FALSE AND FORGETFUL.
The day when Lord Hawbury called on Lady Dalrymple was a very eventful
one in his life, and had it not been for a slight peculiarity of his,
the immediate result of that visit would have been of a highly
important character. This slight peculiarity consisted in the fact
that he was short-sighted, and, therefore, on a very critical occasion
turned away from that which would have been his greatest joy, although
it was full before his gaze.
It happened in this wise:
On the day when Hawbury called, Ethel happened to be sitting by the
window, and saw him as he rode up. Now the last time that she had seen
him he had a very different appearance--all his hair being burned off,
from head and cheeks and chin; and the whiskers which he had when she
first met him had been of a different cut from the present appendages.
In spite of this she recognized him almost in a moment; and her heart
beat fast, and her color came and went, and her hands clutched the
window ledge convulsively.
[Illustration: "'IT'S HE!' SHE MURMURED."]
"It's _he_!" she murmured.
Of course there was only one idea in her mind, and that was that he
had heard of her presence in Naples, and had come to call on her.
She sat there without motion, with her head eagerly bent forward, and
her eyes fixed upon him. He looked up carelessly as he came along, and
with his chin in the air, in a fashion peculiar to him, which,
by-the-way, gave a quite unintentional superciliousness to his
expression. For an instant his eyes rested upon her, then they moved
away, without the slightest recognition, and wandered elsewhere.
Ethel's heart seemed turned to stone. He had seen her. He had not
noticed her. He had fixed his eyes on her and then looked away.
Bitter, indeed, was all this to her. To think that after so long a
period of waiting--after such hope and watching as hers had been--that
this should be the end. She turned away from the window, with a
choking sensation in her throat. No one was in the room. She was alone
with her thoughts and her tears.
Suddenly her mood changed. A thought came to her which dispelled her
gloom. The glance that he had given was too hasty; perhaps he really
had not fairly looked at her. No doubt he had come for her, and she
would shortly be summoned down.
And now this prospect brought new hope. Light returned to her eyes,
and joy to her heart. Yes, she would be summoned. She must prepare
herself to encounter his eager gaze. Quickly she stepped to the
mirror, hastily she arranged those little details in which consists
the charm of a lady's dress, and severely she scrutinized the face and
figure reflected there. The scrutiny was a satisfactory one. Face and
figure were perfect; nor was there in the world any thing more
graceful and more lovely than the image there, though the one who
looked upon it was far too self-distrustful to entertain any such idea
as that.
Then she seated herself and waited. The time moved slowly, indeed, as
she waited there. After a few minutes she found it impossible to sit
any longer. She walked to the door, held it open, and listened. She
heard his voice below quite plainly. They had two suits of rooms in
the house--the bedrooms up stairs and reception-rooms below. Here Lord
Hawbury was, now, within hearing of Ethel. Well she knew that voice.
She listened and frowned. The tone was too flippant. He talked like a
man without a care--like a butterfly of society--and that was a
class which she scorned. Here he was, keeping her waiting. Here he
was, keeping up a hateful clatter of small-talk, while her heart was
aching with suspense.
Ethel stood there listening. Minute succeeded to minute. There was no
request for her. How strong was the contrast between the cool
indifference of the man below, and the feverish impatience of that
listener above! A wild impulse came to her to go down, under the
pretense of looking for something; then another to go down and out for
a walk, so that he might see her. But in either case pride held her
back. How could she? Had he not already seen her? Must he not know
perfectly well that she was there? No; if he did not call for her she
could not go. She could not make advances.
Minute succeeded to minute, and Ethel stood burning with impatience,
racked with suspense, a prey to the bitterest feelings. Still no
message. Why did he delay? Her heart ached now worse than ever, the
choking feeling in her throat returned, and her eyes grew moist. She
steadied herself by holding to the door. Her fingers grew white at the
tightness of her grasp; eyes and ears were strained in their intent
watchfulness over the room below.
Of course the caller below was in a perfect state of ignorance about
all this. He had not the remotest idea of that one who now stood so
near. He came as a martyr. He came to make a call. It was a thing he
detested. It bored him. To a man like him the one thing to be avoided
on earth was a bore. To be bored was to his mind the uttermost depth
of misfortune. This he had voluntarily accepted. He was being bored,
and bored to death.
Certainly no man ever accepted a calamity more gracefully than
Hawbury. He was charming, affable, easy, chatty. Of course he was
known to Lady Dalrymple. The Dowager could make herself as agreeable
as any lady living, except young and beautiful ones. The conversation,
therefore, was easy and flowing. Hawbury excelled in this.
Now there are several variations in the great art of expression, and
each of these is a minor art by itself. Among these may be enumerated:
First, of course, the art of novel-writing.
Second, the art of writing editorials.
Third, the art of writing paragraphs.
After these come all the arts of oratory, letter-writing,
essay-writing, and all that sort of thing, among which there is one to
which I wish particularly to call attention, and this is:
The art of small-talk.
