THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.
Mr. Fulton was scrupulously polite towards women. His American
training showed in this particular more strongly than in any other,
and caused him to contrast advantageously with the pompous and
self-engrossed Mr. Carruthers of Poynings, who was not a general
favourite in the small society with whom he condescended to mix while
in "foreign parts," as he carefully designated the places of his
sojourn which were so unfortunate as not to be under British rule. Mr.
Carruthers was apt to apologize, or rather to explain, the temporary
seclusion in which Mrs. Carruthers's delicate health obliged him to
remain, on the rare occasions when he encountered any of his
acquaintances with a highly offensive air of understanding and
regretting the loss he was obliged to inflict upon them; and the
innocent and worthy gentleman would have been very much astonished if
it had been revealed to him that his condescension had generally the
effect of irritating some and amusing others among the number of its
recipients. The manners of his brother-in-law were at once more simple
and more refined. There was no taint of egotism in them, and, though
his engrossing cares, added to a naturally grave disposition, made him
serious and reserved, every one liked Mr. Felton.
Except Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, who disliked him as much as she could
be at the trouble of disliking anybody--which, indeed, was not much,
for her real nature was essentially trivial, and her affections,
except for herself and her enmities, alike wavering, weak, and
contemptible. Mr. Felton neither liked nor respected the brilliant
woman who was so much admired and so very much "talked about" at
Homburg; but he said nothing of his contumacious dissent from the
general opinion except to George, and was gravely courteous and
acquiescent when the lady, her dress, her ponies, her "dash," and her
wealth--the latter estimated with the usual liberality of society in
such cases--were discussed in his presence. They had been pretty
freely discussed during a few days which preceded the conversation
concerning her which had taken place between the uncle and nephew.
When they met again on the following morning, George asked Mr. Felton
when he intended to visit Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, and was informed
that his uncle purposed writing to the lady to inquire at what time it
be her pleasure and convenience to receive him. George looked a
little doubtful on hearing this. The remembrance of Harriet's strongly
expressed opinion was in his mind, and he had a notion that his uncle
would have done more wisely had he sought her presence unannounced.
But such a proceeding would have been entirely inconsistent with Mr.
Felton's notions of the proper and polite, and his nephew dismissed
the subject; reflecting that, after all, as she had said "he knows
where to find me if he wants to know what I can tell him," she could
not refuse to see him. So Mr. Felton's note was written and sent, and
an answer returned which perfectly justified George's misgiving that
if Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge were afforded an opportunity of offering
Mr. Felton an impertinence, she would not hesitate to avail herself of
it.
The answer was curt and decisive. Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge was
particularly engaged that day, and would be particularly engaged the
next; on the third she would receive Mr. Felton at three o'clock. Mr.
Felton handed the missive to his nephew with an expression of
countenance partly disconcerted and partly amused.
"I thought so," said George, as he tossed the dainty sheet of paper,
with its undecipherable monogram and its perfume of the latest
fashion, upon the table--"I thought so. We must only wait until
Thursday, that is, unless we chance to meet your fair correspondent in
our walks between to-day and Thursday."
But Mr. Felton and his nephew did not chance to meet Mrs. Ireton P.
Bembridge either on that or on the succeeding day. Once they saw her
pony-carriage coming towards them, but it turned off into another
road, and was out of sight before they reached the turn.
"I am pretty sure she saw and recognized us," George Dallas thought;
"but why she should avoid my uncle, except out of sheer spite, I
cannot imagine."
There was no farther to look for the lady's motive. Sheer spite was
the highest flight of Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge's powers of revenge or
anger. She was an accomplished and systematic coquette; and, having
more brains than heart, however mediocre her endowments in either
sense, she was perfectly successful. She disliked Mr. Felton, because
he had never betrayed any admiration or even consciousness of her
beauty, and it was very annoying to a woman of her stamp to have tried
her arts unsuccessfully on an elderly man. She had tried them merely
in an idle hour, and with the amiable purpose of enjoying the novelty
of such a conquest; but she had failed, and she was irritated by her
failure.
