He spake of virtue: not the godsMore purely, when they wish to charm—Pallas and Juno sitting by.Tennyson.
He spake of virtue: not the godsMore purely, when they wish to charm—Pallas and Juno sitting by.
Tennyson.
The united taste of the whole family had not been exerted without effect—and their guests might well be delighted with the preparations which had been made for them.
On entering the house, tea and coffee waited them in the dining-room on the right hand, and, after an opportunity of taking this refreshment, they next ascended the staircase, which was brilliantly lighted, and ornamented with evergreens. This led to the ante-room, from which several doors opened on apartments all dedicated to the service of the evening; something, indeed, to the detriment of the family comfort. There might be seen, evergreens of the richest varieties, which were intermingled with flowering and beautiful geraniums.
On the left, a door opened into the apartment chosen for the reception room, where was arranged everything that could minister to comfort. The softest couches, the most lounging easy chairs, worked ottomans, and foot-stools, which had occupied much of the sisters' time. This was intended for those chaperones, who, through the folding doors which led to the ball-room, preferred watching the dances, to joining in the whist parties; for wherever they were seated, the ever revolving waltz would be almost certain to bring to their view, those in whom they were most interested.
A more distant room, the one furthest removed from the sound of the music, was selected for a card-room.
But the ball-room had occupied most attention, and a brilliant effect it certainly presented, that evening. Colonel Hargrave had had so many expensive whims which no one hindered him from gratifying, and evidences of his expenditure or his taste might be seen in every part of the house that night. Round the room, seats were arranged for the dancers, which being here and there interrupted by evergreens, and hot-house plants, formed, as the sisters well knew agreeable opportunities for thosetête-à-têteswhich they were so clever in sustaining.
Mrs. Villars looked forward to this evening with elation, but yet with some share of anxiety also. Nothing, she felt, but the complete success of her schemes could justify to her husband, the expenditure in which she had lately been so lavish, and, though she was indifferent to his censure in trifles, she feared to excite his serious displeasure by any great offence.
She was thinking of this as she stood with him and Hargrave, in the lounging room, where they waited to receive their guests, watching to observe the effect caused by Caroline's entrance.
"The girls are late," said, Mr. Villars, nervously consulting his watch, "it will be awkward if any one comes."
"I think I hear them, sir," said Hargrave.
At the same time the door opened, and the four sisters entered; even Maria looked well in the studiednegligéof her appearance, but Caroline looked brilliant as she entered, with her majestic steady step, and well-pleased countenance; while the pure white flowers for which she had so bitterly contended, rested in all their simplicity upon her haughty breast.
"Yon have not forgotten your promise, I hope," she said, playfully resting her fan upon Hargrave's arm, "of inviting a great many of your gentlemen friends."
"Oh, no, I have selected a few of my acquaintances, but with care; for when entrusted with the privilege of affording introductions to ladies, one cannot be too careful."
"Fudge," exclaimed Maria; "as if it signified who one waltzed with for an evening."
"What," exclaimed Hargrave, "does it not signify whose arm encircles your waist?"
"Oh, come, do not squabble, do you know we are to have the pleasure of Perfection's company, to-night; I should not be surprised to see her come down with a dress up to the throat, and down to the wrist, a walking sermon on the degeneracy of the age."
"Really, mamma," said Caroline, smiling at the latter remark, "you ought to have ascertained if she had a dress fit to appear in."
"Mabel is always dressed well," said Lucy, "though she seems to take so little pains about it."
"Oh, perfect, most perfect," said Maria, holding up her hands and raising her eyes in affected admiration, "Henry, do you not appear very small in her company."
"Perfectly infantine," he returned, with a good-natured smile; "but hush, here she comes."
Maria took up the hush, and repeated it so loudly that it deadened every other sound, and caused a blush to mantle on Mabel's cheek, as she entered. She looked a little timid as she advanced into the little circle.
To tell the truth, her garret toilet had had only the assistance of the good-natured cook, who, alone, in the general bustle, had found time to think of her; yet there was not a single fault to be found with it, and Caroline bit her lip with vexation, when, instead of the ill-dressed bashfulness she had expected, she felt the influence of a something wholly indescribable, yet all fascinating, in her appearance, as she quietly stood by her uncle's side.
As if seized by sudden impulse, Hargrave stepped forward, and requested the favour of her hand for the first dance. Mabel replied that she did not intend dancing at all that evening, and, though, apparently dissatisfied, he was compelled to submit.
Mrs. Villars drew him a little aside, for Caroline's glowing eyes preluded a storm.
