My belief is that he was everything that is honorable; but what I believe or not is nothing to the purpose. Of course, if he was her father, and an honest man, it follows that something must be very wrong with Sir Francis Bendibow—”
“I am sure of that!”
“Well, I know nothing about it; but what everybody does know is that Perdita is Bendibow’s adopted daughter, and is under a certain obligation—”
“He did not treat her well: she says so herself.”
“In society, Marion, there is a convention to take certain things for granted. The conventional supposition in this case is that she is under obligations to Bendibow. Why should she create a scandal about a matter that was settled, for good or evil, a score of years since? Who would gain by Bendibow’s being shamed? Those letters either contain the evidence of his shame, or they do not; and, in either case, it is reasonable enough that she should wish to let them alone.”
“I do not believe that that is her reason for refusing this legacy.”
“What in heaven’s name can it be then?”
“I think she.... But that is not what I want to say. Philip, do you mean to take this money?”
“If no one contests my right to it, I certainly shall,” said Philip, with his chin in his hand.
Marion’s heart beat hard. She had anticipated reluctance on her husband’s part, but not opposition so determined as this. She hesitated what to do next. That Perdita did not really doubt Grantley to have been her father, Marion was of course convinced. The recollection of what had passed on that tragic morning, when the Marquise had called her in to witness Bendibow’s exposure, and Marion herself had interposed, and with difficulty saved him, was only too distinct in her memory.Perdita had believed then, and there was no reason why she should doubt now. But on the other hand, Marion herself was responsible for Perdita’s present attitude. Marion had asked her not to open the packet, and Perdita—certainly from a generous motive—had complied. In the exaltation of that moment, the two women had kissed each other. Which had maintained the more consistent course since then—Perdita or Marion? Logically, Perdita. She had agreed, for Bendibow’s sake, and at Marion’s request, outwardly to ignore the fact that she was Grantley’s daughter: and how, on that understanding, could she act otherwise than she had done? There was no logical answer to this question; on the contrary, it was Marion who had receded from her position. And yet Marion could not admit herself unjust. Though Perdita had not altered her course, Marion was persuaded that she had changed her motives in pursuing it. It was no longer compassion for Sir Francis that swayed her, but designs upon Philip. It would be impossible to describe, or even to know, by precisely what means Marion had arrived at this conclusion. It is instinct, not reason, that warns a woman when to be jealous of another: and it seems as if she could perceive the purpose in the other’s heart, even before it has declared itself in any overt act. In such circumstances, however, the injured woman can do nothing but affirm her conviction: by the magnetism whereof, and by no other means, can she hope to influence the man. But he can always out-argue her, if he chooses.
Though she felt the premonition of defeat, therefore, Marion resolved not to give up the contest: the spirit of her father was aroused in her, and she was strengthened by the thought that she was fighting not only for herself, but in behalf of Philip’s higher self likewise.
“Don’t you think there is something more than legalrights to be considered?” she said at last. “Would you condescend to accept favors from a woman like Madame Desmoines?”
“I know nothing of Madame Desmoines that puts her below the level of other people: but there is no favor in the matter. She is doing what pleases her best, without any reference to me: and I simply accept things as they are.”
“She means to put you under an obligation to her, and to use the power that will give her. You say you can read the human heart, Philip: can’t you read so easy a thing as that? That was the reason I would not take the money; and if I would not, much less should you.”
“Was that your reason? It was not the one you gave, if I remember right.”
“I believed, then, that you were generous enough to spare me the affront of such an explanation,” said Marion haughtily. “But after all, it is more for your sake than mine ... it would look better for me to be obliged to her, than for you. And for you to accept what I refused is as much as to say that you disapproved what I did.”
“Well, perhaps I did. It doesn’t follow, because I let you have your way, that I thought you were acting sensibly. And ’tis certainly no reason why you should force me to make another such sacrifice on my own account. There’s a limit to everything!”
“It is the same now as it was then. And if you agreed from love of me then, you must love me less now, since you refuse.”
“This is too absurd, Marion. For some cause or other, or for no cause at all rather, you are jealous of Madame Desmoines. If I were to yield to you in this, it would be as much as to say that your jealousy had some foundation. It has none, and I won’t do it. Youhave no right to say that I don’t love you. If you were generous, you would not say it.”
“I don’t say that you care more for Madame Desmoines than you do for me, Philip; if I thought that, I would never trouble you again, in any way. But I know that she cares for you, and you might know it, too, if you would. I saw her face while she was talking with you at the party to-night. I could tell what was in her mind. Men never seem to see those things: though they get the benefit of them!”
“ ’Tis no use talking with you till you get your senses back, Marion: and this is not what we set out to discuss, either.”
Marion had something more to say about Madame Desmoines, but she managed to keep it back. She knew that if her temper got the mastery of her, there would be an end, not only of this discussion, but of many other things also; of her love and, practically, of her life. She feared lest she might hate her husband; and she feared still more lest she might despise him. She resumed in a voice low and shaken by the struggle of emotions in her heart.
“Let all the rest go; and why should you take this money, Philip? Do we need it more than we did yesterday? But for this strange chance, you would never have thought of it again. We have more than enough already for two years to come, if we live with any sort of economy. Thousands of people marry every day on less money than you have at this moment, and without your means of making more, and they succeed and are happy. There is nothing that makes a husband and wife love each other more than to fight their way through the world together—triumphing together, and suffering together if need be; but to feel that we are in the least dependent will drive us more and more apart. Oh, I am sure this money will only be a misfortune and amisery to us! Good cannot come of it. And what if we are poor? I have been poor all my life, and yet you married me!”
Philip listened to all this with a secret feeling of relief. Marion had now taken the ground where he was strong and she was weak. In depth of passion and fire of temper, he was less than her equal; and had she carried on her attack with those weapons, she might have come out victorious; for he was not prepared to go such lengths as she would have gone, had she given herself rein. But women like Marion are seldom aware of their own most formidable powers, and hence are so often worsted by those who are really less strong, but more ingenious and adaptable than they.
