MIDNIGHT VIGILS.
There were indeed four strangely assorted characters in that sleigh
as they were carried beyond the sounds of music and gayety, which,
to Hemstead and Lottie Marsden at least, were little less than
mockery. There was the stolid coachman, who, whatever were his
thoughts, had been trained to appear oblivious of everything save
his duty, and to be but an animate part of the "establishment."
He was much like the horses he drove, living his narrow, material
life in the passing hour, knowing little and caring less about the
past or the future.
Hemstead, in contrast, had a mind as ethereal as faith could make
it, and a fancy enriched by wide reading. Heretofore he had lived
chiefly in the past and future, his studies making him at home
in the one, and his hopes leading him forward into the other. But
now a silent form near him had a strange power to concentrate his
thoughts on the present. The man who had speculated and reasoned
about sinners in the abstract, and who had classified and divided
them up into well-defined shades and degrees, was now sorely puzzled
over two of them, who, in a certain sense, were under his charge.
What was also odd, his deepest sympathy and desire to help did not
appear drawn toward the greater sinner. Indeed, for the tipsy youth
he had hardly a sentiment other than contempt. Broad, impartial
rules of action and feeling seemed perfectly correct in the seminary.
He forgot that he was not carrying them out. It did not occur to
him that he was like a physician who stepped by the sickest patient
to a better and more promising one. In justice it must be said that
he would have put himself to any personal inconvenience, and have
made any effort in his power, were the question brought to an issue,
in order to work a transformation in De Forrest's character. But
for some reason it was so perfectly natural to take an absorbing
interest in Lottie's moral state that he never asked himself why
he had not a similar solicitude for Addie or Bel Parton.
Rigid and impartial rules are very well till fallible men come to
apply them to their most fallible fellow-creatures.
Only God can mercifully apply a perfect law to imperfect humanity,
and if He had a "beloved disciple," might not Hemstead have a
favorite sinner?
And an oddly related couple were those two young people whom all
supposed destined for a union, that in the judgment of friends
would be most fitting, but that in truth would be unnatural and
productive of wretchedness. Though Hemstead's mind dwelt unwaveringly
upon them, he never once looked back during the drive. He would have
seen a strange sight if he had,--a beautiful woman, with a face
looking almost spirit-like in the pale moonlight, with her arm, for
the first time, around a man whom she was beginning in the depths
of her soul almost to loathe. No embrace of affection was that,
but a mechanical act prompted by a stern and remorseful sense of
duty. She shrank from the man whose swaying form she steadied. It
was settled that night in her own soul, as if by a decree of fate,
that she would never marry Julian De Forrest. And yet it was one
of the good traits in her character, that, while she drew back in
shuddering aversion from any dose personal relation to him, she
at the same time bad generous, regretful pity, and, if she could
be kind to him at a distance, would be a very faithful friend.
But why did her eyes tarn so often and so wistfully up to the tall
great-coated form before her? She did not know. She did not even
ask herself.
Are we ever guided by reason, will, deliberate choice? Are there
not often strong half-recognized instincts that sway us more
profoundly, even as the plant unconsciously turns its leaves and
blossoms towards the sun, and sends its roots groping unerringly
to the moisture?
So absorbed was she in looking at the square, burly form before
her, that the sleigh suddenly stopped at Mrs. Marchmont's door,
and Hemstead looked around and caught her eye. What was more, he
saw her apparently loving embrace of De Forrest. He was not versed
in the conditions of intoxication, nor did he realize that De
Forrest was so far gone as to make the act necessary. But he could
see her blush, even in the moonlight.
Without a word he assisted her oat, but had some difficulty with
De Forrest, who, from the fumes of liquor and the cold air, had
grown very drowsy. But Hemstead's grasp was so strong and masterful,
that while he roused, he also steadied and supported him up the
steps. Lottie said to the coachman, "Mr. De Forrest is not well,
so we came home earlier. You may now return for the others."
The man heard her with a stolid face that might have been mahogany,
but when by himself it relaxed into a grim smile as he chuckled,
"I've seen people have such spells afore; but if you was my darter,
miss, I'd make you give that chap the mitten, 'cause sich bad spells
is wonderful apt to grow on a feller."
Mrs. Marchmont and Mr. Dimmerly had retired, and the rather dull
servant who admitted them was too sleepy to note anything. Lottie
promptly dismissed her, and told her she would wait for the others.
Hemstead saw De Forrest to his room. He had become so stupid that
he did mechanically what was urged, and the student soon left him
sleeping heavily.
But Hemstead's heart was strangely burdened. He had come to the
conclusion that under all Lottie's coquetry and cousinly freedom
with De Forrest she had hidden a real attachment, and that perhaps
an engagement, or at least an understanding, existed between them.