If Mr. Felton had even sheltered himself behind the rampart of his
years, it would have been more tolerable--if he had extended a kind of
paternal protection to her, for instance. But he did not; he simply
paid her ordinary attentions in his customary grave way, whenever he
was brought in contact with her, and, for the rest, calmly ignored
her. When his son appeared in her train, she had not the satisfaction
of believing she could make the father wretched by encouraging him.
Mr. Felton had graver cause than any she could help to procure for
him, for disapproval of his son's conduct in most respects. She
counted for nothing in the sum of his dissatisfaction, but she
certainly became more distasteful to him when she was added to the
number of its components. Mark Felton had wounded the sensitive
self-love of a woman who knew no deeper passion. She was animated by
genuine spite towards him, when she declined to accede to his request
for an immediate interview.
By what feeling was Stewart Routh, who was with her when she received
Mr. Felton's note, and who strongly urged the answer she sent to it,
actuated t He would have found it difficult to tell. Not jealousy; the
tone in which she had spoken of Arthur Felton precluded that feeling.
Routh had felt that it was genuine, even while he knew that this woman
was deliberately enslaving him, and therefore was naturally suspicious
of every tone in which she spoke of any one. But his judgment was not
yet entirely clouded by passion; he had felt, in their brief
conversation relative to Arthur Felton, that her tone had been true.
He hated George Dallas now; he did not deceive himself about that.
There was a vague dread and trouble in his thoughts concerning the
young man. Once he had only despised him. He no longer despised him;
but he hated him instead. And this hatred, further reaching than love,
included all who were connected with George, and especially Mr.
Felton, whose grave and distant manner, whose calm and penetrating
glance, conveyed keen offence to Stewart Routh. They had not spoken of
the matter to each other; but Routh had felt, as soon and as strongly
as Harriet, that his influence over Dallas was at an end. As it
happened, he had successfully used that influence for the last time in
which he could foresee any need for its employment, and therefore Mr.
Felton had not done him any practical injury; but that did not matter:
he hated him all the same.
He had watched the smile with which Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge read Mr.
Felton's note a little anxiously. He did not dare to ask her from whom
the missive came, but she graciously gave him the information.
"He wants to see me, to find out Master Arthur's doings," she said,
with a ringing mischievous laugh. "Not that I know anything about him
since he left Paris, and I shall have to look serious and listen to
more preaching than goes well with the sunshine of to-day. It's
rather a nuisance;" and the lady pouted her scarlet lips very
effectively.
"Don't see him," said Routh, as he leant forward and gazed at her with
eager admiration. "Don't see him. Don't lose this beautiful day, or
any part of it, for him. You can't give him any real information."
"Except that his son is coming here," she said, slyly.
"I forgot," said Stewart Routh, as he rose and walked moodily to the
window.
Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge smiled a little triumphantly, and said,
gaily: "He shall wait for the news. I dare say it will be quite as
welcome to-morrow."
"Don't say to-morrow either," said Routh, approaching her again, as
she seated herself at her writing-table, and bending so as to look
into her eyes.
"Why?" she asked, as she selected a pen.
"Because I must go away on Thursday. I have an appointment, to meet a
man at Frankfort. I shall be away all day. Let this anxious parent
come to you in my absence; don't waste the time upon him."
"And if the time does not seem so wonderfully precious to me, what
then?" said the lady, looking straight at him, and giving to her voice
a truly irresistible charm, a tone in which the least possible rebuke
of his presumption was mingled with the subtlest encouragement. "What
then?" she repeated. ("Decidedly, he is dreadfully in earnest," she
thought.)
"Then," said Routh, in a low hoarse voice, "then I do not say you are
deceiving me, but I am deceiving myself."
So Mr. Felton received the answer to his note, and found that he must
wait until the following Thursday.