Moreover, there was on Philip’s side both human nature (as moral frailty is called in such connection) and a good deal of reason. In allowing Marion her will on the previous occasion, he had stretched abnegation to pretty nearly its limit in his case; and had so much the less at his disposal for the present emergency. If he had permitted himself to grumble his fill in the first instance, he would not have had so much stored discontent on hand for the second; and when he found Marion in the position of standing upon what she had gained and demanding as much again, he defined his objections as follows:
“There ought to be no question about our love for each other, Marion; we settled that once for all, before we were married. And your pride and prejudices are not involved, since it is to me and not to you that the legacy is now offered. I gave you leave to manage your own affairs as you judged best, and ’tis only fair you should give the same liberty to me. Now, it is quite plain that Grantley meant one or other of us to have this money; and if the wording of the codicil was made to apply also to Perdita, it was only lest the money, in the lastresort, might not have to be thrown into the gutter. If I were to take the stand you wish me to, I should only be putting both you and myself in a childish and sentimental light. Everybody would laugh at us. Besides, there is the practical point of view. What right have we, in face of all the accidents and vicissitudes of life, to reject such a windfall? I might fall ill to-morrow, or my next poem might be a failure: we shall probably have children, and they must be provided for as well as ourselves. And ’tis a great thing, Marion, for a man who aspires to be a poet, to be put a little above the necessity of working for daily bread, and living from hand to mouth. Then again, ’tis my right as well as to my advantage to take a position in society suitable to the name I bear. A fortune, my dear, is something real and enduring; but sentimental scruples and prejudices pass away.”
Philip’s mind, during this harangue, was less comfortable than his language. Whatever reason might say, he felt that he was taking a lower level than Marion. He was too much of a poet not to be conscious of the unloveliness of the cause he was called on to defend. And now, at this last moment, there was the germ of a wish in his heart that Marion might somehow have her desire, and this load of pelf tumble away from both of them, and be forgotten.
But Marion, who had been sitting with her face averted, and her cheek leaning on her hand, now turned toward him with a look in which pain mingled with a curious smile.
“Don’t say any more, Philip,” she said, with a sort of dreary lightness. “I would rather do all you wish than hear any more reasons. Everything shall be as you please: I am your wife, and since you won’t be what I want, I will be what you want, and there’s an end of it! It will be easier for me, now the pinch isover, and I hope ’twill he pleasanter for you. It’s better, I suppose, that we should understand each other now than later. Heigho! Well, I’m sleepy. To-morrow we’ll begin to be rich; and let us see who does it best!”
THEMarquise Desmoines had, at the end of the summer, relinquished her abode in Red Lion Square and gone to live in more luxurious quarters further west. Apparently, her experiment of life in London had pleased her, and she meant to have some more of it. She had remained in town during the greater part of the dead season, giving the house furnishers and decorators the benefit of her personal supervision and suggestions. The lady had a genius for rendering her surroundings both comfortable and beautiful: even more, perhaps, than for enjoying the beauty and comfort when they were at her disposal. She appreciated the ease and ornament of life with one side of her nature; but another and dominant side of it was always craving action, employment and excitement, and, as a means to these ends, the companionship and collisions of human beings. Her imagination was vivid, and she was fond of giving it rein, though she seldom lost control of it; but it led her to form schemes and picture forth situations, in mere wantonness of spirit, which, sometimes, her sense of humor or love of adventure prompted her to realize. At the same time, she was very quick to comprehend the logic of facts, and to discriminate between what could and what could not be altered. But it was her belief that one of the most stubborn and operative of facts is the human will, especially the will of a woman like herself; and upon this persuasion much of her career was conditioned.
After her house was finished, and she established init, and before the return from their wedding-trip of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Lancaster, Perdita spent most of her time in retirement and apparent serenity. She rode on horseback a great deal, and saw very little company. Indoors, she occupied herself ostensibly in arranging flowers and in music. Old Madame Cabot, her respectable and dreary female companion, had seldom known her mistress to be so composed and unenterprising. All the Marquise seemed to want was to be let alone: she had developed a novel passion for meditation. What did she meditate about? To judge by her countenance, of nothing very melancholy. To be sure, although no one could express more by her countenance than the Marquise Desmoines, it was rash to make inferences from it to her mind. It might well be that, had she wished to indulge in lugubrious thoughts, she was not without means of doing so. She had been in contact with some tragic experiences of late: and her entrance upon the estate of widowhood had placed her at a turning point in the path of existence; a place where one must needs pause, to review what is past and to conjecture or to plan what may be to come. Such periods are seldom altogether cheerful to those who have passed the flush of their youth. It cannot be denied, moreover, that Perdita had undergone an unusual moral stimulus at the time when she and Marion met over the murdered body of Charles Grantley; and that stimulus had been followed by consequences. But did it mark a permanent new departure? For a character like Perdita’s was anything permanent except the conflicting and powerful elements whereof the character itself was composed? Were evil and good anything more to her than different ways of keeping alive the interest of life? Whoever is virtuous, whoever is wicked in this world, still the balance of wickedness and virtue will remain broadly the same. The individual varies, the human race continuesunaltered. We grow and act as nature and circumstances determine; and sometimes circumstances are the stronger, sometimes nature.
There were phases of Perdita’s inward existence with which Madame Cabot was probably unacquainted. The Marquise wanted several things, and would not be at rest until she got them: and, by that time, new objects of desire would arise. It may be that she had not defined to herself exactly what she wanted, or that she merely wanted to achieve a certain mental or moral situation and sensation, and was indifferent by what methods she achieved it. The truth is, a woman like Perdita is as dangerous as fire—resembles fire in her capacities both for benefit and mischief. And if Madame Cabot could have beheld her at certain times, in the solitude of her room, pacing up and down the floor, with her hands behind her back; or cutting a sheet of paper into shreds with a sharp pair of scissors; or lying at full length upon the cushions of a lounge, with her hands clasped behind her head, her white throat exposed, and her dark eyes roving restlessly hither and thither; or springing up to examine herself minutely in the looking-glass; or talking to herself in a low, rapid tone, with interspersed smiles and frowns;—if Madame Cabot could have seen all this, she might have doubted whether, after all, the Marquise was going to settle down into an uneventful, humdrum existence.
The party at Lady Flanders’ was Perdita’s first prominent appearance in London society, and it seemed also to introduce a change in her mood. She was now less inclined to shut herself up alone, more talkative and vivacious than she had latterly been. She kept Madame Cabot in constant employment, though about nothing in particular, and addressed to her all manner of remarks and inquiries, of many of which the dreary old lady could not divine the drift, and almost fancied,at times, that the Marquise must imagine her to be some one else; especially as Perdita had more than once exclaimed, “But after all you are not a man!” One afternoon, when Perdita had been in exceptionally good spirits, the servant announced Mr. Merton Fillmore.
