Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in the shame.
They will name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear? BYRON.
Florence was in her father's house near the Battery, and looking forth
into a large, old-fashioned garden, which was just growing dusky with
approaching twilight; near her, in a large crimson chair, sat a man of
fifty perhaps, tall and slender, with handsome but stern features,
rendered more imposing by thick hair, almost entirely gray, and a
style of dress unusually rich, and partaking of fashions that had
prevailed twenty years earlier.
Florence was pensive, and an air of painful depression hung about her.
The presence of her father, who sat gazing upon her in silence,
affected her much; the secret that lay upon her heart seemed to grow
palpable to his sight, and though she appeared only still and pensive,
the poor girl trembled from head to foot.
"Florence!" said Mr. Hurst after the lapse of half an hour, for it
seemed as if he had been waiting for the twilight to deepen around
them--"Florence, you are sad, child. You look unhappy. Do your
father's wishes press so heavily upon your spirits--do you look upon
him as harsh, unreasonable, because he will not allow his only child
to throw away her friendship, her society upon the unworthy?"
Florence did not answer, her heart was too full. There was something
tender and affectionate in her father's voice that made the tears
start, and drowned the words that she would have spoken. Seldom had he
addressed her in that tone before. How unlike was he to the reserved,
stern father whose arbitrary command to part with her lover she had
secretly disobeyed.
"Speak, Florence, your depression grieves me," continued Mr. Hurst, as
he heard the sobs she was trying in vain to suppress.
"Oh, father--father! why will you call him unworthy because he lacks
family standing and wealth? I cannot--oh I never can think with you in
this!"
"And who said that I did deem him unworthy for _these_ reasons? Who
said that I objected to Herbert Jameson as a companion for my daughter
because of his humble origin or his penniless condition? Who told you
this, Florence Hurst?"
"He, he told me--did you not say all this to him, all this and more?
Did you not drive him from your presence and employ with bitter scorn,
when two weeks ago he asked for your daughter's hand?"
"_He_ ask for my daughter's hand! he, the ingrate! the--Florence, did
you believe that he really possessed the base assurance to request
your hand of me?"
"Father! father! what does this mean? Did you not tell me on that very
evening never to see him again--never to recognize him in the street,
or even think of him! Did you not cast him forth from your home and
employ because he told you of his love for me and of mine for him?"
"Of your love for him, Florence Hurst!"
There was something terrible in the voice of mingled astonishment and
dismay with which this exclamation was made.
"Father!" cried the poor girl, half rising from her seat, and falling
back again pale and trembling, "father, why this astonishment? You
knew that I loved him!"
"Who told you that I did?"
"_He_ told me, he, Herbert Jameson. It was for this you made him an
outcast."
"It is false, Florence, I never dreamed of this degradation!" said Mr.
Hurst, in a voice that seemed like sound breaking up through cold
marble.
"Then why that command to myself--why was I never to see or hear from
him again?" cried Florence, almost gasping for breath.
"Because he is a dishonest man, a swindler--because I solemnly believe
that he has been robbing me during the last three years, and
squandering his stolen spoil at the gambling-table!"
"Father--father--father!"
The sharp anguish in which these words broke forth brought the
distressed merchant to his feet. Florence, too, stood upright, and
even through the dusk you might have seen the wild glitter of her
eyes, the fierce heave of her bosom.
"You believe, father, you only believe! should such things be said
without proof--proof broad and clear as the open sunshine when it
pours down brightest from heaven. I say to you, my father, Herbert
Jameson is an honest, honorable man!"
"It is well, Florence--it is well!" said Mr. Hurst, with stern and
bitter emphasis. "You have doubted my justice, you distrust that which
I have said. You are foolishly blind enough to think that this man
_can_ love, does love you."
"I know that he does!" said Florence with a sort of wild exultation.
"I know that he loves me."
"And would you, if I were to give my consent--could you become the
wife of Herbert Jameson?"
"Father, I could! I would!"