People talked about Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge at Homburg as they had
talked about her at New York and at Paris, at Florence and at Naples;
in fact, in every place where she had shone and sparkled, distributed
her flashing glances, and dispensed her apparently inexhaustible
dollars. They talked of her at all the places of public resort, and in
all the private circles. Mr. Felton was eagerly questioned about his
beautiful compatriot by the people whom he met at the springs and in
the gardens, and even by the visitors to Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers.
Probably he did not know much about her; certainly he said little. She
was a widow, without near relations, childless, and possessed of a
large fortune. There was no doubt at all about that. Was she
"received" in her own country? Yes, certainly. He had never heard
anything against her. Her manners were very independent, rather too
independent for European ideas. Very likely Mr. Felton was not a
judge. At all events, ladies rarely visited the brilliant American.
Indeed! But that did not surprise him. Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge did
not care for ladies' society--disliked it, in fact--and had no
hesitation about saying so. Women did not amuse her, and she cared
only for being amused. This, with the numerous amplifications which
would naturally attend such a discussion, had all been heard by
George, and was just the sort of thing calculated to excite the
curiosity and interest of a young man of his disposition and
antecedents. But it all failed to attract him now. Life had become
very serious and real to George Dallas of late, and the image he
carried about with him, enshrined in his memory, and sanctified in his
heart, had nothing in common with the prosperous and insolent beauty
which was the American's panoply.
It was rather late in the afternoon of the day on which Mr. Felton had
received Mrs. Bembridge's note, before George presented himself at
Harriet's lodgings. He had been detained by his mother, who had kept
him talking to her a much longer time than usual. Mrs. Carruthers was
daily gaining strength, and her pleasure in her son's society was
touching to witness, especially when her husband was also present. She
would lie on her sofa, while the two conversed, more and more freely,
as the air of making one another's acquaintance which had attended
their first few days together wore off, and was replaced by pleasant
companionship. At such times George would look at his mother with his
heart full of remorse and repentance, and think mournfully how he had
caused her all the suffering which had indirectly led to the result
for which she had not dared to hope. And when her son left her, quiet
tears of gratitude fell from his mother's eyes--those eyes no longer
bright indeed, but always beautiful. There was still a dimness over
her mind and memory: she was easily interested in and occupied with
things and subjects which were present; and her son was by no means
anxious for her entire awakening as to the past. Let the explanation
come when it might, it must be painful, and its postponement was
desirable. There were times, when they were alone, when George saw a
troubled, anxious, questioning look in his mother's face, a look which
betokened a painful effort of the memory--a groping look, he described
it to himself--and then he would make some excuse to leave her, or to
procure the presence of a third person. When they were no longer
alone, the look gradually subsided, and placid calm took its place.
That calm had been uninterrupted during their long interview on the
morning in question. For the first time, George talked to his mother
of his literary plans and projects, of the fair measure of success
which had already attended his efforts, of his uncle's generosity to
him--in short, of every pleasing subject to which he could direct her
attention. The time slipped by unnoticed, and it was with some
self-reproach that George found he had deferred his visit to Harriet
to so late an hour.
This self-reproach was not lessened when he reached Harriet's
lodgings. He found her in her accustomed seat by the window, but
totally unoccupied, and his first glance at her face filled him with
alarm.
"You are surely very ill, Mrs. Routh," he said. "There is something
wrong with you. What is it?"
Harriet looked at him with a strange absent look, as if she hardly
understood him. He took her hand, and held it for a moment, looking at
her inquiringly. But she withdrew it, and said:
"No, there is nothing wrong with me. I was tired last night, that is
all."
"I am afraid you thought me very stupid, Mrs. Routh; and so I was
indeed, to have kept you waiting so long, and not brought you the
lemonade you wished for, after all. I was so frightened when I
returned to the place where I had left you, and you were not there.