Now this art Hawbury had to an extraordinary degree of perfection. He
knew how to beat out the faintest shred of an idea into an illimitable
surface of small-talk. He never took refuge in the weather. He left
that to bunglers and beginners. His resources were of a different
character, and were so skillfully managed that he never failed to
leave a very agreeable impression. Small-talk! Why, I've been in
situations sometimes where I would have given the power of writing
like Dickens (if I had it) for perfection in this last art.
But this careless, easy, limpid, smooth, natural, pleasant, and
agreeable flow of chat was nothing but gall and wormwood to the
listener above. She ought to be there. Why was she so slighted? Could
it be possible that he would go away without seeing her?
She was soon to know.
She heard him rise. She heard him saunter to the door.
"Thanks, yes. Ha, ha, you're too kind--really--yes--very happy, you
know. To-morrow, is it? Good-morning."
And with these words he went out.
With pale face and staring eyes Ethel darted back to the window. He
did not see her. His back was turned. He mounted his horse and gayly
cantered away. For full five minutes Ethel stood, crouched in the
shadow of the window, staring after him, with her dark eyes burning
and glowing in the intensity of their gaze. Then she turned away with
a bewildered look. Then she locked the door. Then she flung herself
upon the sofa, buried her head in her hands, and burst into a
convulsive passion of tears. Miserable, indeed, were the thoughts that
came now to that poor stricken girl as she lay there prostrate. She
had waited long, and hoped fondly, and all her waiting and all her
hope had been for this. It was for this that she had been praying--for
this that she had so fondly cherished his memory. He had come at last,
and he had gone; but for her he had certainly shown nothing save an
indifference as profound as it was inexplicable.
Ethel's excuse for not appearing at the dinner-table was a severe
headache. Her friends insisted on seeing her and ministering to her
sufferings. Among other things, they tried to cheer her by telling her
of Hawbury. Lady Dalrymple was full of him. She told all about his
family, his income, his habits, and his mode of life. She mentioned,
with much satisfaction, that he had made inquiries after Minnie, and
that she had promised to introduce him to her the next time he called.
Upon which he had laughingly insisted on calling the next day. All of
which led Lady Dalrymple to conclude that he had seen Minnie
somewhere, and had fallen in love with her.
This was the pleasing strain of conversation into which the ladies
were led off by Lady Dalrymple. When I say the ladies, I mean Lady
Dalrymple and Minnie. Mrs. Willoughby said nothing, except once or
twice when she endeavored to give a turn to the conversation, in which
she was signally unsuccessful. Lady Dalrymple and Minnie engaged in an
animated argument over the interesting subject of Hawbury's
intentions, Minnie taking her stand on the ground of his indifference,
the other maintaining the position that he was in love. Minnie
declared that she had never seen him. Lady Dalrymple asserted her
belief that he had seen her. The latter also asserted that Hawbury
would no doubt be a constant visitor, and gave Minnie very sound
advice as to the best mode of treating him.
[Illustration: "THEN SHE FLUNG HERSELF UPON THE SOFA."]
On the following day Hawbury called, and was introduced to Minnie. He
chatted with her in his usual style, and Lady Dalrymple was more than
ever confirmed in her first belief. He suggested a ride, and the
suggestion was taken up.
If any thing had been needed to complete Ethel's despair it was this
second visit and the project of a ride. Mrs. Willoughby was introduced
to him; but he took little notice of her, treating her with a kind of
reserve that was a little unusual with him. The reason of this was his
strong sympathy with his friend, and his detestation of Mrs.
Willoughby's former history. Mrs. Willoughby, however, had to ride
with them when they went out, and thus she was thrown a little more
into Hawbury's way.
Ethel never made her appearance. The headaches which she avouched were
not pretended. They were real, and accompanied with heartaches that
were far more painful. Hawbury never saw her, nor did he ever hear her
mentioned. In general he himself kept the conversation in motion; and
as he never asked questions, they, of course, had no opportunity to
answer. On the other hand, there was no occasion to volunteer any
remarks about the number or the character of their party. When he
talked it was usually with Lady Dalrymple and Minnie: and with these
the conversation turned always upon glittering generalities, and the
airy nothings of pleasant gossip. All this, then, will very easily
account for the fact that Hawbury, though visiting there constantly,
never once saw Ethel, never heard her name mentioned, and had not the
faintest idea that she was so near. She, on the other hand, feeling
now sure that he was utterly false and completely forgetful, proudly
and calmly held aloof, and kept out of his way with the most jealous
care, until at last she staid indoors altogether, for fear, if she
went out, that she might meet him somewhere. For such a meeting she
did not feel sufficiently strong.
Often she thought of quitting Naples and returning to England. Yet,
after all, she found a strange comfort in being there. She was near
him. She heard his voice every day, and saw his face. That was
something. And it was better than absence.
Minnie used always to come to her and pour forth long accounts of Lord
Hawbury--how he looked, what he said, what he did, and what he
proposed to do. Certainly there was not the faintest approach to
love-making, or even sentiment, in Hawbury's attitude toward Minnie.