He did not think at the time why this relation should so depress
him. He would probably have explained it by his natural regret that
such a girl should be mismated to such a man. But it might well
have been doubted whether his heart would have become suddenly like
lead, had he discovered that his own cousin was engaged, even to
Brently, however sincere might have been his regret. But he descended
to the parlor with the unselfish purpose and wish to bring her
mind again under the spell of truth, if possible, hoping that the
events of the evening would suggest the need of a better philosophy
than she had learned in the past.
But he would have no little difficulty in maintaining his
disinterestedness and general missionary spirit in the interview
that awaited him.
For a young man but a few years past his majority, with an
impressible nature and a warm heart, to watch through the witching
hour of midnight with a maiden like Lottie Marsden, and all the
time have no other thought than her moral improvement, is perhaps
asking too much of human nature. With the very best intentions and
with the absolute conviction, as he supposed, that the young lady
could only be a subject for his missionary zeal, unconsciously the
beautiful picture she made with the firelight flickering upon her
face, and the snowy opera-cloak thrown around her, stole into his
heart that was large and empty, waiting for an occupant.
"I have drawn a chair close up to the fire," she said, "for you
must be cold after riding on that high seat with the coachman."
"I am not cold, but I thank you all the same."
"You have been kinder to me than I deserved, Mr. Hemstead."
Truly Lottie's gratitude would be a dangerous thing to any man, as
she expressed it then; and the disinterested student was conscious
of a strange thrill at heart. But he said, with a flush of pleasure:
"I do not know that I have. At any rate friends should not keep
a debit and credit account with each other."
"And can you still feel friendly to me after this evening?"
"Do I look savagely hostile?" he asked smilingly.
"I feared you would despise me. I certainly despise myself."
"From the fact that you so evidently blame yourself I am less
disposed to blame."
"But you rightly think me most worthy of blame."
"Do you honestly care what I think, Miss Marsden? My opinions have
been formed in what must seem a plain and homely world to you, quite
devoid of the elegance and fashion to which you have been accustomed."
"I begin to think it is a better world than mine, and to-night I
am sick of elegance and fashion. Yes, I honestly do care now what
you do think. I have been flattered and lied to all my life, and
you are the first man who ever told me the unvarnished truth."
He rose and paced thoughtfully up and down the room; then looked
dubiously at her. She was so exquisitely beautiful, and seemed
in such a kindly mood, that he was greatly tempted to temporize
and say smooth things, lest he should offend and drive her away.
But conscience whispered, "Now is your opportunity to speak the
'unvarnished truth,' whatever be the consequences"; and conscience
with Hemstead was an imperative martinet. She waited in curious
and quiet expectancy. This sincere and unconventional man was
delightfully odd and interesting to her. She saw the power and
fascination of her beauty upon him, and at the same time perceived
that in his crystal integrity he would give her his honest thought.
She interpreted his hesitancy, and said, "You fear that I shall be
offended?"
"Yes."
"I promise you to listen patiently--yes, gratefully--to the severest
things you can say."
"I may test your promise severely. I am a plain and awkward man.
Will you permit a plain and homely illustration of my thought?"
"I'm in a mood for plain words to-night. They will be in keeping
with the former events of the evening, which were plain enough."
"Well, then, were it possible that I could be the fortunate
possessor of a statue by Phidias, I would not use it as a hat-stand.
If I possessed a painting by Rubens, I would not turn it into a
fire-screen."
He hesitated, as he saw the hot blood mount to her face; but she
said quietly, "Go on. I think I understand you."
He continued in a tone that was as gentle as his words seemed harsh.
"Believe me, I am speaking in kindness, and only because you are
brave enough to give me leave. As Phidias might embody beauty itself
in marble, so God has bestowed it on you. When I was looking upon
that marvellous scene--that transfigured world--the morning after
my arrival, you appeared and seemed a part of it. Do you remember
what I said then? I have reluctantly thought to-night that you
could wear your coronet of beauty, not Only as a benignant queen,
but as a petty tyrant,--that you could put it to ignoble uses, and
make it a slave to self. It seemed at times that you only sought to
lead men to bow in admiration to you, instead of inspiring them to
stand erect in true manhood, with their faces heavenward. A woman
endowed as you are can always do with a man one of two things:
either fascinate him with her own personality, so that his thought
is only of her; or else through her beauty and words and manner,
that are in keeping, suggest the diviner loveliness of a noble
life and character. I am satisfied that one could not be in Miss
Martell's society without being better, or wishing to be better.