"You know," she said, laying her hand confidentially on his arm, "that Caroline has been hoping for the pleasure of opening the evening with you—you will not disappoint her?"
"Pray tell her I shall be very happy," he replied, a little peevishly.
"Caroline, my love," she said, immediately turning to her daughter, "Henry feared you were engaged, but as I do not think you are, I have ventured to promise him your hand for the first."
Hargrave could scarcely repress a smile at this adroit falsehood, and as he seconded her request, Caroline graciously consented.
Mabel felt slightly annoyed, she scarce knew why—perhaps because she had been too pleased a moment before—at seeing how quick the cloud passed from Hargrave's brow: it never occurred to her to doubt the truth of what Mrs. Villars said.
They were, however, no longer left to their own entertainment, for guests began to crowd in, till the rooms were filled to overflowing; young and old, pleased, to-night, with the entertainment they would criticise on the morrow, prepared to enjoy themselves.
Upon the principal sofa in the reception-room, two old ladies were seated, the Lady Scratchal and the dowager Mrs. Pierce, who, from some reason or other, claimed a double share of respect in the houses where they visited, partly, perhaps, because they both possessed unlimited power over the large fortunes they enjoyed, and appeared to have not altogether determined how to dispose of them. There is an instinctive power in wealth, which the world often feels without stopping to analyse, and this these two ladies exercised with ready tact over their acquaintance.
"No one gets up a party like Mrs. Villars," observed Mrs. Pierce to her friend.
"But I think there is a great deal more of display than there ought to be," returned Lady Scratchal, whose hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, formed a melancholy contrast to the sparkling diamonds which encircled her wrinkled brow, and the youthful hair which surmounted it.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Pierce, "I am afraid, she is silly enough to reckon on the rich colonel for her Caroline—but I am greatly mistaken if there is any love there."
"Men did not make love in that way, in my time, certainly," observed Lady Scratchal, the ominous shake of her head covering the shades of many departed admirers.
"Well, and you know," observed Mrs. Pierce, "that I have my doubts about that other gentleman—we need not mention names—for you know who I mean, I am sure."
"With Lucy?" enquired her friend.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Pierce; "I am sadly afraid—"
She did not finish her sentence, but followed it up with many dreadful shakes of the head, and other symbolical actions, which Lady Scratchal seemed perfectly to understand.
Their attention was, however, diverted, by seeing Hargrave hurrying to the door to receive, with a hearty shake of the hand, a young man, who was entering with rather an abstracted air, till roused by the heartiness of his welcome, to which he immediately responded. Hargrave then hurried him to his hostess, who started, when she heard his name given as Captain Clair, yet concealed every sensation of annoyance, for fear of offending her wealthy relation. Mabel met him with unfeigned pleasure, and eagerly enquired for news of Aston, and her kind friends at the rectory; but Lucy having given him a trembling, feverish hand, for an instant, turned away, impatiently, and fixed her eyes upon the door.
It was so tantalising to see one after another enter, well-dressed, good-looking, and welcome to all but her. Her head was giddy with watching, and her ear had become so acute from listening, that she could distinguish footsteps on the stairs, from the hum of many voices, and the merry music which made her poor head ache.
How gladly, too, in the presence of Arthur Clair, would she have appeared the admired and loved of the far more talented Beauclerc. Regardless of the eyes of the watchful dowagers, she thought and teased herself till her very beauty seemed to fade before the workings of her restless and ill-governed imagination. And Clair seemed to watch her with a pitiful expression—perhaps, he believed her as broken-hearted for him, as he was for Mabel. Enraged at this idea, she would accept the first partner, who presented himself, and suffer him to lead her to the giddy round, where, with excited, restless spirits, she would seem the merriest of them all; but tired, in a few minutes, she would take the first opportunity of returning to the lounging-room, and there, sinking into a chair, she would indulge in a fit of thought, more soothing from its very painfulness, than the merriment in which she had so lately joined.
She was sitting thus, late in the evening, under the severe, but unheeded scrutiny, of Lady Scratchal and her friend, when the well-known and long watched-for step was heard, and Beauclerc, looking more handsome and more pensive than ever, entered. Entirely forgetful of everything but the long hours of dreary monotony, which had preceded his coming, she started up, and her face was, in an instant, radiant with smiles, as she walked quickly across the room to meet him, extending her pretty hand with a mingling of playfulness and pleasure in her manner.
"Where have you been, truant?" she cried, suffering him to retain the hand which she had so warmly extended; "did you not know how dull everything would be without you?"
"Had I really guessed as much, I might have delayed the business which detained me, though at some inconvenience," he said, kindly, but gravely, leading her to one of the recesses, where he took a seat beside her.