“Mr. Fillmore?” she repeated. “Well, ... let him be admitted.”
He had already called upon her several times, always with more or less reference to business matters, and there was a fair degree of familiarity between them. Perdita had not been insensible to the keenness and virility of his mind and the cultivation of his taste; and for this and other reasons she was disposed to have a liking for him. As he entered the room she rose to receive him, with a smile that might have conferred distinction on a night-watchman. Fillmore, on his part, seemed also in a very genial frame of mind, and they began to chat together most pleasantly.
“Now, I hope you have not come about any business,” said the Marquise, after they had touched upon Lady Flanders and kindred topics.
“You are not in a business humor?”
“I don’t like business to be my rival.”
“Do you regard as a rival the key that opens the door to you?”
“Sir, I disapprove of keys altogether. If my door is closed, no key can open it; and if it is open....” She made a gesture with her hand.
“I shall take you at your word,” said Fillmore quietly, after he had looked at her for a moment. There was something in his tone that conveyed more than any amount of conventional thanks and compliments. “As for business,” he continued, “you have already put that away from you by force and violence.”
Perdita laughed. “I have behaved like a fool, haven’t I?”
“That is what people would say.”
“What do you say?”
“I think you were wise.”
“Not even generous?”
“To be generous, one must sacrifice something.”
“Well?”
“It is true you have sacrificed your curiosity.”
Perdita laughed again. “And that is wise rather than generous, you think? But my curiosity might come to life again some day. By the way, have you any news of Sir Francis?”
“People say of him that ‘he will never be himself again.’ Perhaps that would not be a very hard saying for the best of us. But Bendibow is certainly suffering. He looks old and haggard, and his mind seems out of poise. He is living at his Twickenham place: I have seen him only twice. ’Tis impossible to lift him out of his mood: you cannot fix his attention. I wished to make him agree to the appointment of some capable man to take charge of the bank, but he would listen to nothing. The servants say he is constantly muttering to himself, when he fancies he is alone.”
“Can Sir Francis Bendibow go mad because his son is dead?” interrupted Perdita, leaning back on the sofa and looking at Fillmore with eyes half closed.
“He was very fond of the boy,” replied Fillmore, after a pause: “and possibly the circumstances may have been more disturbing than is generally supposed. ’Tis said that he manifests some peculiarities—” he checked himself.
“Go on!” said Perdita. “My imagination is worse than my curiosity.”
“He disappears, for several hours at a time, generally after dark, without mentioning where he is going.”
“So you consider me wise in not sending for the packet, and opening it?”
“Why should you?”
“If I should, some time, would you advise me?”
“I would rather not.”
“By-the-way, talking of the packet, how are our friends the Lancasters getting on?”
“Rather brilliantly, I should judge. Mrs. Lancaster, especially, seems to accept her changed circumstances very cordially.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Perdita, manifesting interest. “She was reluctant enough at first.”
“She has a singular character; not easy to fathom. Mr. Grantley probably understood her better than most people. She may have been unwilling that her husband should appear to be dependent on her. At all events, they are making preparations for a fashionable appearance in society: Lancaster’s success is assured already; and for aught I know, his wife may have it in her to make an even greater success than he.”
“What are they doing?”
“I understand they have rented a house in a desirable quarter; some additions are to be built to it, and alterations made; and then it will be furnished as taste and Providence may permit. Meanwhile, as of course you are aware, ‘Iduna’ continues to sell new editions, and all the omens are propitious.”
“What do you think of ‘Iduna’?” asked Perdita carelessly.
“It is strong—too strong, I should fancy, for a bridegroom.”
“More knowledge of love than a bachelor had a right to have—is that what you mean?” inquired Perdita, arching her brows.
“There is such a thing as understanding a passion too clearly to feel it,” Fillmore answered. “You may take up a matter either intellectually or emotionally, but you will seldom be equally strong in both directions.”
“But the pleasure of emotion is only in feeling. It is blind. Intellect is sight. Sight often makes sensation more pleasurable.”
“A man who is in love, madame, wishes to do something more than to enjoy his own sensations; he wishes to have them shared by the lady of his choice. To insure that he must, at least, love with all his strength. And, as a matter of experience, there is little evidence to show that the best poets of love have also been the best lovers. They filter their hearts through their heads, so to speak; they imagine more than they can personally realize. There is Byron, for instance—”
“Yes; I saw him in Italy: he is an actor, who always plays one rôle—Byron! But he is not like others. A poet of love ... if he is not a good lover, it may be because he never happens to meet a woman lovable enough. But when he does meet her ... it would be heaven for them both!” The Marquise seldom spoke with so much fervor and earnestness.
Fillmore looked at her intently, and his ordinarily unimpassioned face slowly reddened. He pressed one clenched hand strongly into the palm of the other.
“I have one argument,” he said, “to prove that poets are not the best lovers.”
“Arguments don’t always convince me. What is it?”
“I am no poet myself.”
“Is that your argument?” demanded Perdita after a moment.
“Yes.”
“How would you apply it?”
Fillmore, for once, hesitated. A great deal depended, for him, on what he might say next. Perdita was looking extremely lovely, yet she had not precisely the kind of expression that he would have wished her to have at this moment. But the man had made up his mind, long ago, as to what he intended to do, and he reflected that the mood of the moment would not make muchdifference in the long run. Success in his project was either possible, or it was not: but at all events, a temporary rebuff, should that happen, was not going to discourage him. So he manned himself, and said, quietly and firmly:
“Though I am no poet, no poet could love you more than I do.”
Perdita was perfectly still for a moment; not a nerve vibrated. She was instantly aware that she would on no account accept Fillmore’s offer; but it had been entirely unexpected, and she wished to give the surprise an opportunity to define its quality. It seemed to her not altogether disagreeable, simply as a betrayal of Fillmore’s state of mind toward her. She was pleased to have won the love of a man of his calibre; and she had the good sense, or discernment, to perceive that he loved her for herself, and not for any extrinsic advantage that the possession of her might afford him. She also saw that he was intensely in earnest. A less self-confident and victorious woman might have felt some consternation at the prospect of conflict which the situation contained: but Perdita, on the contrary, felt only exhilaration.