"Then on this point be the issue between us," said Mr. Hurst, with
calm and stern dignity. "Florence, I am about to send a note desiring
this man to come once more under my roof," and he rang a bell for
lights; "if within three hours I do not give you proof that he loves
you only for the wealth that I can give--that he is every way
despicable--I say that if within three hours I do not furnish this
proof, clear, glaring, indisputable, then will I frankly and at once
give my consent to your marriage."
"Father!" cried Florence, while a burst of wild and startling joy
broke over her face, "I will stand the issue! My life--my very soul
would I pledge on his integrity."
Mr. Hurst looked at her with mournful sternness while she was
speaking, and then proceeded to write a note which he instantly
dispatched.
While the servant was absent Mr. Hurst and his daughter remained
together, much agitated but silent and lost in thought. In the course
of half an hour the man returned with a reply to the note. Mr. Hurst
read it, and waiting till they were alone turned to his daughter and
pointed to a glass door which led from the room into a little
conservatory of plants.
"Go in yonder, from thence you can hear all that passes."
"Father, is it right--will it be honorable?" said Florence, hesitating
and weak with agitation.
"It is right--it is honorable! Go in!" His voice was stern, the
gesture with which he enforced it peremptory, and poor Florence
obeyed.
A curtain of pale green silk fell over the sash-door, and close behind
it stood a garden-chair, overhung by the blossoming tendrils of a
passion-flower. Florence sat down in the chair and her head drooped
fainting to one hand. There was something in the scent of the various
plants blossoming around that reminded her of that wedding-morning
when the air was literally burthened with like fragrance. She was
about to see her husband for the first time since that agitating day,
to see him thus, crouching as a spy among those delicate plants, her
heart beat heavily, she loathed herself for the seeming meanness that
had been forced upon her. Yet there was misgiving at her heart--a
vague, sickening apprehension that chained her to the seat.
She heard the door open and some one enter the room where her father
sat, with a lamp pouring its light over his stern and pale features
till every iron lineament was fully revealed. Scarcely conscious of
the act, Florence drew aside a fold of the curtain, and with her
forehead pressed to the cold glass looked in. Mr. Hurst had not risen,
but with an elbow resting on the table sat pale and stern, with his
eyes bent full upon her husband, who stood a few paces nearer to the
door. In one hand was his hat, in the other he held a slender
walking-stick. He did not seem fully at his ease, and yet there was
more of triumph than of embarrassment in his manner. Florence
observed, and with a sinking heart, that he did not, except with a
furtive glance, return the calm and searching look with which Mr.
Hurst regarded him.
"Mr. Jameson, sit down," began the haughty merchant, pointing to a
chair. "I did hope after our last interview never again to be
disturbed by your presence, but it seems that, serpent-like, you will
never tire of stinging the bosom that has warmed you."
"I am at a loss to understand you, Mr. Hurst," replied Jameson, taking
the chair, and Florence sickened as she saw creeping over his lips the
very same smile that had gleamed before her in the mirror. "When I
last saw you your charges were harsh, your treatment cruel. You
imputed things to me of which you have no proof, and upon the strength
of an absurd suspicion of--of--I may as well speak it out--of
dishonesty, you discharged me from your employ; I am at a loss to know
why you have sent for me, certainly you cannot expect to wring proof
of these charges from my own words."
"I have proof of them, undoubted, conclusive, and had at the time they
were first made! but you had been cherished beneath my roof, had
broken of my bread, and I was forbearing! Was not this reason enough
why I should have sent you forth as I did?"
Jameson gave a perceptible start and turned very pale as Mr. Hurst
spoke of the proofs that he possessed; but the emotion was only
momentary, and it scarcely disturbed the smile that still curled about
his mouth.
"At any rate the bare suspicion of these things was all the reason you
deigned to give," he said.
Florence heard and saw--conviction, the loathed thing, came creeping
colder and colder to her bosom.
"But since then I have other causes for pursuing your crimes with the
justice they merit, other and deeper wrongs you have done me, serpent,
fiend, household ingrate as you are!"
"And what may those other wrongs be?" was the cold and half sneering
rejoinder to this passionate outbreak.
"My daughter!" said the merchant, sweeping a hand across his forehead.