"Ah," he added, thoughtfully, "you little know of how great a value your kindness has been to me—now, while my spirits seem to sink within me. How should I ever have borne my heavy trial without such a sweet comforter, as you have proved yourself to be to me."
"Ah," said Lucy, her eyes falling beneath his anxious glance, "how proud I ought to be, to have been able to administer comfort to such a mind as yours."
"All the mental energy we possess," returned Beauclerc, in the same sad tone, "does not equal the magic of one kind word from a feeling woman."
"I am too glad to have the power of serving you," said Lucy, as her eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"And is it really a pleasure to you to serve me," repeated Beauclerc, looking at her with liquid eyes—"then yes—I think—yes, I will be bold enough to ask you to serve me still further; but first you shall know my history—a painful story indeed—but it is fair that you should know it, before you bestow any further kindness upon me. But when could I find such an opportunity?"
Lucy thought, for a moment, and then replied—
"I often walk before breakfast—and if you happen to meet me any morning in the park, you can tell it me there undisturbed."
"Will you walk to-morrow?" he enquired.
"Very likely I may; but stay, I will go to-morrow, because they will not be down till eleven, I know, so there will be plenty of time for you to say anything you like."
"Ingenuous, kind-hearted girl," he exclaimed; "I know some who hide their coldness, for the feelings of others, behind a prudish reserve, which would not allow them to do such a vastly improper thing, as meet a gentleman in their morning walk—but you are not of the number of those worldly beings—I will be waiting for you at that corner, where there is, if I remember rightly, an old Jupiter's head."
"Very well," said Lucy; "but you must take the chance of my coming, as it is very late now. Is it not nearly three o'clock? I never spent so long an evening."
"You are tired, I see; but we will join this last waltz—for such it ought to be, I am sure."
So saying, he passed his arm lightly round her waist, and was soon amongst the dancers.
Mabel had been no inattentive observer of Mr. Beauclerc's entrance, and she perceived that Lucy seemed to excuse to herself the open admiration she paid him, by considering him as a kind of demi-god, while he appeared contented rather to suffer than to encourage that admiration which he too plainly perceived.
"Hargrave had, for some time, stood by her in silence, bent on the same observation.
"Well," he said, speaking at length—as if he would challenge her thoughts.
"I hope—but fear," she replied; "how lovely she looks to-night."
Hargrave gave vent to an impatient "hum."
"What influence can I possess against such an infatuation?" enquired Mabel.
"The influence of common sense," he replied; "I never witnessed such absurdity in my life."
Mabel sighed, for she knew how impossible it was to govern Lucy, when bent on having her own way.
She perceived, also, for the first time, that Hargrave was either out of spirits, or in one of his obstinate humours; and, when Caroline joined them, which she did almost immediately, he broke from them, and retreated to a group of gentlemen near the door-way, with whom he had spent the greater part of the evening, much to his fair cousin's chagrin. Perhaps, an incautious remark of Mrs. Villars, on his intimacy with her daughter, which, possibly, he had overheard, might have led to this inconsistent conduct; for he had ably resisted all her little plans to bring them together.
Mrs. Villars was sensibly annoyed; and Caroline, who, in the course of the evening, had overheard many remarks in praise of Mabel's beauty, and had been repeatedly called upon to join in praising her—felt enraged with her, as, what she termed, the under-ground cause of her failure.
In vain Selina looked all that was fascinating, and smiled all that was good-natured—in vain Maria jested—the spirits of the hostess were infectious, and soon communicated their influence to her guests, who, one by one, took their leave, and hurried away, sooner, perhaps, than they might have done.
The family party were once more alone—and when the last guest had been civilly disposed of, stood regarding each other in bewildered silence, surrounded by failing wax-lights, and the ruins of gay bouquets; with the echoes of the now silent music still sounding, in fancy, in their ears.
Hargrave, without waiting to discuss the evening, during which he knew he had taken so unpopular a part, bade them, hastily, good night, and hurried down stairs, where he encountered Clair, who, as if spell-bound, had lingered till the last, and now busied himself in a forlorn search for his hat.
Hargrave offered to lend him one, and took him into his room. They found the fire burning so brightly, and all looking so snug, that they were tempted to remain talking over it, till the lost hat was forgotten.
Mabel, anxious to offer a word of counsel, proposed to accompany Lucy to her room, to assist her in untwisting her hair; but this Lucy declined coolly and evasively, and she too, departed, feeling a depression arising from the lateness of the hour, and an evening spent in heated and noisy rooms, with which she was hitherto unacquainted; and it was some time before she could shut out the moving panorama, which perpetually presented itself, and close her eyes in sleep.