You might have the same influence, and to a greater degree, because
you naturally have more force and quicker sympathies. There is
more magnetism in your nature, and you could understand and help,
if you chose, a wider range of character than she. I doubt very
much whether Miss Martell could make herself much at home among
the plain country folk that you quite carried by storm the other
evening. God has given you the power and beauty. Will you let me
ask, in the spirit of kindness, not criticism, Are you using these
gifts for Him, or for yourself?"
Lottie's eyes were moist, but her brow was contracted into
a thoughtful frown, as she sat lowering at the fire. After a few
moments' silence, she said, in a tone of bitterness:
"As I feel and see things to-night, I should say, for neither God
nor myself, but solely and expressly for the sake of the Evil One.
What good, what happiness, do all the compliments, all the attention
I ever received, secure to me to-night? I thought I was using all
for my own benefit. That was my only purpose and aim, but every
flattering thing that I can remember is only a burden to think
of now. I am the worse for my beauty, as you regard it. I cannot
think of any one that I have made better; but many that I have made
worse. I seem to have been receiving all my life, and yet to-night
I feel as if I had nothing but a burden upon my heart."
Hemstead's words were not reassuring. Indeed, Lottie thought them
a trifle harsh, though spoken so kindly.
"You cannot feel otherwise, Miss Marsden. You have been seeking to
keep and use for yourself what God meant you should use for Him.
You feel very much as you would, did you take a large sum of money,
left in your hands as a sacred trust, and go on a pleasure trip
with it. He has intrusted to you the richest and rarest gifts, and
every day that you have misappropriated them is a burden upon your
conscience. You will feel the same after a long life of adulation,
in which every whim has been gratified. Believe me, Miss Marsden,
it is a very sad thing to come to the end of one's life with no
other possession than a burdened conscience and a heavy, guilty
heart. I long to save you from such a fate. That would be a wretchedly
poor result of a lifetime for one endowed as you are."
"Your words are very severe, Mr. Hemstead," she said in a low tone,
burying her face in her hands.
"Faithful are the wounds of a friend," he replied.
"I never thought I could permit any one to speak to me as you have
done, nor would I endure it from you, did I not recognize something
like sympathy in the voice with which you speak such cutting words.
But I fear they are true, after all. A burdened conscience and a
guilty heart seem all there is of me to-night."
He was about to reverse the picture, and portray in strong and
hopeful terms what she might be, and what she could accomplish,
when the sleigh-bells announced the return of the rest of the party.
She sprang up and said hastily: "I do not wish to meet them to-night,
and so will retire at once. As physician of the 'mind diseased'
you dearly believe in what is termed the 'heroic treatment.' Your
scalpel is sharp, and you cut deeply. But as proof that I have kept
my word, and am not offended, I give you my hand."
He took it in both of his, but did not speak. She looked up at him
through the tears that still lingered, and was touched to see that
his eyes were as moist as hers. Giving his hand a cordial pressure,
she said as she left him: "You cannot look at me in harsh criticism
through tears of sympathy. Your face is kinder than your words. I
am glad you do not despise me."
Hemstead admitted Harcourt and the young ladies into the shadowy
hall, and then bade them good night. He, too, was in no mood
for Addie's gossip or Bel's satire. They had also found Harcourt
strangely silent and pre-occupied.
The evident influence of Miss Martell over Harcourt, and their
intimate relations require some explanation. He was an orphan,
and his father had been a friend of Mr. Martell. During the last
illness of the elder Mr. Harcourt, he had asked his friend to take
some interest in his son, and, when possible, to give him friendly
counsel. To a man like Mr. Martell such a request was like a sacred
obligation; and he had sought to do more than was asked. He wrote
the young man almost fatherly letters, and often invited him to his
house. Thus it came about that the influence of Mr. Martell and
his daughter did more to restrain the wayward tendencies of young
Harcourt than all other things combined; and it must be confessed
that the little blue-eyed girl had more influence than the wise
old father. She seemed to take almost a sisterly interest in him,
and occasionally wrote such a sweet little letter that he would
reform his college life for a week thereafter. But he seemed
to have a dash of wild blood that would break out only too often
into indiscretions, the rumors of which filled his kind friend Mr.
Martell with anxiety. But Alice, his daughter ever insisted that
he would "come out all right."
"Tom has a good heart, father," she would say; and so, with woman's
faith, she hoped where her father feared.
If Harcourt could have been continually under their influence
he would undoubtedly have developed into a far better man. But,
between absence at college and the law-school and some travel during
vacations, he saw less and less of them. Alice also was kept very
steadily at school, and during the last two years of her studies
they had missed each other in vacations, and seldom met.
But something more than maidenly modesty and pride made Alice shy
and reserved when with Harcourt. She would think more about him,
but talk less to him than to others when in company. She was a
peculiarly sensitive, diffident girl, and instinctively shrank from
the man who had for her the strongest interest.