"It sickens me to mention her name here and thus, but my
daughter--even there has your venom reached."
"Perhaps I understand you," said the young man with insufferable
coolness; "but if your daughter chose to love where her father hates
how am I to blame? I am sure it has cost me a great deal of trouble to
keep the young lady's partiality a secret. If you have found it out at
last so much the better."
Mr. Hurst, with all his firmness, was struck dumb by this cool and
taunting reply, but after a moment's fierce struggle he mastered the
passion within him and spoke.
"You love"--the words absolutely choked the proud man--"you love my
daughter then--why was this never mentioned to me?"
"It was the young lady's fancy, I suppose; perhaps she shrunk from so
grim a confident; at any rate it is very certain that I did!"
Mr. Hurst shaded his face with one hand and seemed to struggle
fiercely with himself. Jameson sat playing with the tassel of his
cane, now and then casting furtive glances at his benefactor.
"Young man," said the merchant, slowly withdrawing his hand, "I have
but to denounce you to the laws, and you leave this room for a
convict's cell."
"It may be that you have this power!" replied Jameson, with
undisturbed self-possession, "I am sure I cannot say whether you have
or not!"
"I _have_ the power, what should withhold me!"
"Oh, many things. Your daughter, for instance!"
"My daughter!"
"You interrupt me, sir. I was about to say your daughter has given me
some rather unequivocal proofs of her love, and they would become
unpleasantly public, you know, if her father insisted upon dragging me
before the world. Your daughter, sir, must be my shield and buckler, I
never desire a better or fairer."
Here a noise broke from the conservatory, and the silk curtain shook
violently, but as it was spring time, and with open doors for the wind
to circulate through, this did not seem extraordinary. Still, Mr.
Hurst looked anxiously around, and Jameson cast a careless glance that
way.
It was very painful, nay withering to his proud heart, but Mr. Hurst
was determined to lay open the black nature of that man before his
child; he knew that she suffered, that it was torture that he
inflicted, but nevertheless she could be redeemed in no other way, and
he remained firm as a rock.
"So, in order to deter me from a just act, you would use my daughter's
attachment as a threat; you would drag her name before the world, that
it might be blasted with your own! Is this what I am to understand?"
"Well, something very like it, I must confess."
Mr. Hurst arose. "I have done with you, Herbert Jameson," he said,
with austere dignity. "Go, your presence is oppressive! So young and
so deep a villain, even I did not believe you so terribly base. Go, I
have done with you!"
Jameson did not move, but sat twisting the tassel of his cane between
his thumb and finger. He did not look full at Mr. Hurst, for there was
something in his eye that quelled even his audacity; but when he
spoke, it was without any outward agitation, though his miscreant
limbs shook, and the heart trembled in his bosom.
"Mr. Hurst," he said, "I do not know how far you have used past
transactions to terrify me, but I assure you that any blow aimed at me
will recoil on yourself. But this is not enough, you have told me to
leave your roof forever--and so I will; but first let my wife be
informed that I await her pleasure here. I take her with me, and that
before you can have an opportunity to poison her mind against her
husband."
"Your wife! Your wife!" Mr. Hurst could only master these words, and
they fell from his white lips in fragments. He looked wildly around
toward the door, and at the young man, who stood there smiling at his
agony.
"Yes, sir, my wife. There is the certificate of our marriage three
days ago, at your pleasant old country-house on the Long Island shore.
You see that it is regularly witnessed--the people about there will
tell you the how and when."
Mr. Hurst took up the certificate and held it before his eyes, but for
the universe he could not have read a word, for it shook in his hand
like a withered leaf in the wind.
Then softly and slowly the conservatory-door opened, and the tall
figure of Florence Hurst glided through. There was a bright red spot
upon her forehead, where it had pressed against the glass, but save
that her face, neck, and hands were colorless as Parian marble, and
almost as cold. She approached her father, took the certificate from
his hand and tearing it slowly and deliberately into shreds, set her
foot upon them.
"Father," she said, "take me away. I have sinned against heaven and in
thy sight, and am no longer worthy to be called thy daughter, but, oh,
punish me not with the presence of this bad man!"