In order to make arrangements for the display shewn that evening, the whole house had been overturned; but, in the amusement of the preparations, none had felt the many little inconveniences to which they had all laughingly subjected themselves; but now the scene was changed. Nothing appeared more wretched to the sisters than all being obliged to occupy the same sleeping apartment, and submit to all the little acts of self-denial, which good-nature would only have discovered to be amused with. Wearied, fatigued, and disappointed, few felt so chagrined as Mrs. Villars, when, after seeing to some necessary household duties, and waiting till her kitchen was cleared of half intoxicated waiters, she retired to her room, anxious to shut out the unpleasant thoughts of the evening in sleep. She was not therefore very agreeably surprised to find her eldest daughter waiting for her.
It was with difficulty that Caroline had suppressed her temper till that minute; and, though it was already morning, she felt it impossible to retire to rest without first venting it upon her indulgent parent, whom she regarded, (as most spoilt children do their parents), as the malignant cause of all her sufferings, real or imaginary. Mrs. Villars would willingly have escaped, feeling herself too distressed, and too tired to frame those excuses and cunning falsehoods which had been so often applied, to heal the wounds of an acrimonious temper; but it was in vain; for Caroline indignantly flinging herself down into a chair; exclaimed—
"I knew how it would be—it is all your doing—and I do think if you had felt like any other mother, you would have spared me such a mortification."
"I!" replied her mother, almost equally irritated by fatigue and disappointment, "I spare you mortification! how can I make the man love you! It is your own vile temper which is in fault."
"Whatever I may be," replied Caroline, bitterly, "I am what you have made me; but I can tell you, that if that girl is to be suffered to queen it over us all, I am not the one to stand it, I would rather go out as a governess."
"Mabel! what has she to do with it?" enquired Mrs. Villars, not sorry to have the blame thrown off her own shoulders.
"Did you not see Henry speaking to her, and to no one else; and did he not ask her to dance before me; and did not Lady Scratchal say that, if she were you, she would not suffer such an artful girl—who knew how to make such use of her good looks—to be with her daughters, if she had any."
"But, Cary dear, remember the poor child has no home, and I promised her mother she should find one here."
"Very well," said Caroline, tossing her head angrily, "I see how it is; she has already supplanted us with papa, and she is going to do the same with you."
"My love," said Mrs. Villars, quite overcome by this appeal to her parental affection, "you know better than that; you know how much I would sacrifice for you—any thing—everything."
"Then send her away," said Caroline, bursting into tears.
"I will see about it, I will think to-morrow," replied her mother.
"No; say you will, to-night," urged Caroline, kissing her, "just say you will."
"Go my love, now—there is your papa, on the stairs—and he will not like to find you here."
Caroline was, reluctantly, forced to hurry away, and her mother, once more alone, endeavoured, in vain, to reconcile her desire with her policy. Almost equally with her daughter, she wished to get rid of Mabel, for she was not blind to the fact, that her gentle dignity of manner, joined to her self-denying temper, contrasted ill with the characters of her daughters; yet, there was one obstacle which she had no power to remove; for, possibly, Mabel was aware of the loan granted by her mother, and might be regarding her stay in the house, as the condition upon which it would be cancelled; otherwise, how could she have so cheerfully evaded every attempt to humiliate her.
Finding it impossible to meet this view of the subject in any satisfactory manner, she thought that the most comfortable plan would be to postpone the consideration of it till Caroline should again renew the topic; trusting to her ingenuity for some plan for getting out of the difficulty, should Caroline's obstinacy force her to do any thing which would oblige Mabel to seek some other refuge. And, having come to this decision, she sunk into a dreamy sleep, from which she was only awakened by the noon-day sun.
But oh, to know that our heart has been,Like the toy of an Indian queen,Torn, trampled, without thought or care,Where is despair like this despair.L. E. L.
But oh, to know that our heart has been,Like the toy of an Indian queen,Torn, trampled, without thought or care,Where is despair like this despair.
L. E. L.
The next morning was the beginning of one of those early and fleeting days of spring, which are so gladly welcomed at the close of a long winter. The rising sun smiled mildly and pleasantly, and all nature welcomed its beams by dewy freshness from herb and flower. Here and there, some few buds, the graceful blossom of the nut, and the silken tuft of the palm, gave promise of coming leaves and flowers, while the yellow crocus and the primrose, soon to become so plentifully luxurious in meadow and hedgerow—here and there looked forth from their dewy bed—rich treasures for those who sought them.