The fact was, I got the lemonade readily enough; but I had forgotten
my purse, and had no money to pay for it, so I had to go and find
Kirkland in the reading-room, and got some from him."
"Was he alone?"
"Kirkland? O yes, alone, and bored as usual, abusing everybody and
everything, and wondering what could possibly induce people to come to
such a beastly hole. I hate his style of talk, and I could not help
saying it was odd he should be one of the misguided multitude."
"Did you see Mr. Hunt?"
"Yes; he was just leaving when I met him, not in the sweetest of
tempers. The way he growled about Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge (her mere
name irritates him) amused me exceedingly."
"Indeed. How has she provoked his wrath?"
"I could not wait to hear exactly, but he said something about some
man whom he particularly wanted as a 'pal' here--delightful way of
talking, his! beats Kirkland's--having fallen into her clutches. I
suppose he is left lamenting; but I fancy Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge is
the safer companion of the two, unless the individual in question is
uncommonly sharp."
Harriet looked attentively and searchingly at George. His
unconsciousness was evidently quite unfeigned, and she refrained from
asking him a question that had been on her lips.
"I came back to look for you as soon as ever I could get rid of Hunt,"
continued George; "but you had disappeared, and then I came here at
once. Routh had not come in, I think, then?"
"No," said Harriet, curtly.
Then the conversation drifted to other matters, and George,
who felt unusually happy and hopeful that day, was proportionately
self-engrossed, and tested Harriet's power of listening considerably.
She sat before him pale and quiet, and there was never a sparkle in
her blue eyes, or a flush upon her white cheek; yet she was not cold,
not uninterested, and if the answers she made, and the interest she
manifested, were unreal, and the result of effort, at least she
concealed their falsehood well. He talked of his mother and of his
uncle, and told her how Mr. Felton had made him a present of a
handsome sum of money only that morning.
"And, as if to prove the truth of the saying that 'it never rains but
it pours,'" said George, "I not only got this money from him, which a
little time ago would have seemed positive riches to me, and a longer
time ago would have saved me from--well, Mrs. Routh, I need not tell
_you_ from what it would have saved me; but I got a handsome price for
my story, and a proposal from the _Piccadilly_ people to do another
serial for them, to commence in November."
"Do you really think, George," Harriet said, as if her attention had
not extended to the concluding sentence--"do you really think that
money would have kept you all right?"
George reddened, and looked disconcerted; then laughed uneasily, and
answered:
"I know what you mean. You mean that I know myself very little if I
lay the blame of my sins and follies on circumstances, don't you?"
She did not answer him, nor did she remove her serious fixed gaze from
his face.
"Yes," he said, "that is what you mean, and you are right. Still, I
think the want of money made me reckless, made me worse than I should
otherwise have been. I might not have spent it badly, you know, after
all. I don't feel any inclination to go wrong now."
"No; you are under your mother's influence," said Harriet. And then
George thought how much he should like to tell this woman--for whom he
felt so much regard, and such growing compassion, though he could not
give any satisfactory reason for the feeling--about Clare Carruthers.
He thought he should like to confess to her the fault of which he had
been guilty towards the unconscious girl, and to ask her counsel. He
thought he should like to acknowledge the existence of another
influence, in addition to his mother's. But he restrained the
resolution, he hardly knew why. Harriet might think him a presumptuous
fool to assign any importance to his chance meeting with the young
lady, and, besides, Harriet herself was ill, and ill at ease, and he
had talked sufficiently about himself already. No, if he were ever to
mention Clare to Harriet, it should not be now.
"Routh is too rich now, too completely a man of capital and business,
for me to hope to be of any use to him with my little windfalls," said
George, heartily; "but of course he knows, and you too, I shall never
forget all I owe him."
Harriet forced herself to smile, and utter some commonplace sentences
of deprecation.
"There is one thing I want to do with some of the money I have been
paid for my story," said George, "and I want to consult you about it.