His words were of the world of small-talk--a world where sentiment and
love-making have but little place. Still there was the evident fact of
his attentions, which were too frequent to be overlooked.
Hawbury rapidly became the most prominent subject of Minnie's
conversation. She used to prattle away for hours about him. She
alluded admiringly to his long whiskers. She thought them "lovely."
She said that he was "awfully nice." She told Mrs. Willoughby that "he
was nicer than any of them; and then, Kitty darling," she added, "it's
so awfully good of him not to be coming and saving my life, and
carrying me on his back down a mountain, like an ogre, and then
pretending that he's my father, you know.
"For you know, Kitty pet, I've always longed so awfully to see some
really nice person, you know, who wouldn't go and save my life and
bother me. Now he doesn't seem a bit like proposing. I do _hope_ he
won't. Don't you, Kitty dearest? It's so _much_ nicer not to propose.
It's so horrid when they go and propose. And then, you know, I've had
so much of that sort of thing. So, Kitty, I think he's really the
nicest person that I ever saw, and I really think I'm beginning to
like him."
Far different from these were the conversations which Mrs. Willoughby
had with Ethel. She was perfectly familiar with Ethel's story. It had
been confided to her long ago. She alone knew why it was that Ethel
had walked untouched through crowds of admirers. The terrible story of
her rescue was memorable to her for other reasons; and the one who had
taken the prominent part in that rescue could not be without interest
for her.
"There is no use, Kitty--no use in talking about it any more," said
Ethel one day, after Mrs. Willoughby had been urging her to show
herself. "I can not. I will not. He has forgotten me utterly."
"Perhaps he has no idea that you are here. He has never seen you."
"Has he not been in Naples as long as we have? He must have seen me in
the streets. He saw Minnie."
"Do you think it likely that he would come to this house and slight
you? If he had forgotten you he would not come here."
"Oh yes, he would. He comes to see Minnie. He knows I am here, of
course. He doesn't care one atom whether I make my appearance or not.
He doesn't even give me a thought. It's so long since _that time_ that
he has forgotten even my existence. He has been all over the world
since then, and has had a hundred adventures. I have been living
quietly, cherishing the remembrance of that one thing."
"Ethel, is it not worth trying? Go down and try him."
"I can not bear it. I can not look at him. I lose all self-command
when he is near. I should make a fool of myself. He would look at me
with a smile of pity. Could I endure that? No, Kitty; my weakness must
never be known to him."
"Oh, Ethel, how I wish you could try it!"
"Kitty, just think how utterly I am forgotten. Mark this now. He knows
I was at _your_ house. He must remember your name. He wrote to me
there, and I answered him from there. He sees you now, and your name
must be associated with mine in his memory of me, if he has any. Tell
me now, Kitty, has he ever mentioned me? has he ever asked you about
me? has he ever made the remotest allusion to me?"
Ethel spoke rapidly and impetuously, and as she spoke she raised
herself from the sofa where she was reclining, and turned her large,
earnest eyes full upon her friend with anxious and eager watchfulness.
Mrs. Willoughby looked back at her with a face full of sadness, and
mournfully shook her head.
"You see," said Ethel, as she sank down again--"you see how true my
impression is."
"I must say," said Mrs. Willoughby, "that I thought of this before. I
fully expected that he would make some inquiry after you. I was so
confident in the noble character of the man, both from your story and
the description of others, that I could not believe you were right.
But you are right, my poor Ethel. I wish I could comfort you, but I
can not. Indeed, my dear, not only has he not questioned me about you,
but he evidently avoids me. It is not that he is engrossed with
Minnie, for he is not so; but he certainly has some reason of his own
for avoiding me. Whenever he speaks to me there is an evident effort
on his part, and though perfectly courteous, his manner leaves a
certain disagreeable impression. Yes, he certainly has some reason for
avoiding me."
"The reason is plain enough," murmured Ethel. "He wishes to prevent
you from speaking about a painful subject, or at least a distasteful
one. He keeps you off at a distance by an excess of formality. He will
give you no opportunity whatever to introduce any mention of me. And
now let me also ask you this--does he ever take any notice of any
allusion that may be made to me?"
"I really don't remember hearing any allusion to you."
"Oh, that's scarcely possible! You and Minnie must sometimes have
alluded to 'Ethel.'"
"Well, now that you put it in that light, I do remember hearing Minnie
allude to you on several occasions. Once she wondered why 'Ethel' did
not ride. Again she remarked how 'Ethel' would enjoy a particular
view."
"And he heard it?"
"Oh, of course."
"Then there is not a shadow of a doubt left. He knows I am here. He
has forgotten me so totally, and is so completely indifferent, that he
comes here and pays attention to another who is in the very same house
with me. It is hard. Oh, Kitty, is it not? Is it not bitter? How could
I have thought this of _him_?"
A high-hearted girl was Ethel, and a proud one; but at this final
confirmation of her worst fears there burst from her a sharp cry, and
she buried her face in her hands, and moaned and wept.