“When we first met,” she said at length, “you remarked that I would make a good lawyer. You understood me better then than you seem to do now.”
Fillmore shook his head.
“I might make a good lawyer,” Perdita continued, “but I should make a very bad lawyer’s wife.”
“I am a man, as well as a lawyer,” said Fillmore, bending a strong look upon her.
“And a gentleman, as well as a man,” she added with a gracious smile. “In fact, sir, if you were less agreeable, I might love you; but as it is, I like you and enjoy your society much too well for that. I would rather hate you than love you: and as for marrying you—pardon me for being the first to speak the word, butwidows have privileges—I would rather love you and have you jilt me!”
There was a certain delicate comicality in Perdita’s way of saying this, which, though it implied no slight to Fillmore, was more disheartening than the most emphatic and serious “No” would have been.
“I had been flattering myself with the idea that you looked upon me more as if I were a man than a woman,” she continued. “Any one can fall in love with a pretty woman; and there is less distinction in being loved by a man like you, than in having you treat me as a friend and an equal—if you would do that!”
“You are the only woman who has ever been a woman for me,” replied Fillmore, with passion. “The love both of my youth and of my manhood is yours. I will do anything to win you, I will never give you up.”
“Oh, I can easily make you give me up,” said Perdita with a sigh.
“How?”
“By letting you know me better.”
“You do not know me!” he exclaimed.
“I shall always love some one else better than you.”
“Who?” demanded he, turning pale.
“Myself!” said Perdita with a laugh.
“You can be my wife, nevertheless.”
“That I never will,” she said, looking him in the face.
He rose from his chair. “I will never give you up,” he repeated. “I will go now. You will let me come again?”
“As often as you like: I am not afraid of you,” was her answer.
Fillmore bowed and turned away. She had had the advantage so far. But he loved her thrice as much as he had done before, and he had never suffered defeat in anything he had undertaken. She neither loved him nor feared him?—But she could be his wife, nevertheless; and he would do anything to win her.
ACERTAINchange was no doubt observable in Marion. It might have been supposed that a life so secluded and reserved as hers had been thus far, would not have encountered the novel conditions of wealth and fashion without some awkwardness and bewilderment. But it was not so. She met the Goddess of Fortune half-way, and seemed in no respect at a loss how to greet her. In fact, the only sign she betrayed of being unaccustomed to abundant worldly resources was the activity and despatch she showed in taking advantage of them; as if life offered nothing but a variety of diversions, and it was incumbent upon one who appreciated life at its true value to canvass that variety in the shortest space possible. Whether she held, further, that the variety was to be inexhaustible, or the life short, did not appear. Philip was at first pleased with her alacrity; afterwards, his pleasure was less, and his surprise greater. He had promised himself some gratification in introducing his wife to the greater society, and initiating her into its splendors and amusements: but he found, not only that his leadership was unnecessary, but that he would have to exert himself to be the leader at all. Marion was fully equal to her position and opportunities. She faced the sun unshrinkingly, and, indeed, with a smile almost as of half-contemptuous familiarity. When she referred to the simplicity and difficulty of her previous experience, it was generally to expose the humorous aspect of the contrast with the present.
“What a beautiful thing wealth is!” she exclaimed one day to her husband.
“Glad you think so,” the latter replied, cautiously: for he seldom could be sure, nowadays, whether Marion’s observations would turn out serious or cynical.
“ ’Tis the best missionary in the world,” she continued; “it Christianizes even tradesmen, and makes them self-sacrificing. And the curious part is, that ’tis not their being wealthy themselves, but their knowing us to be, that makes them so magnanimous. When mother and I were poor—pardon my mentioning such a thing, but ’tis only between ourselves—our tradesmen not only permitted us to pay our bills, but insisted on our doing so promptly: and if we got behindhand, they growled about bailiffs. But now—la! bless you, the mention of a bill hurts their feelings, and to pay one would break their hearts. It’s a blessed change of heart in them; and would have been more blessed still if it had only happened to come before our change of pocket, instead of after.”
“If we go on at our present rate, both they and we may relapse,” said Philip, laughing. “Twenty thousand pounds capital is not twenty thousand a year.”
“It is, for one year; and who knows what may happen after that? We might count on two years, even: the faith of the tradesmen would hold out so long at least.”
“They don’t ask us to pay now only because they know their money is safe,” said Mrs. Lockhart, with her pathetic literalness. “And they don’t lose anything, because our orders are larger, and their prices are higher. And you should be just as careful not to run in debt, my dear, when you are rich as when you are poor.”
Marion looked at her mother with an odd smile. “I wish you’d let me forget you,” she said at length. “You’ve been encouraging me all my life to be a womanof fashion, and now you turn against me. But I’m determined not to be baulked!”
And in truth, Marion had made a good beginning. The old house in Hammersmith had been shut up (it was her desire that it should be neither let nor sold) and they had gone into the new and improved mansion whereof Fillmore had spoken to Perdita. They kept a carriage and horses, half-a-dozen servants, and an excellent table; gave parties and routs to their fashionable acquaintance, and accepted the like civilities from them. It was the thing in society at that moment to go to the Lancasters: Philip was a genius, besides being nearly related to Lord Seabridge; Marion was charming, witty, and fully up to her position; her father, it was understood, had been a distinguished officer and a personal friend of the Iron Duke. Among the most notable of their new friends was old Lady Flanders, who not only honored their drawing-room with her presence when the rest of the world was there, but quite often took the trouble to drop in on them informally. She had once or twice met Mrs. Lockhart in London and at the Baths, when the latter was lovely Fanny Pell, forty years or so ago, and she now came ostensibly to renew her acquaintance with that lady, and to talk over the old times. But in the midst of these amiable reminiscences, it was observable that she gave a good deal of attention to young Mrs. Lancaster, who seemed to have a peculiar interest for her.
“You like having money, Mrs. Lancaster,” her ladyship remarked one day, after examining critically a new dress which Marion had on.
“I cannot deny it, Lady Flanders.”