On the completion of her studies her father had taken her abroad,
and they had spent two or three years in travel. The extraordinary
graces of her person were but the reflex of her richly cultivated
mind. Even abroad she had many admirers; but with tact, firmness,
and inimitable grace, she ever sought to prevent false hopes, and
so had fewer offers than an ordinary coquette. But many who soon
learned that they could never establish a dearer relation became
strong friends, and also better men; for Alice Martell seemed to
have the power of evoking all the good there was in a man, and of
putting him under a kind of sacred obligation to be true and manly,
as the result of her acquaintance. However deep and lasting regret
may have been, no man ever left her presence in harsh and bitter
contempt for the--very name of woman, as too often had been the
case with Lottie Marsden. Those who knew her least said she was
cold, and those who knew her true, womanly heart best wondered at
her continued indifference to every suit. And sometimes she wondered
at herself,--how it was that all the attention she received scarcely
ever quickened her pulse.
But when after long absence she returned and met the friend
and playmate of her childhood--the wayward youth to whom she was
accustomed to give sisterly counsel--her pulse was so strangely
accelerated, and the blood so quick to mount to her face at his
every word and look, that she began to understand herself somewhat.
They had but recently returned to their residence on the banks of
the Hudson; and Harcourt was made a welcome visitor.
Having completed his professional studies, the young man had
succeeded largely to the practice of his deceased father, and was
doing well in a business point of view. He had inherited enough
property to secure a good start in life, but not enough to rob him
of the wholesome stimulus which comes from the need of self-exertion.
He had an acute, active mind. Abundance of intellect and fire
flashed from his dark eyes, and we have seen that he was not without
good and generous traits. But in his spiritual life he had become
materialistic and sceptical. His associates were brilliant, but fast
men; and for him also the wine-cup was gaining dangerous fascination.
Mr. Martell, in the spirit of the most friendly interest, soon
learned these facts after his return, and also the gossip, which
brought a sudden paleness to his daughter's cheek, that he was
engaged, or virtually engaged, to Addie Marchmont.
While Alice therefore was kind, she seemed to avoid him; and he
found it almost impossible to be alone with her. She had always
dwelt in his mind, more as a cherished ideal, a revered saint,
than as an ordinary flesh-and-blood girl with whom he was fit to
associate, and for a time after her return her manner increased
this impression. He explained the recognized fact that she shunned
his society by thinking that she knew his evil tendencies, and that
to her believing and Christian spirit his faithless and irregular
life was utterly uncongenial. For a short time he had tried to
ignore her opinion and society in reckless indifference; but the
loveliness of her person and character daily grew more fascinating,
and his evil habits lost in power as she gained. For some little
time before Mrs. Byram's company, he had been earnestly wishing
that he could become worthy of at least her esteem and old friendly
regard, not daring to hope for anything more. It never occurred to
him that gossip had coupled his name with his cousin Addie, and
that this fact influenced Miss Martell's manner as well as his
tendencies toward dissipation. He laid it all to the latter cause,
and was beginning to feel that he could live the life of an ascetic,
if this lovely saint would only permit his devotion.
And Alice, so sensitive where he was concerned, thought she
saw a change in him for the better, and in the spirit of womanly
self-sacrifice was resolving to see more of him than was prudent
for her peace of mind, if by so doing she could regain her old
power to advise and restrain.
With gladness she recognized her influence over him at Mrs. Byram's
company, and, as we have seen, made the most of it. But, with
surprise and some strange thrills at heart, she noted that he and
Addie Marchmont did not act as an engaged couple naturally would;
and observed, with disgust, that Miss Marchmont seemed more pleased
with Brently's attentions than Lottie Marsden had been.
That a man of Harcourt's force and mind should be captivated by
such a girl as Miss Marchmont, had been a mystery; and she thought,
when seeing them together in Mrs. Byram's parlors, "They take it
more coolly than any people I ever saw."
Addle appeared engrossed with the attentions of others, and Harcourt
not in the least jealous or annoyed. In brief, they acted like
cousins, and not in the least like lovers.
But in the sensitive delicacy of her character she would not permit
her mind to dwell on the problem of their relations, and bent all
her thoughts upon her effort to win Harcourt to a better life.
And she had moved him that evening more deeply than she could know.
Neither she, nor any finite power, could plant righteous principle
within his soul and transform his character; but she had created,
for the time at least, an utter distaste for all low and sensual
pleasures, and an honest and absorbing wish to become a true, good
man. He felt that he could not, in her society, and breathing the
pure atmosphere of her life, be his old self.
Never did a man return from a fashionable revel in a more serious
and thoughtful mood, and equally with Lottie and Hemstead he was
glad to escape, from the trifling chat and gossip of Addie and Bel
Parton, to the solitude of his own loom.