It was not, however, to welcome these early harbingers of spring, that Lucy Villars hurried past the streets, and entered the Victoria Park, which, though at a late hour of the day, the fashionable lounge of the inhabitants of the gay city, was now scarcely the resort of a single person.
As she went on with rapid step, her cheeks flushed, and her bright eyes beamed with expected triumph.
"Why," she hastily reasoned, as she entered the silent walks, "why should Beauclerc have sought such an interview, if not to make her acquainted, rather with the history of his present feelings, than with his past life; and what could those feelings be, if they referred not to her. Or, perhaps, some obstacle lay in his way, which one light word of hers might be able to remove."
But she had reached the appointed spot, and now stood there alone. A mass of rock-work, surmounted by the cumbrous head of some heathen God, was the place appointed. Was it like a lover, to be so unpunctual! rather should he come an hour too soon, than one minute too late—for the first time, she began to feel an uneasy conviction of the impropriety of her situation; but sophistry seldom, till too late, deserts those who trust in it. The grim head frowned down upon her; as she walked up and down before it, reasoning with herself, that there could be no possible harm in taking a morning walk, to dissipate the weariness of a ball. She had a quarter of an hour for reflection, but, as it was spent in such reasoning it was of little service to her. At the end of it, Beauclerc was seen advancing in the distance. He must perceive her, and now retreat would be foolish and unavailing, had she even desired it, which she did not; for the thought of being able to announce her proposed marriage to her mamma and sisters, not as a matter of speculation, but of certainty, made her heart beat vehemently; and she did not stop to analyse the feeling of infatuation or vanity, which, in its effect, seemed so akin to love.
"Have you waited for me, Miss Villars?" he enquired, when he reached her, with his usual earnest manner, but with less of ardour than she had expected—so she replied hastily and carelessly—
"Oh, no, only a few minutes; but I see I am a better riser than you are."
"Perhaps an earlier sleeper; I have scarcely closed my eyes since we parted; but you will take my arm and then—." He stopped and sighed.
"And then," replied Lucy, "and then."
"I will, if you still desire it," he replied, in a tone which checked her playfulness, "repeat some part of my own sad history, in order that you may give me that assistance which I am told you have the power to afford me. If, indeed, I am not mistaken in hoping that you feel some kindly sentiments towards me. Some part you know already."
Lucy raised her eyes archly, but said nothing. Her companion seemed satisfied, for he continued, still more gravely—
"Where, or how shall I begin?"
"Who are you—what are you—and why are you sad?" said Lucy.
"Who am I? Yes, that will do very well," said he, suddenly assuming the quick flow of language most natural to him.
"Like your father, mine was a wealthy merchant; I was his only son, and he earnestly prided himself on bestowing upon me all the learning and accomplishments which money could procure. The advantages of a first-rate education, joined, perhaps, to some natural ability, enabled me to shine at the University; and I left Oxford to pursue the study of the bar in Lincoln's Inn, trusting to be able to use my money skilfully in the pursuit of fame; but how fallacious are all the expectations of human life! My father made some enormous speculations, and, after years of successful ventures, failed this once and for ever. He did not many days survive his loss, and dying broken-hearted, left me heir to his poverty; but how unfit for it—accustomed, from infancy, to the gratification of every whim—lavish in my expenditure, and boundless in my ambition, with nothing but a profession, yet untried, and a feeble dependence on a sick uncle. What a fall for one accustomed to all the elegances of life. But this was not all; I had at this time become acquainted with the daughter of a banker, reported to possess enormous wealth."
"What can be coming," thought Lucy, beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"I had not hesitated to seek her," continued Beauclerc; "she returned my affection, and we fondly looked forward to our union. But, when my poor father died, I felt that we must meet on different terms, and that I had no right to claim a promise given under such different circumstances. I felt, indeed, the curse of poverty, too bitterly, to wish to make her a sharer in it; and so I went to her at once, and offered to resign all pretensions to her hand."
"You may imagine how a generous warm-hearted girl would receive such an offer. She saw at once, that nothing but my love for her induced me to make it; and declared that she was ready to share my poverty, and would become my wife, as soon as I was able to marry. She only stipulated that I should enter on my professional duties, with some chance of success, in which case she promised to obtain her father's consent."