“Nonsense! A woman like you can deny anything. But you’re quite in the right not to deny it. We hear a great deal from silly people about the dignity of poverty. That is just what poverty is not: poverty is notdignified! ’Tis hard enough to hold up one’s head at the best of times—such arrant knaves and humbugs as we all are, and all of us except the fools know it: but on an empty pocket ’tis impossible! I recollect when I was in Egypt, about thirty years ago, meeting a Bedouin Arab who, I thought for a while, was an exception to the rule. He hadn’t a rag on him, except a greasy turban and a yard of ragged cloak dangling down his back; he was as dirty as a stable floor; but he had the bearing of a prince—though not of a good many princes I could name, neither. That man (said I) is an incarnation of dignity and a type of poverty, both in one: and if he’d have me, I’d marry him to-night! What were we talking about?”
“That poverty could not be dignified.”
“Aye: very true. So, just to prove my rule by this exception, said I, ‘My friend, I’ll give you fourpence to go up to the top of that pyramid and be back here again in five minutes.’ He dropped his dignity—it was about all he had to drop, as I told you—and scuttled up that pyramid like a squirrel. He earned his fourpence, and I married his lordship.” Here Lady Flanders took snuff, and added, “You may live to find out, Mr. Lancaster, that you’ve been too avaricious. You weren’t satisfied with a wife; you must have a fortune into the bargain. Look out you don’t find yourself without both some fine morning.”
“Your ladyship is kind to forewarn me,” said Philip, who was always rubbed the wrong way by Lady Flanders.
“You don’t believe me: but you are a poet and a philosopher, and you comprehend the structure of the universe too clearly to see into your own domestic business. You don’t know, at this moment, what to make of your wife’s extravagance and ambition. She used to be quite different, didn’t she? And you understood her characterso well, you were sure prosperity couldn’t spoil her.—They are all like that, my dear,” she continued, turning to Marion; “they load us down to the water’s edge, or below it, and expect us to dance about and mind the helm just as prettily as when we were unburdened. They don’t know our weapons; they can feel them in their hearts, or in their purses, or in what they call their honor; but they can never see what strikes them, or how they are struck. I don’t blame you, my dear: give him all he deserves: but I have a regard for you, and shouldn’t like to see you crippling yourself in the process. But you have a head to see your way, as well as a heart to feel his impositions. I shall look for you to give a good account of him a year hence. ’Tis a pity he hasn’t a title. But we may be able to get him one: I’ll see about it. I have found such things very useful.”
It was difficult to say what Lady Flanders meant by this kind of diatribes, which, indeed, were never more embarrassing than when she took it for granted that her interlocutor was sagacious enough to understand her. It was plain, nevertheless, that this awful old aristocrat possessed an uncomfortable keenness of insight; and that she generally put the worst construction on whatever she saw. Philip perceived that she enjoyed opposition, as giving her an opportunity for repartee, in which she was fatally proficient; and therefore he seldom entered into a discussion with her. But what she said about Marion, and her general tone regarding her, appealed to a certain obscure misgiving in Philip’s own mind, and made him feel more ill at ease than he would have liked to confess. He smiled as complacently as he could; but the smile was painfully superficial.
From Marion herself, meanwhile, he could obtain little or no satisfaction. He did not like to speak to her “seriously” on the subject, partly because he could not exactly define to himself what the subject was, andpartly, perhaps, because he feared to discover that the subject, be it what it might, would turn out more serious than might be agreeable.
“You deserve credit for being so civil to that hideous old woman,” he would sometimes say.
“Not at all!” Marion would reply laughingly. “Lady Flanders represents the world. I am going to be a woman of the world, and so I pay court to her. She tells me a great many things ’tis necessary I should know. The objection is on my side.”
“You are going to be a woman of the world, are you?”
“La! of course. What would you have me do? I used to be very busy washing clothes and getting the dinner, in the old times; but now I have a laundress and a cook and a housekeeper, and nothing to attend to except inviting our guests and making myself agreeable to them. When we were in Hammersmith I was what I had to be; now I can be what I please; and it pleases me to be like ... other fine ladies.”
“Could you not make yourself agreeable to your guests and to me at the same time?”
“To you? Why, you are my husband!”
“Very true, Mrs. Lancaster.”
“What can be more agreeable to you than to see your wife popular in Society?”
“We thought of something better than that when ... we first fell in love with each other,” said Philip, fixing his eyes upon her.
“Something different: but was it better? or so wise? Are not a hundred people more amusing than one? At all events, we must take the evil with the good of our position. Love in a cottage is one thing, you know, and love in a palace another.”
“No love at all, perhaps you mean?”
“No such love, that’s all.”
“Well, if you’re content, I’ve no more to say.”
“Content! How should I not? My ambition isn’t satisfied, though. I mean to be spoken of as ‘the beautiful Mrs. Lancaster’ one of these days. Oh, it will come to pass, I assure you! The first thing one generally says, when one is shown a fashionable beauty, is, ‘What! that homely creature!’—’tis all a matter of dress and effrontery. I shall do very well. What do you think of my gown?”
“Very fine. But what about the effrontery?”
“At all events, that costs no money,” said Marion, with a laugh.
Marion’s social success was undeniably great. She possessed both tact and courage—two qualities not always found in company; and she had more intelligence than most of the women she came in contact with. Her figure and movement were fine, her dress always in good taste; her voice agreeable; her face had a poignancy and variety of expression that produced the effect of beauty without being beautiful. At her presentation at Court, the Prince of Wales, who had complimented her mother more than a generation before, informed Marion that she made him wish he was young again, begad! She speedily found herself surrounded by a circle of gentlemen who were only too ready to express their admiration for her; prominent among whom was the little Irish poet, Thomas Moore, who was not disheartened by the unceremonious treatment she had given him at their first interview: and she completed her conquest of him by singing a song which he vowed he had composed in her praise. Young Mrs. Lancaster was in demand everywhere: her box at the theatre and the opera was always crowded; when she rode or drove in the Row, she was attended by a retinue of cavaliers: she played cards, danced, talked politics, and, in short, ignored the inside and celebrated the outside of life.Lady Flanders looked on at it all, grinned horribly beneath her shaggy eyebrows, and neglected no opportunity of congratulating Philip on being the husband of so brilliant a woman. “You must look out for your laurels, Mr. Lancaster,” she would add: “ ‘Iduna’ was well enough for the idyllic period, but you must give us something better now; make the lady elope with the Lord Chamberlain, and leave the Sea-God in the lurch.” Mrs. Lockhart, on the other hand, whose nature it was always to enjoy what was good in the world, and not to see or believe in the bad, was placidly happy in the conviction that her daughter was as prosperous as she deserved to be, and as merry as she seemed. Marion was uniformly careful not to disturb the maternal serenity, though once she startled the poor lady by exclaiming “Oh, I wish Mr. Grant were alive!” with a passionate moan in her voice like the outcry of a soul in despair.