Without a word, Mr. Hurst took the cold hand of his daughter and led
her into another room. Jameson was left alone--alone with his own
black heart and base thoughts. We would as soon dwell with a
rattle-snake in its hole, and attempt to analyze its venom, as
register the dark writhing of a nature like his. The sound of a voice,
low, earnest and pleading, now and then reached his ear. Then there
was a noise as of some one falling, followed by the tramp of several
persons moving about in haste; and, after a little, Mr. Hurst entered
the room again.
Young Jameson stood up, for reflection had warned him that he could no
longer trust to the power of Florence with her father; there had been
something in the terrible stillness of her indignation, in the pale
features, the dilated eyes, and the brows arched with ineffable scorn,
that convinced him how mistaken was the anchor which he had expected
to hold so firmly in her love. He knew Mr. Hurst, and felt that in his
lofty pride alone could rest any hope of a rescue from the penalty of
his crimes.
He stood up, then, as I have said, with more of respect in his manner
than had hitherto marked it.
Mr. Hurst resumed his chair and motioned that the young man should
follow his example. He was very pale, and a look of keen suffering lay
around his eyes, but still in his features was an expression of
relief, as if the degredation that had fallen upon him was less than
he had dreaded.
"How, may I ask, how is my--, how is Florence--she looked ill; I trust
nothing serious?" said Jameson, sinking into his chair, and goaded to
say something by the keen gaze which Mr. Hurst had turned upon him.
"Never again take that name into your lips," said the outraged
father--and his stern voice shook with concentrated passion. "If you
but breath it in a whisper to your own base heart alone, I will cast
aside all, and punish you even to the extremity of the law."
"But, Mr. Hurst--"
"Peace, sir!"
The young ingrate drew back with a start, and looked toward the door,
for the terrible passion which he had lighted in that lofty man now
broke forth in voice, look and gesture; the wretch was appalled by it.
"Sit still, sir, and hear what I have to say."
"I will--I listen, Mr. Hurst, but do be more composed. I did not mean
to offend you in asking after--"
"Young man, beware!" Mr. Hurst had in some degree mastered himself,
but the huskiness of his voice, the vivid gleam of his eyes, gave
warning that the fire within him though smothered was not quenched.
"I am silent, sir," cried the wretch, completely cowed by the strong
will of his antagonist.
"I know all--all, and have but few words to cast upon a thing so vile
as you have become. If I submit to your presence for a moment it is
because that agony must be endured in order that I may cast you from
me at once, like the viper that had stung me."
"Sir, these are hard words," faltered Jameson; but Mr. Hurst lifted
his hand sharply, and went on.
"You want money. How much did you expect to obtain from me?"
"I--I--this is too abrupt, Mr. Hurst, you impute motives--"
"I say, sir," cried the merchant, sternly interrupting the stammered
attempt at defense, "I say you have done this for money--impunity for
your crime first, and then money. You see I know you thoroughly."
The wretch shrunk from the withering smile that swept over that white
face; he looked the thing he was--a worthless, miserable coward, with
all the natural audacity of his character dashed aside by the strong
will of the man he had wronged.
"You are too much excited, Mr. Hurst, I will call some other time," he
faltered out.
"Now--now, sir, I give you impunity! I will give you money. Say, how
much will release me from the infamy of your presence; I will pay
well, sir, as I would the physician who drives a pestilence from my
hearth?"
"Mr. Hurst, what do you wish--what am I to do?"
"You are to leave this country now and forever--leave it without
speaking the name of my daughter. You are never to step your foot
again upon the land which she inhabits. Do this, and I will invest
fifty thousand dollars for your benefit, the income to be paid you in
any country that you may choose to infest, any except this."
"And what if I refuse to sell my liberty, my--" he paused, for Mr.
Hurst was keenly watching him, and he dared not mention Florence as
his wife, though the word trembled on his lip.
"What then," said the merchant, firmly, "why you pass from this door
to the presence of a magistrate--from thence to prison--after that to
trial--not on a single indictment, but on charges urged one after
another that shall keep you during half your life within the walls of
a convict's cell."