Lucy began to listen with that constrained attention which a person possessed by nightmare, might give to some horrid vision, from which they would willingly break, though obliged to wait its conclusion in silence. Beauclerc, however, seemed too much occupied by his own thoughts to regard hers, and presently, continued:—
"I was then almost without money or resources; but, being of a confident disposition, I felt there were few things which love could not surmount. I knew, besides, that my wife must be the heiress to her father's wealth, for she was an only child—but, as I was unable to settle any thing of my own upon her, I was timid of approaching the subject; particularly, as, whenever I did so, her father seemed so pained, that I instantly dropped it again. I could not but feel gratitude for this delicacy towards my feelings, and this trust in my honour, where so dear a child was concerned, and I resolved to deserve it. I was far too proud to be dependent on him; and, therefore, privately borrowed money on bond—took chambers, furnished a small house, and obtained a few briefs through the interest of some of my father's friends; and probably, had I been careful, I might have done well.
"This industrious commencement induced my intended father-in-law to give his consent to our marriage; and, in a few months, I had the satisfaction of seeing my wife at the head of a small, but elegant establishment. Poor thing, she had been so accustomed to the luxuries of her old home, that she never doubted me when I told her that mine was arranged with the greatest economy.
"But the consciousness of deceiving her, and the perpetual dread of that wretched debt always hovering round me, insensibly soured my temper, and wore upon my spirits. But this only called forth the depth of her affection. She was never weary of pleasing me, and my very fretfulness rendered her more sweet and patient. It was beautiful to see," he continued with emotion, "how she schooled her naturally fiery and uncurbed temper, to bear my sour complaint, or peevish rebuke. Beautiful to see how little it humbled her when she was most patient; and what a sweet, and gentle, and loving wife, the spoilt child of wealth had become, at my bidding. But, let me spare myself the agony of remembrance. A greater trial was yet in store for her; for we had scarcely been married six months, when her father died. I had by that time become so deeply in debt, that, though I hated myself for it, I felt relieved by the news which fell so heavily on my wife.
"If the clouds we so much dread, are often big with blessing—how often is the sunshine only the fore-runner of the storm?
"In a few days I had cause to know this; for I found, when affairs were inspected, that, instead of being, as I expected, possessed of thousands, I was again the heir of a ruined man. And, even worse, ruined myself; for it was only upon this tacit expectation that I had obtained credit, and creditors would soon press upon me. I knew, now, that all hope was gone. Ah, wretch that I had become, simply, perhaps, because, I had despised the common-place business of money matters.
"Almost mad with the intelligence I had just learned, I rushed home to insult my innocent wife, with the knowledge of her parent's disgrace. Heaven forgive me, I must have been mad, or I could not have done it.
"I well remember it was morning, and I found my way, I scarce knew how, to her dressing-room—she was weeping—but when I entered, she tried to dry her tears. I was, however, past control, and bitterly did I reproach her for the deception, I alleged she had practised upon me—taunting her with angry violence. At first, she seemed stunned, by what she learnt from my wretched complaints—but then, as if suddenly stung to the quick, she retorted on me, accusing me, with bitter calmness, of having loved her for her expected fortune. I hardly know what I replied—but bad enough it was, I know—I, passionate and abusive; she, cold and contemptuous—and then, with a bitter curse, I left the house.
"I hurried out of town; any where to forget myself—some where to the country; it did not signify where. The cool air refreshed me, and nature called me to better feelings, for, happily, passion is of short duration—it told me, as I lingered amongst its beauties, of our happy honeymoon—it told me how, from that time, I had declined in my kindness to the wife whom I believed I loved better than self, and how, through all the trying months which had followed, she had preserved an unvarying meekness of temper, till that one day, when, galled beyond endurance, she had ventured to oppose passion to passion. Such sweetness might well atone for this single act of opposition—and spent with rage, and half repentant, I resolved to return and forgive her, though in a dignified manner; and to offer her my continued love and protection, if she desired to accompany my flight abroad, which I felt certain she would be too willing to do.
"There was a stillness about my house when I returned, which I was not surprised to find, for it was a house of sorrow—yet I had not noticed it so much before—I was late, as I intended, hoping to find my wife frightened and penitent—yet she did not come to meet me—no one did but my man, who asked me, with the tone of one accustomed to a sharp answer, 'if I intended waiting dinner for his mistress?' I hastily replied in the affirmative—and concealing my alarm, I hurried to the room where I had left her. A note lay upon her dressing-table, and, in the haste with which I opened it, something fell jingling to the ground. The note itself contained a few lines, written in a decisive tone, expressive of farewell, and telling her determination of renouncing, at once, my protection and my name. I stooped to pick up what had fallen—it was her wedding ring—that ring which, in happier days, we had so delighted to look upon, because the pledge of a faith which, it seemed, she could so easily cast aside.