Was anything the matter, then? Marion had no confidants, except solitude, which tells no tales. But it may be conjectured that, when she yielded to her husband on the question of the legacy, she gave up, once for all, her view of right, and set herself to adopt his own. “If Philip wants wealth,” she might have said to herself, “it must be to reap the worldly advantages of it. These are necessary to his happiness: and ’tis my duty, therefore, to help him, as a wife should, to be happy in his own way. I take my law from him; I will have no half measures: and he shall have just the fashionable, dashing, rattling wife that he wants.”
Having laid down this general principle, it would be characteristic of Marion to act upon it fervently. No doubt she was far from being incapable of appreciating the charm that lies in social dissipation; but she would perhaps have thrown herself into it with less of recklessness and abandon, had she gained access to it by some less humiliating path. There was a pride and nobilityin her that had the effect of making her give more energy and prominence to conduct which opposed her conscience than to that which was approved by it. She startled and perplexed Philip, and fascinated him also; he found in her a vigor and activity superior to his own. She out-Heroded Herod; he had not suspected all this latent power; and yet he felt that something tender and sweet and infinitely valuable, was missing. There were between them no more silent sympathies and intuitive agreements. What was to be done and said, not thought and felt, was now the subject of their intercourse. Their communication was more lively but less satisfying than of yore.
What was Marion’s idea and intention in this? Did she really believe that it was what her husband wanted? Logically, perhaps, she did so; but scarcely in her heart. Women, when they are logical, generally are so in an extreme and illogical way; as if to demonstrate how contemptible logic is. More than half her vivacity may have been assumed in order to provoke Philip into finding fault with it; and yet, if he did find fault with it, she would profess herself at a loss to know what on earth would please him. If he suggested moderation, she would say “No: I must be one thing or the other.” If he replied “Be the other, then,” she would answer, “Too late, now I have learnt how pleasant dissipation is.” And if he asked her whether dissipation were the true end of marriage? she would laugh and reply that one cannot have everything in this world.
Thus, by degrees, were these two married lovers, who had begun their career under such fair auspices, drawing away from each other: what was best in each of them was starving for lack of nourishment; but Marion, at least, was proud enough to starve to death rather than confess to suffering. As a matter of course, since they could not meet in the only way worth meeting,they looked away from each other as much as possible. Philip tried to find consolation in his poetry: but the faculty of happy concentration and abstraction no longer came to him as formerly. The loving and confidential talks which he and Marion had been wont to have, about what he was writing, or purposing to write, were hardly practicable now; but, if he found the craving for intellectual sympathy too strong in him, there was always one place where he was sure to find it, and that was in the private boudoir of the Marquise Desmoines. She always welcomed him with loveliness and delightful words: she looked him in the eye and spoke to the point: he felt the immediate contact of her mind and nature, and experienced from it a secret sense of luxury and consolation. At first, Perdita used to inquire courteously after Marion; but after a time these inquiries became rarer, and finally ceased. Nor did Philip happen to mention these visits to his wife: what would it matter to her where he went or what he found to converse about? She probably had her own interests and occupations, of which he was ignorant. She would only laugh, and say that he was fulfilling Lady Flanders’ predictions.
Once in a while, in the midst of all this gayety and resonance, Marion’s laugh would suddenly end in a long, shuddering sigh, and her eyes would grow hot and dry. But she would laugh again, and utter some witty, extravagant speech, if she thought her husband was observing her. And once, at night, Philip chanced to awake, and fancied that Marion was weeping, and the bed was shaken by her smothered sobs. But, when he spoke to her, she started, and declared, after a moment, that she had been asleep, and had a nightmare. “I dreamt Lady Flanders had grown young and beautiful,” she said, “and wore a dress handsomer than mine: and it broke my heart!” Whereupon Philip said no more.
THEREwas in Perdita a strong element of adventurousness and Bohemianism, which had not as yet been so fully gratified as to lose its poignancy. A longing came over her, occasionally, to behold phases of life that would not, in the ordinary course of things, come under her observation. At such times she would regret that she had not been born a gypsy—in oblivion of the fact that although, being a marquise, she might play at vagabondage, it would not be as easy for a vagabond to experience the sensations of a marquise. The latter has the best of it.
At this epoch of our history it so happened that Perdita fell a victim to one of the periodical attacks in question. She wanted to do or see something a little beyond the boundaries of conventional propriety. What should it be? She passed in mental review all the resources of the town. There was plenty of impropriety to be had for the taking,—that was speedily evident; but perhaps it was the very wealth of the opportunities that rendered the Marquise hard to suit. Her motive being curiosity, not desperation, she did not wish to involve herself in anything that would lay her open to social obloquy; she would not risk her escapade being discovered by people she knew. Furthermore, there were many aspects of the shady side of life which she had no disposition to investigate. Between these two stools the fair explorer was in some danger of coming to the ground: when, all at once, she made up her mind that her requirements would be well enough satisfied by a visit to Vauxhall.
“If enjoyment be your motto,” observes Corinthian Tom to his country friend in the green coat and leather gaiters, “go to Vauxhall.” The record of the many moving exploits of those three classic worthies had not as yet been compiled; but Vauxhall was in its glory, nevertheless. Nor could it properly be described as an improper place: improper people were to be found there, no doubt, doing improper things; but there are few places, good or bad, in this world, of which the same might not be said. The trail of the serpent is everywhere; but, this being admitted, all that respectable persons have to do is to ignore it. At all events, numbers of the most respectable people visited Vauxhall, and were none the less respected for doing so; but in this, as in other matters, everything depended upon the way the thing was done. The Marquise Desmoines, for example, might, under suitable male escort, have spent all her evenings at Vauxhall with impunity: and that was one reason why she had never yet been there. What she could not so safely do was to go there alone; and it was no less an achievement than that, consequently, that she had in view. She would wear a veil, of course, and a thick one; and she would be attended by Madame Cabot, not so much for protection as for convenience. But she would go to Vauxhall independent of the support of the sterner sex; and it was only reasonable to suppose that she would see something worth seeing before the night was out. She made her preparations accordingly, and gave no further explanation of her purpose to Madame Cabot than to tell her that she would require her company that evening. Madame Cabot was not aware that such a place as Vauxhall existed; and it was conceivable that the good lady might never realize, even after her return, how perilous an enterprise she had accomplished.
