Two weeks passed away, during which time Miss Oriel had shown her skill
in female tactics by managing to secure the attentions of Mr. Beauchamp,
while she had transferred Cecil to Ellen Grey until she should be able
to decide upon his future fate. One evening, Cecil, who had long known
and admired Mrs. Dale, invited her to walk with him on the piazza, that
they might witness the effect of moonlight upon the distant sea.
“I am indebted to Miss Grey’s headache for this invitation,” said Mrs.
Dale, laughing, as she took his arm; “had she been in the saloon my eyes
would never have been thus favored with a moonlight scene.”
Forrester entered a disclaimer against the lady’s assertion, and a
playful conversation ensued, when Mrs. Dale, suddenly changing the
topic, said:
“Pray tell me, Mr. Forrester, if Mr. Beauchamp is so immensely rich?”
“I really cannot take it upon me to determine that delicate question,
Madam,” was the reply, “but, as a firm believer in the doctrine of
_compensations_, I am bound to suppose he must be very wealthy.”
“Not understanding your premises I cannot clearly comprehend your
deductions,” said Mrs. Dale playfully.
“Why, Providence always bestows something to compensate for great
deficiencies, and as Mr. Beauchamp cannot boast either mental or
physical gifts, I take it for granted that he must have money.”
“Really, Mr. Forrester, I did not think you were so ill-natured. I am
sure Mr. Beauchamp has the prettiest hands and feet in the world, and
his ardent admiration of the ladies proves him to possess a good heart.”
“To your last argument I can offer no opposition, Madam,” was the
gallant reply; “but as to his hands and feet, I can only say that it is
not the first time that ladies have been driven to extremities in their
search for his good qualities.”
“Well, I suppose,” responded Mrs. Dale, laughing heartily, “that I must
allow your wit to atone for your severity, but how long is it since you
turned satirist?”
“Ever since I made the discovery which all the experience of others
cannot teach us—that ‘all is not gold which glitters.’ I have almost
come to the conclusion that nature, like an over-careful house-wife,
hides her true gold and silver in least suspected places.”
“In that case Dame Nature might be in the predicament of a queer old
lady I once knew who hid her rich plate under the rafters in the garret,
and when she wanted it upon occasion of a dinner-party, was obliged to
borrow of a neighbor because she had forgotten where she had deposited
her treasure.”
“I believe if we want to find a really virtuous and true-hearted woman
we must look elsewhere than among the beautiful,” said Forrester
bitterly.
“Fie! fie! if I had the slightest claim to beauty I should banish you
from my presence for that ungallant speech.”
“You ought rather to consider it a compliment, for there is not another
woman here to whom I would have uttered it, or who would have understood
me, perhaps, if I had.”
“Ah! now you flatter my intellect at the expense of my person, and no
woman ever relished such a compliment. But to return to your assertion;
how can you venture to despise the allurements of beauty after feasting
daily on such a banquet of loveliness as Miss Oriel offers to our eyes.
I look at her, woman as I am, with delight, for I never saw so fresh, so
pure, so marble-like a complexion.”
“Your comparison is more correct than you imagine, Madam; her beauty is
indeed like that of the marble statue, carved by a right cunning and
skilful hand, but wanting the Promethean touch of soul.”
“While Ellen Grey is the delicate alabaster vase, beautifully and finely
wrought, and with all its exquisite loveliness brought out in rich
relief by the lamp which lights it from within; is it not thus you would
have continued the comparison?” said Mrs. Dale mischievously.
“Your illustration is a beautiful one, and perfectly true,” was the
reply; “Ellen Grey is full of gentle and womanly feeling.”
“Perhaps you are prejudiced against Miss Oriel, Mr. Forrester; can it be
possible that there is no soul shining in those soft dark eyes?”
“There is mental power enough, if that were all, but there is no
soul—no heart; the lofty impulses of pure intellect, the tender
affections of feminine nature never yet lighted up those eyes or
suffused that marble brow with the blush of genuine feeling.”