"Let me pass over that dreadful day of stupefaction, and bitter repentance, at the end of which I found myself in prison, for all care for liberty had passed from me when she went—and I had not even tried to fly. You see," he continued, perceiving that Lucy listened with breathless attention, "that I was, thus, prevented from instituting any enquiry; and, indeed, I felt glad to hide myself from her eyes, for how could I wish her to acknowledge me in a prison—I believe I was completely humbled, and when I say that, I say a good deal—and that I was truly so, must be seen by the candour with which I have unveiled my meanness. Tell me, do you not pity me?"
Lucy made no reply.
He continued, in a more agitated voice—
"Do not turn from me—you can, you will serve me, I know. Stay, I forgot to finish my story. Only two months since, my old uncle died, and bequeathed me his whole fortune. He did not know I was in prison, or he might have cancelled this will. It found me there, wretched and desponding, and relieved me from its chilling influence. Once more free, I discharged every debt of honesty or honor, and then sought for my wife. I found that she had again taken her maiden name, which enabled me to trace her to this city. The rest you know."
"I don't," screamed Lucy.
"Good Heavens," cried Beauclerc, seizing her hand, "the bosom friend of Millie Foster, and not know—"
A hysterical scream, and another, and another, burst from the poor girl—she sunk fainting in his arms.
What was to be done—Lucy could not be left—yet Beauclerc felt the increasing awkwardness of the scene. In his interest in his own narrative, he had not had time to mark her rising agitation till too late to check its effects.
As he was bending over her, endeavouring, with trembling hands, to untie the strings of her bonnet, a hasty step struck upon his ear, and turning quickly, he confronted Captain Clair.
"Beauclerc," said the latter, sternly, "what does this mean?"
And, as he said this, he turned full upon him, with anger flashing in his eyes.
Beauclerc turned pale, and then red, as he answered his angry glance, saying, hurriedly—
"There has been some fearful mistake here: indeed, indeed, it has been no fault of mine."
"No fault of yours," said Clair, even more sternly, "that you have drawn the eyes of all Bath upon your heartless flirtation, and subjected a young girl's name to the ribald jest of any who chose to comment upon it. As I am a soldier, you shall answer for it."
"Whatever you do," said Beauclerc, with a face of ashy paleness, "let us think of her first. Do not let this get abroad."
"Canting hypocrite," cried Clair, fiercely, "do you not know that you have made her a jest, in every place where men congregate, and you would ask me not to let this get abroad—stand back from her I tell you."
Beauclerc, however, did not heed the latter remark, for, having succeeded in loosening the strings, he threw back her bonnet, and suffered the morning air to play, undisturbed, among her fair tresses, and over her heated brow, and, as it did so, the color slowly returned to her blanched lips, and again breathing more freely she slowly raised her head; and then, perhaps, feeling able to stand, she drew herself from the support of Beauclerc's arm, and, as she did so, encountered Clair; she looked at him for an instant, with a terrified expression, and then hid her face in her shawl.
"Will you let me take you home, Miss Lucy," he said, in an abrupt, but kind voice, at the same time, handing her, her bonnet, which he held in his hand, and studiously turning his back on Beauclerc.
"Home!" said Lucy, almost wildly.
Clair made no reply, except by placing himself by her side.
"Yes, I will go anywhere," said Lucy, in the same vacant tone.
He drew her hand within his arm, and without a second glance at Beauclerc, who stood like one who had lost his senses, he hurried her forward at a brisk pace.
She did not speak, and, it is probable, almost forgot whose arm supported her; neither did Clair attempt to gain her attention, till they reached her father's door. He suffered her to enter alone, waiting a short interval before he himself gained admission, when he hurried to Hargrave's room. The latter was waiting for him with some anxiety, and turned towards him as he entered.
"Well!" he exclaimed, "nothing, after all, I trust?"
"Nothing!" said Clair, "nothing! when I found her in the Park, lying in his arms in a fainting fit—scoundrel."
"And you have brought her home?"
"Yes; she came very willingly when I asked her. What had passed I cannot divine, but if she does not know the truth already, the sooner she does, no doubt, the better. Have you seen Miss Lesly?"
"Yes; she promised to keep watch for her, and they are together by this time."
"So far so good, then," said Clair, endeavouring to compose himself into his naturally careless air, "now for Beauclerc—I declare," he added, brushing his hand angrily over his eyes, "it almost unmans me to see a woman in distress."
"And yet, my dear Arthur," said Hargrave, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder, "I fear you are not guiltless."
"Well, if I have given her pain, nobody else shall. Come Hargrave, will you go to him, I can trust no one so implicitly as I can you."
"If you are determined on meeting him, I will go, certainly, but only consider, first, how little right you have to take up her quarrel, and the unnecessary publicity you give to the affair."