The evening was a fine one, and Perdita, havingdriven to a point near the entrance of the Gardens, and given orders to the coachman to remain there until her return, entered the grounds with Madame Cabot. The place was brilliant with innumerable lamps, and crowded with people. There was a sound of music in various directions, proceeding not from German brass bands, nor from Italian organ-grinders, but from the slim-legged fiddlers in cocked hats, who flourished their bows and wagged their heads beneath fan-shaped sounding-boards resplendent with gilding. Dancing was going on in some places, the participants being ranged in long rows facing one another, while two or more of their number manœuvred, capered, skimmed hand-in-hand down the middle, or dodged behind the lines, pursued by the rest in tumultuous procession. Elsewhere professional tumblers and gymnasts performed their feats in the centre of noisy crowds, and a meagre young lady in wrinkled tights and short gauze skirt appeared in mid-air above the heads of the spectators, pursuing her teetering way upon a rope depending between two thick posts. Another person of the same sex, in a nondescript costume, remarkable chiefly for its spangles, was causing wonder by her affectionate familiarities with a gaunt beast which seemed to have entered natural history on its sole responsibility, though it was only a black bear with its hair shaved off. For those whose ambition prompted them to draw aside the veil of futurity, there was provided a long-bearded soothsayer in a glittering hermitage, who had spent his leisure in committing the history of coming ages to scraps of paper, which he disposed of at from a shilling to half-a-crown each. Around and between these various centres of interest the crowd twisted, shifted, elbowed, and threaded itself in and out, talking, shouting, whispering, laughing and staring. Representatives of all classes were there: the country squire in green coat, white corduroys and drab gaiters: youngbloods in dark blue coats, red-striped waiscoats, buckskins, hessians, and neckcloths: others in beruffled opera dress, with black silk tights and cocked hats: bruisers in loose brown jockeys and white-topped boots: theatrical characters, clean-shaven, with white lamb’s-wool stockings and blue-and-bird’s-eye kerchiefs: sharpers in rakish but threadbare attire, their legs encased in tight pantaloons tied at the ankles, thin shoes, and with rouge on their lank cheeks: women in bonnets like funnels, or huge hats and feathers, with short-waisted gowns and long gloves, stout and thin, tall and short, coquettish and timid, pretty and ugly: a mixed and parti-colored assemblage, all come ostensibly to enjoy themselves, and few knowing whether they were doing so or not; altogether a comical, melancholy, absurd, pathetic, restless, aimless, anomalous mass of human beings, illustrating the fact that between frank barbarism, and civilization out for a holiday, the difference, such as it is, is not in favor of the latter.
After wandering about the place, and meeting with a number of trifling adventures, such as receiving proffers of gallantry from fashionable gentlemen, one or two of whom she was acquainted with, little as they suspected whose dark eyes were glancing at them behind the blue silk veil; or being swept away unexpectedly into the whirl of a country dance, in the course of which Madame Cabot’s bonnet became badly demoralized; or being pressingly invited to drink beer by a hilarious party of young men and women, whose recommendations were evidently the outcome of experience;—after sundry vicissitudes of this kind, all of which greatly amused the Marquise and made her laugh heartily—the two ladies became weary of keeping their feet amidst so much jostle and uproar, and sought out a spot where they might sit down and contemplate the spectacle at their leisure. With this purpose they made their way to a rangeof boxes or cabinets, facing upon a large open space, and connected behind with an establishment for the supply of rack-punch and ham sandwiches. Having rented the right of sole occupancy of one of these boxes for the evening, they made themselves as comfortable in it as the narrow and angular fashion of the chairs permitted. The lamps flaring on the front of the box, left the interior in comparative shadow; and the seclusion could be increased by drawing some flimsy red curtains, which dangled from a brass rod across the entrance. Other parties were in the adjoining boxes on either side, and their conversation was indistinctly audible on the background of the prevailing hubbub.
Perdita moved her chair into the right-hand corner, in order that she might eke out the accommodation of her chair by leaning against the partition. After she had remained for some time in this position, her eyes wandering over the multiform elements of the unorganized drama before her, she became aware that some one was speaking on the other side of the thin boarding that separated her from the next cabinet. Words, and parts of sentences, were here and there distinguishable: but these would have had no interest for Perdita, had she not suddenly made the discovery that the voice was one which she knew. Several moments passed, however, before she was able to connect the voice, in her mind, with the person to whom it belonged. It was a woman’s voice, rather low, but with a penetrative quality in it: a peculiar voice, both in timbre and intonation. Whose was it? It was, of course, impossible for Perdita to see the speaker, unless she had gone outside for the purpose. Possibly her curiosity might ultimately have led her to do this: but she was saved the trouble by presently recollecting that the speaker in question was none other than Marion Lancaster.
At first, though it surprised her, the discovery did notespecially startle the Marquise. There was nothing wonderful in Philip’s taking his wife to see Vauxhall, although it might not be the place which a newly-married couple of their rank and disposition would most naturally visit. At this point, however, it occurred to Perdita, with the thrill of a genuine sensation, that Philip could not be there. He was out of town, having taken the coach that afternoon to St. Albans’ to meet the Earl of Seabridge, who had written to make the appointment on a matter of business. This Perdita happened to know, because Philip had stopped at her house in the morning to present her with an illustrated edition of “Iduna,” which had just come out; and had then mentioned that he was on his way northward, and would not return before the evening of the following day. It was the first night that he had been separated from his wife since their marriage. That Marion should have chosen that very night to go to Vauxhall was, therefore, fairly remarkable. For what purpose could she have come? Was Mrs. Lockhart with her? Could Philip have been aware of her intention?
Though the solution of these problems was none of Perdita’s business, she nevertheless listened very intently in the hope of hearing something that might elucidate them. It was impossible to make out anything consecutive, the rather since what Marion said was in detached sentences, and the replies of her companion, who was apparently a female servant, were of a like character. The following bits of dialogue, however, seemed to detach themselves from the medley:
“I fear he has not come,” said Marion.
“ ’Tis early yet, ma’am,” replied the other. “Maybe he ...” The rest was inaudible.