“Well, as you have known the lady longer than I have, it would be idle
to dispute your assertions; indeed, I must confess, when I watch her
sweet, unruffled look and manner, I am irresistibly reminded of the old
Norse legend of the Snow-Woman—so dazzlingly beautiful, so fatally
cold.”
“Yet I have seen her under circumstances which would have given you a
very different impression of her. Imagine that beautiful woman attired
in the simplest manner, all fashionable airs laid aside, and apparently
the very creature of romantic feeling; imagine such perfection of
loveliness, with eyes of softness and voice all tenderness, apparently
yielding up her whole soul to the sweet impressions of nature, amid the
loveliest scenery that even our beautiful land can produce; imagine the
effect of such beauty seen beneath the soft light of the summer moon, or
gazed upon in the silent sanctuary of the forest glades, or mingling its
fascinating influence with the lovely sights and sounds which charm the
senses in the sunset dell, when the voice of the singing rivulet makes
music on its way.”
“Upon my word, Mr. Forrester, you are almost a poet; you must be in
love.”
“Perhaps I am, but Miss Oriel is not the object.”
“How could you resist the fascinations you so enthusiastically
describe?”
“Why, to tell the truth, I narrowly escaped the fate of the silly moth;
I came very near singeing my wings in the blaze of her beauty, but I
soon discovered that she possessed none but personal attractions. To be
sure we had quite a sentimental flirtation, and I remember many very
fine sentiments which she uttered, but I early found how thin and poor
was the soil in which they had taken root. You know the most luxuriant
growth of wild flowers is always to be found in a morass—or perhaps a
more graphic illustration of my meaning might be found in the fact that
the pestilential Maremma, whose atmosphere is so fatal to life, displays
the richest and most gorgeous array of Flora’s favorites. Laura Oriel
might be loved for a week or two, but any man with common sense would
soon see through her false character. For my own part, I confess that I
amused myself with her very pleasantly during the early part of the
summer. Indeed, I believe she fancied I was really caught in her snares,
and no doubt considers that ‘Cecil Forrester’s $30,000 will do very well
to fall back upon in case nothing better offer.’”
“Hark!” exclaimed Mrs. Dale, as a slight sound, like a half-suppressed
exclamation, struck upon their ears, “I really believe some one has been
listening to our conversation.”
“When we first came out here,” said Forrester coolly, “I saw a lady take
her seat within the recess of yonder window; she dropped the drapery of
the curtain behind her, so as not to be observed from within, and she
has been sitting in the deep shadow flung by this heavy column. She has
heard every word we said; at least she has heard all I said, because I
purposely deferred my most severe remarks until we passed within
ear-shot.”
“For Heaven’s sake, what do you mean? you seem agitated; who was the
lady?” asked Mrs. Dale.
“Do you not imagine? It was Miss Oriel.”
“Oh, Mr. Forrester, how could you do so? and to make me a party in such
cruelty too;” exclaimed the lady, much vexed.
“Now that there are really no listeners, dear Madam, I will tell you the
whole story, and you shall decide whether I am so very wrong; at all
events I have had my revenge.”
And Cecil Forrester related to his warm-hearted friend the story of his
love and its sudden extinction, not omitting a single word of the
dialogue which he had overheard between the mother and daughter.
When they re-entered the saloon Miss Oriel had disappeared, but if Cecil
could have known the tumult of her feelings he would, perhaps, have
regretted his own vindictiveness. All the little feeling which she
possessed, all that she had of heart, was bestowed on Cecil Forrester.
She did not know how much she had valued him until she compared him with
the object of her present pursuit; and, interested, selfish and
ambitious as she was, she half determined to turn from the allurements
of wealth if she could win back Cecil to his allegiance. To be thus
outwitted, made the plaything of his idle hours, foiled at her own
weapons, was a bitter mortification, and this, coupled as it was with a
sense of unrequited tenderness, aroused her almost to madness. The cold,
proud beauty shed tears of vexation and regret. She almost hated Cecil,
and yet she was conscious that the most bitter drop, in the cup which
had thus been returned to her own lips, was the assurance that he had
never loved her. His quotation of her own remark about his fortune
convinced her that he had overheard her plans, and she was now
stimulated by pride to urge their speedy fulfilment.