"But remember--"
"I do remember everything; and I, who never yet violated my word to
mortal man, most solemnly assure you that such is your destination,
let the consequences fall where they will."
Jameson sat down, and with his eyes fixed on the floor, fell into a
train of subtle calculation. Mr. Hurst sat watching him with stern
patience. At last Jameson spoke, but without lifting his eyes, "You
are a very wealthy man, Mr. Hurst, and fifty thousand dollars is not
exactly the portion that--"
"The bribe--the bribe, you mean, which is to rid me of an ingrate,"
cried the merchant, and a look of ineffable disgust swept over his
face. "The benefit is great, too great for mere gold to purchase, but
I have named fifty thousand--choose between that and a prison."
"But shall I have the money down?" said Jameson, still gazing upon the
floor. "Remember, sir, my affections, my--"
"Peace, once more--another word on that subject and I consign you to
justice at once. This interview has lasted too long already. You have
my terms, accept or reject them at once."
"I--I--of course I can but accept them, hard as it is to separate from
my country and friends. But did I understand you aright, sir. Is it
fifty thousand in possession, or the income that you offer?"
"The income--and that only to be paid in a foreign land, and while you
remain there."
"These are hard terms, Mr. Hurst, very hard terms, indeed," said
Jameson. "Before I reply to to them--excuse me, I intend no
offence--but I must hear from your daughter's own lips that she
desires it."
Mr. Hurst started to his feet and sat instantly down again; for a
moment he shrouded his eyes, and then he arose sternly and very pale,
but with iron composure.
"From her own lips--hear it, then. Go in," he said, casting open the
door through which he had entered the room, "go in!"
The room was large and dimly lighted; at the opposite end there was a
high, deep sofa, cushioned with purple, and so lost in the darkness
that it seemed black; what appeared in the distance to be a heap of
white drapery, lay upon the sofa, immovable and still, as if it had
been cast over a corpse.
Jameson paused and looked back, almost hoping that Mr. Hurst would
follow him into the room, for there was something in the stillness
that appalled him. But the merchant had left the door, and casting
himself into a chair, sat with his arms flung out upon the table, and
his face buried in them. For his life he could not have forced himself
to witness the meeting of that vile man with his child.
Still Florence remained immovable; Jameson closed the door, and
walking quickly across the room, like one afraid to trust his own
strength, bent over the sofa.
Florence was lying with her face to the wall, her eyes were closed,
and the whiteness of her features was rendered more deathly by the dim
light. She had evidently heard the footstep, and mistaking it for her
father's, for her eyelids began to quiver, and turning her face to the
pillow, she gasped out with a shudder,
"Oh, father, father, do not look on me!"
Jameson knelt and touched the cold hand in which she had grasped a
portion of the pillow.
"Florence!"
Florence started up, a faint exclamation broke from her lips, and she
pressed herself against the back of the sofa, in the shuddering recoil
with which she attempted to evade him.
Jameson drew back, and for the instant his countenance evinced
genuine emotion. His self-love was cruelly shocked by the evident
loathing with which she shrunk away from the arm that, only a few days
before, had brought the bright blood into her cheeks did she but rest
her hand upon it by accident.
"And do you hate me so, Florence?" he said, in a voice that was full
of keen feeling.
"Leave me--leave me, I am ill!" cried the poor girl, sitting up on the
sofa, and holding a hand to her forehead, as if she were suffering
great pain.
"_I_ come by your father's permission, Florence; will you be more
cruel than he is?"
"My father has a right to punish me, I have deserved it," she said, in
a voice of painful humility. "If he sent you I will try to bear it."
"Oh, Florence, has it come to this; I am about to leave you forever,
and yet you shrink from me as if I were a reptile," cried Jameson.
"A reptile! oh, no, they seldom sting unless trodden upon," said
Florence, lifting her large eyes to his face for the first time, but
withdrawing them instantly, and with a faint moan.