"With regard to that, how, I cannot tell, but, depend upon it, before to-morrow night, the affair will be discussed in everycoteriein the town."
"What do you require, then?" said Hargrave, taking up his hat.
"The most ample apology."
"And who shall I say you are—a friend of the family?"
"Never mind that—he knows me, I was his friend once, and he will not enquire into my right to question his motives."
"Very well then, wait for me in your rooms at the Lion, and I will join you directly."
"I have seen him—stay, where is he?"
"We are both at the Lion, so we will walk there together," said Clair, following him into the street.
A few minutes walk brought them to the hotel, and, parting at the public entrance, Clair proceeded to his room, while Hargrave sent in his card to Beauclerc.
He was immediately admitted.
Beauclerc was standing by the table, his face expressing much internal agitation, while his usual self-possessed air was entirely gone.
Hargrave, on the contrary, was perfectly cool, but very grave, as he bowed to him somewhat stiffly, and said, courteously—
"My friend, Captain Clair, was—"
"I know what you would say, Colonel Hargrave," interrupted Beauclerc, quickly, "he would ask me for an explanation of the strange circumstances under which he met me this morning—I will not ask what right he has to question my conduct—I am too angry with myself to seek to take shelter under any such subterfuge—I have done wrong, I now see, but how to atone for that I cannot tell."
"I fear there is no atonement to be made, except the poor satisfaction of an open explanation and apology."
"That I am most ready to make," replied Beauclerc, with unaffected sadness, "and I wish I had more to offer."
He then hurried over what he had repeated before to Lucy, while Hargrave listened with that acute attention which seldom failed to give him an insight into the characters of those about him, when he chose to exercise it.
"Miss Lucy Villars," said Beauclerc, in conclusion, "was the first acquaintance I made here, and, knowing her to be the intimate friend, nay, almost the only admitted friend of my wife, I looked upon her with peculiar interest—not for an instant doubting her knowledge of the connection existing between her friend and myself, from the readiness with which she fell into my confidence—and, indeed, from her replies to all my allusions to the subject. Believing that she knew me to be a married man, I never (pardon my alluding to this subject,) thought the attention she bestowed upon me any other than that, which love for her friend, and pity for my situation, called for."
"Are you sincere in that?" said Hargrave suddenly, changing his tone of courteous attention to deeper earnestness, as, with his dark eyes fixed upon him, he waited his answer.
"I am," returned Beauclerc, decidedly.
"And you were not aware of the danger in which you placed a young girl of ardent imagination?"
"I might, had I considered; but I did not consider."
"And I may suppose myself warranted in conveying to my friend this explanation, together with the fullest apology for the mischief you have unknowingly caused."
"Most certainly."
"Then, sir," said Hargrave, rising, "however deeply I may regret the mistake which has arisen between you and Miss Villars, I feel bound to offer my testimony to the sincerity of your purpose."
"Thank you, thank you," cried Beauclerc; "where I was wrong, was, perhaps, in believing the possibility of a friendship of so much warmth existing between a young girl of singular attraction, and myself, a married man."
"Why, yes," replied Hargrave, sternly; "I am not a married man myself, yet I have my own peculiar, and, perhaps, very strict notions of the duties of married life, which would scarcely admit of the freedom you have allowed yourself."
"You open my eyes," said Beauclerc, as if a sudden idea had occurred to him; but then, remembering he was speaking to a stranger, he colored, and was silent.
Hargrave, unwilling to intrude on his private confidence, by any further remark, immediately wished him good morning, extending his hand, as he did so. Beauclerc shook it warmly, thanking him for his patience and temper, and, with many repeated assurances of regret, suffered him to withdraw.
He immediately went to Clair, who was waiting for him, with some impatience, and, in a few words, repeated the subject of his interview.
"There," he said, in conclusion, "I have done my best, and so I think have you. It is as I suspected—Beauclerc had really no intention of doing harm—and Lucy would have suffered none, had she not jumped to the conclusion that, of course, he admired her. We cannot, with the best will in the world to serve her, atone for the consequences of her own folly—and this, I fear, she has displayed in the whole affair. What a pity it is that girls possessing so many natural attractions should not wait to be sought."
"A great pity, indeed," said Clair; "I know few girls who would be more attractive than Lucy Villars, if she had but the one necessary appendage—sterling principle."
"Perhaps, it may be so," said Hargrave, "and if she had, besides, a greater, and a less reliance, on her own powers. But we have had excitement enough for one morning in settling her affairs. I am going into the country, will you walk with me?"
"Willingly," said Clare, taking his hat and stick.
And the two young men sallied forth together for a long country excursion.