I have to touch on a painful subject, too, in doing so. You remember
all about the bracelet which my dear mother gave me? You remember how
we broke it up together that night?"
Harriet remembered. She did not tell him so in words, but she bent her
head, and turned it from him, and set her face towards the street.
"You remember," he repeated. "Pray forgive me, if the allusion is
agitating. We little thought then what had happened; however, we won't
talk about _that_ any more. What I want to do is this: you have the
gold setting of the bracelet and the blue stones, sapphires,
turquoises: what do you call them? I want to replace the diamonds. I
can do so by adding a little of my uncle's gift to my own money, and,
when you return to England, I shall get the gold and things from you.
I can easily procure the Palais Royal bracelet--Ellen will get it for
me--and have the other restored exactly. If my mother is ever well
enough to be told about it--and there is every probability that she
will be, thank God--I think she will be glad I should have done this."
"No doubt," said Harriet, in a low voice. She did not start when he
spoke of the strange task they had executed in concert on that
memorable night, and no outward sign told how her flesh crept. "No
doubt. But you will not have the bracelet made in England?"
"No," said George; "I shall have it made in Paris. I will arrange
about it when my uncle and I are passing through."
"When does Mr. Felton go to England?"
"As soon as he gets his letters from New York, if his son does not
turn up in the mean time. I hope he may do so. When do you think of
returning?"
"I don't know," said Harriet, moodily. "If it depended on me,
to-morrow. I hate this place."
Energy was common to Harriet's mode of speech, but vehemence was not;
and the vehemence with which she spoke these words caused George to
look at her with surprise. A dark frown was on her face--a frown which
she relaxed with a visible effort when she perceived that he was
looking at her.
"By the by," she said, rising and going to a table in a corner of the
room, "you need not wait for my return to have the bracelet made. My
desk always travels with me. The little packet is in it. I have never
looked at or disturbed it. You had better take it to Paris with you,
and give your directions with it in your hand. There will be no
occasion, I should think, to let the jeweller see the other."
She opened the desk as she spoke, and took, from a secret drawer a
small packet, folded in a sheet of letter-paper, and sealed. George
Dallas's name was written upon it. It was that which she had put away
in his presence so many months before (or years, was it, or
centuries?). He took it from her, put it into his pocket, unopened,
and took leave of her.
"You won't venture out this evening, Mrs. Routh, I suppose?" said
George, turning again to her when he had reached the door.
"No," said Harriet. "I shall remain at home this evening." When he
left her, she closed and locked her desk, and resumed her place at the
window. The general dinner-hour was drawing near, and gay groups were
passing, on their way to the hotels and to the Kursaal. The English
servant, after a time, told Harriet that the dinner she had ordered
from a restaurant had been sent in; should it be served, or would she
wait longer for Mr. Routh?
Dinner might be served, Harriet answered. Still she did not leave the
window. Presently an open carriage, drawn by gray ponies, whirled by.
Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge was unaccompanied, except by her groom. The
carriage went towards the Schwarzchild House. She was going to dine at
home, probably. The servant asked if she should close the blinds. No,
Harriet preferred them left as they were; and when she had made a
pretence of dining, she once more took her place by the window. Lights
were brought, but she carried them to the table in the corner of the
room, where her desk stood, and sat in the shadow, looking out upon
the street. Soon the street became empty, rain fell in torrents, and
the lights glimmered on the surface of the pools. The hours passed.
Harriet sat motionless, except that once or twice she pressed her
hands upon her temples. Once she murmured, half audibly:
"I wonder if I am going mad?"
At eleven o'clock Routh came home. He opened the door of the room in
which Harriet was sitting, came in, and leaned against the wall
without speaking. In quick instinctive alarm she went to the table in
the corner, took up a candle, and Held it towards his face. He was
quite pale, his eyes were glassy, his hair was disordered. In a moment
Harriet saw, and saw for the first time in her life, that he was
intoxicated.