Jameson turned from her and paced the room once or twice with uneven
strides. This seemed to give Florence more strength, for the closeness
of his presence had absolutely oppressed her with a sense of
suffocation. She sat upright, and putting the hair back from her
temples, tried to collect her thoughts. Jameson broke off his walk and
turned toward her; but she prevented his nearer approach with a motion
of her hand, and spoke with some degree of calmness.
"You have sought me, but why? What more do you wish? Do I not seem
wretched enough?"
"It is your father who has made you thus miserable!" said Jameson, in
a low but bitter voice, for he feared the proud man in the next room,
and dared not speak of him aloud. Florence scarcely heeded him, she
sat gazing on the floor lost in thought, painful and harrowing. Still
there was an apparent apathy about her that reassured the bad man who
stood by suffering all the agony of a wild animal baffled in fight. He
would not believe that so short a time had deprived him of a love so
passionate, so self-sacrificing as had absorbed that young being not
three days before.
Throwing a tone of passionate tenderness into his voice, he approached
her, this time unchecked.
"Florence, dear Florence, must we part thus; will you send me from you
for ever?"
Florence, was very weak and faint, she felt by the thrill that went
through her heart like some sharp instrument, as the sound of his
passionate entreaty fell upon it, that, spite of herself, she might be
made powerless in his hands were the interview to proceed. The thought
filled her with dread. She started up, and tottering a step or two
from the sofa, cried out, "Father! father!"
Mr. Hurst lifted his head from where he had buried it in his folded
arms, as if to shield his senses from what might be passing within the
other room, and starting to his feet, was instantly by his daughter's
side.
"What is this!" he said, throwing his arm around the half fainting
girl, and turning sternly toward her tormentor, "have you dared--"
"No, no!" gasped Florence. "I was ill--I--oh, father, without you I
have no strength. Save me from myself!"
"I will," said Mr. Hurst, gently and with great tenderness drawing the
trembling young creature close to his bosom.
"I see how it is, she is influenced only by you, sir. I am promised an
interview, and left to believe that the lady shall decide for herself,
yet even the very first words I utter are broken in upon. I know that
this woman loves me."
"No, no, I love him not! I did a little hour ago, but now I am
changed--do you not see how I am changed?" cried Florence, lifting her
head wildly, and turning her pale face full upon her miscreant
husband. "Do you not know that your presence is killing me?"
"I will go," said Jameson, touched by the wild agony of her look and
voice; "I will go now, but only with your promise, Mr. Hurst, that
when she is more composed, I may see and converse with her. I will
offer no opposition to your wishes; but you will give me a week or
two."
"Do you wish to see this man again, my child?" said Mr. Hurst, "I can
trust you, Florence, decide for yourself."
Florence parted her lips to answer, but her strength utterly failed,
and with a feeble gasp she sunk powerless and fainting on her father's
bosom.
Mr. Hurst gathered her in his arms and bore her from the room, simply
pausing with his precious burden at the door while he told Jameson, in
a calm under tone, to leave the house, and wait till a message should
reach him.
But the unhappy man was in no haste to obey. For half an hour he paced
to and fro in the solitude of that large apartment, now seating
himself on the sofa which poor Florence had just left, and again
starting up with a sort of insane desire for motion. Sometimes he
would listen, with checked breath, to the footsteps moving to and fro
in the chamber over-head, and then hurry forward again, racked by
every fierce passion that can fill the heart of a human being.
"I _will_ triumph yet! I _will_ see her, and that when he is not near
to crush every loving impulse as it rises. Once mine, and he will
never put his threat into execution, earnest as he seemed. All my
strength lies in her love--and it is enough. She suffers--that is a
proof of it. She is angry--that is another proof. Yes, yes, I can
trust in her, she is all romance, all feeling!"
Jameson muttered these words again and again; it seemed as if he
thought by the sound of his voice to dispel the misgiving that lay at
his heart. He would have given much for the security that his muttered
words seemed to indicate, and as if determined not to leave the house
without some further confirmation of his wishes, he lingered in the
room till its only light flashed and went out in the socket of its
tall silver candlestick, leaving him in total darkness. Then he stole
forth and left the house, softly closing the street door after him.