“Be sure you tell me if you see any one I know,” Marion said after awhile: “it must never be known....”
“No one ’ud know you, ma’am ... so you can be easy on that score.”
“...cannot stay here much longer. If he does not appear soon ... it might come to the knowledge of my husband, and....”
Here the fragmentary sentences ceased altogether to be distinguishable, Marion having apparently removed to another part of her box. But Perdita had heard enough to convince her that something out of the common was going on. Marion had come secretly to Vauxhall, taking advantage of her husband’s absence, in order to meet some gentleman who had not yet made his appearance. So much was evident, and it was enough to place Marion in a light which, to say the best of it, was ambiguous. Perdita knew not what to make of it. Though not prone to be over-charitable in her judgments on her own sex, the Marquise was too keen a reader of character ever to have supposed that Marion was capable of an immoral intrigue. Yet here was certainly an intrigue, and it was difficult to see how it could be an altogether innocent one. Perdita, in fact, made no special effort in this direction; what puzzled her was that a woman of Marion’s intelligence should have chosen Vauxhall, of all places in the world, to meet a lover in. True, there is a certain kind of safety in a crowd; and there might be particular circumstances rendering Vauxhall a desirable trysting-place in this instance: and, in short, there is never any accounting for affairs of this kind on logical grounds: they are controlled by too many unknown and unknowable conditions. A more interesting matter of speculation regarded the identity of the man whom Marion had favored with her preference. He could not well be handsomer than Philip, Perdita thought, or cleverer, or, in a general way, more attractive. But, of course, Marion must be of a different opinion. Who, then, was to her mind the superior person? The Marquise rapidly reviewed the names and characters of the various gentlemen with whomMarion was likely to be on confidential terms; but one seemed about as likely as another, and none of them, to say the truth, seemed likely at all. In the midst of her perplexity, Marion and her attendant were heard to rise, and a minute later they came out of their box and walked away slowly, looking about them. It was Marion, beyond a doubt, and the attendant was a middle-aged woman in whom Perdita fancied she recognized Mrs. Lancaster’s private maid, who had been formerly a servant of Mrs. Lockhart.
For a moment, Perdita had an impulse to issue forth and follow them, and see the end of the adventure. But a regard for her own dignity, as well as a sentiment of respect for another woman’s secret, combined to restrain her. It was enough to know that Marion had a mystery of this kind to conceal; and possibly (such is the waywardness of the moral sense) the revelation of that fact raised, rather than lowered, Marion in Perdita’s esteem. That a woman of Marion’s apparently passionate candor and simplicity should all the time be hiding so hazardous a secret, evinced a force and depth of character that Perdita had not been prepared for. She was a woman to be reckoned with: and the Marquise admitted to herself with a curious smile that, with all her own keenness and knowledge of the world, she had been totally mistaken in her judgment of her.
And yet, after all, might not the mistake be in supposing herself to have been mistaken? Might not Marion be the innocent victim of appearances? Could her presence there be merely the result of a thoughtless frolic, as was the case with Perdita herself? But against this view was to be set the conclusive testimony of the passages of conversation she had overheard. She had not overheard much, to be sure; but much or little, it had been conclusive so far as it went; it had proved that Marion came to Vauxhall to meet some man. Whatman? Was there any man whom she could meet innocently? Perdita could think of none—stay! Might it not be Merton Fillmore?
It was to the last degree improbable, and contrary to reason: but it might nevertheless be Fillmore, and if so, the occasion of their meeting must be business and not love: for Perdita was tolerably convinced that she knew where Merton Fillmore’s heart was. But what business, that could not be better discussed in Fillmore’s office, or in Marion’s house, could there be between them? or what likelihood was there that a man like Fillmore would go to Vauxhall on any consideration? There was no likelihood of it. It could not be Fillmore, and yet it must be Fillmore: Perdita wished it to be Fillmore: though whether she wished it because of Fillmore, or because of Marion, or because of herself, she could not perhaps have told.
This episode, be the significance and upshot of it what they might, had loomed so large as to obscure whatever other grotesque entertainment Vauxhall may have contained for the Marquise Desmoines; and, moreover, the sight of Marion’s rashness had impelled her seriously to reflect upon her own. She resolved to go home without delay; and having tied her veil more closely about her face, and roused Madame Cabot, who had dropped asleep in her corner of the box, with her snuff-box open on her lap, she took that lady’s bony arm, and they went forth into the assemblage.
Their progress was not so rapid as they could have wished. The rack-punch and other drinkables had made the crowd more noisy and boisterous, while the numbers had certainly not diminished. Perdita had need of all her wits and courage to avoid getting into trouble, while Madame Cabot was thoroughly frightened, and gave frequent vent to dismal little shrieks and moans, which had the effect of attracting the attention which Perditawas so anxious to avoid. All at once, in the midst of the general turmoil, some loud cries were heard, and there was a rush in the direction whence they proceeded. “A fight! a fight!” cried one gentleman, pressing forward enthusiastically. “A fight?—’tis a murder!” returned another. “ ’Tis naught but a fellow in a fit,” said a third, who had mounted on a lamp-post. “He’s drunk! put him out, stifle me!” exclaimed another, with the righteous indignation of inebriety. “Come along, Jack—’tis no business of ours,” remarked a gorgeously-attired female, seizing her companion by the arm. Meanwhile Perdita and Madame Cabot were taking advantage of the rush of the crowd in one direction to push their way in the other, which was comparatively deserted. By a roundabout route they were approaching the entrance, and had just passed a guardian of the peace, who was thoughtfully proceeding in a direction at right angles to the scene of the disturbance, when Perdita suddenly stopped short, much to Madame Cabot’s distress, and fixed her eyes upon a group that was also hastening toward the gate from another part of the grounds.
It consisted of a man and two women. The former was fashionably dressed, had rather a dandified air, and a handsome, bright, good-humored countenance. The lady on his arm was tall, and of a fine figure; her face, which was uncovered, had a flush of excitement upon it, and her eyes sparkled. Close behind the couple followed a woman who was evidently a domestic. Perdita had no difficulty in recognizing Marion, and that elegant poet and fascinating man of the world, Mr. Thomas Moore. As they passed her, she gave another of her odd little smiles.
“So much for my charity!” she murmured to herself. “Poor Philip!—allons, madame!”