LOVE-MAKING AT MILLBANK.
The holidays were over. They had been spent in New York, where, with
Mrs. Walter Scott as her _chaperone_, Magdalen had passed a few weeks,
and seen what was meant by fashionable society. But she did not like it,
and was glad to return to Millbank.
Roger had spent only a few days with her in New York, but Frank had been
her constant attendant, and not a little proud of the beautiful girl who
attracted so much attention. While there Magdalen had more than once
heard mention made of Alice Grey, who had returned to America and was
spending a few weeks in New York, where she would have been a belle but
for her poor health, which prevented her from mingling much in
fashionable society. Frank had called on her several times, and
occasionally she heard him rallied upon his penchant for Miss Grey by
some one of his friends, who knew them both. Frank would have denied the
charge openly had Magdalen’s manner towards him been different from what
it was. She called him her brother, and by always treating him as such,
made anything like love-making on his part almost impossible; and so
Frank thought to rouse her jealousy by allowing her to believe that
there was something serious between himself and Alice Grey. But in this
he was mistaken. The charm he had once possessed for Magdalen, when, as
a child, she enshrined him her hero and lived upon his smiles, was
broken, and though she liked him greatly and showed that she did so, she
knew that any stronger feeling towards him was utterly impossible, and
was delighted at the prospect of his transferring to another some of the
attentions which were becoming distasteful to her, from the fact of
their being so very marked and lover-like.
Once she spoke to him herself of Alice, who was stopping at the St.
Denis, and asked, “Why do you not bring her to see me or let me go to
her?” and Frank had answered her, “Miss Grey is too much of an invalid
to make or receive calls from strangers. She asks after you with a great
deal of interest, and hopes—”
Frank hesitated a moment, and Magdalen playfully caught him up,
saying,—“Hopes to know me well through you. Is that it, and is what I
have heard about you true? I am so glad, for I know I shall like her,
though I used to be jealous of her years ago when you talked so much of
her.”
Magdalen was very sincere in what she said, but foolish Frank, who set a
far greater value upon himself than others set upon him, and who could
not understand how any girl could be indifferent to him, was conceited
enough to fancy that he detected something like pique in Magdalen’s
manner, and that she was _not_ as much delighted with Alice Grey as she
would like him to think. This suited him, and so he made no reply,
except, “I am glad you are pleased with her. She is worthy of your
love.”
And thus was the conviction strengthened in Magdalen’s mind that she
might some day know Alice Grey intimately as the wife of Frank, towards
whom she showed at once a greater decree of familiarity than she had
done hitherto, making him think his ruse a successful one, which would
in due time bear the desired fruit. Meanwhile his mother had her own
darling scheme, which she was adroitly managing to carry out. Once she
would have spurned the thought of accepting Magdalen as her
daughter-in-law, but she had changed her mind after a conversation with
Roger, who, wholly deceived by the crafty, fascinating woman, had grown
very confidential, and been led on to admit that in case he never
married, or even if he did, Magdalen would stand to him in the relation
of a child, and share in his property. Indeed, from his conversation it
would seem that, feeling impressed with the uncertainty of life, and
having no foolish prejudices against making his will, he had already
done so, and provided for both Magdalen and Frank.
He did not state what provision he had made for them, and his sister did
not ask him. She preferred to find out in some other way, if possible,
and not betray the interest she felt in the matter. So she merely
thanked him for remembering Frank, for whom he had done so much, and
then at once changed the conversation. She did not seem at all curious,
and Roger, who liked her now much better than when he was a boy, never
dreamed how the next day, while he was in his office and Magdalen was
away on some errand for old Hester, the writing-desk, which still stood
in the library, was visited by Mrs. Walter Scott, who knew that some of
his papers were kept there, and whose curiosity was rewarded by a sight
of the desired document. It was not sealed, and with a timid glance at
the door she opened it nervously, but dared not stop to read the whole
lest some one should surprise her. Rapidly her eye ran over the paper
till it caught the name of Magdalen, coupled with one hundred thousand
dollars. That was to be her marriage portion, paid on her bridal day,
and Mrs. Walter Scott was about to read further when the sound of a
footstep warned her that some one was coming. To put the paper back in
its place was the work of a moment, and then, with a most innocent look
on her face the lady turned to meet old Hester Floyd, whose gray eyes
looked sharply at her, and who merely nodded in reply to her words of
explanation,—
“I am looking at this silver plate over the doors of the writing-desk.
How it is tarnished! One can scarcely make out the squire’s name. I wish
you’d set Ruth to polishing it.”
The plate was polished within fifteen minutes by Hester herself, who had
caught the rustle of papers and the quick shutting of the drawer. She
knew the tarnished plate was a pretence, and stood guard till Roger
came. He merely laughed at her suspicions, but when a few days after
Mrs. Walter Scott found an opportunity to try the drawer again, she
found it locked, and all her hopes of ascertaining how Frank fared in
the will were effectually cut off. But she knew about Magdalen. One
hundred thousand dollars as a marriage portion was worth considering,
and Mrs. Walter Scott did consider it, and it outweighed any scruples
she might otherwise have had concerning Magdalen’s birth, and made her
doubly gracious to the young girl whom she sought as her future
daughter-in-law.
That was just before they went to New York, where the favor with which
Magdalen was received confirmed her in her intentions to win the hundred
thousand dollars. Every opportunity for throwing the young people
together was seized upon, and if by chance she heard the name of Alice
Grey coupled with her son’s, she smiled incredulously, and said it was a
most absurd idea that Frank should wish to marry into a family where
there was hereditary insanity, as she knew was the case in Miss Grey’s.
After their return to Millbank she resolved to push matters a little,
and so one afternoon, when she chanced to be walking with Frank from the
office to the house, she broached the subject by asking how long he
intended to let matters go on as they were going, and why he did not at
once propose to Magdalen, and not keep her in suspense!
“_Suspense!_ mother;” and Frank looked up joyfully. “Do you think,—do
you believe Magdalen really cares for me? I have been afraid it was only
a sisterly regard, such as she would feel for me were I really her
brother.”
“She must be a strange girl to conduct herself towards you as she does
and not seriously care for you,” Mrs. Walter Scott replied; and Frank
continued, “She has been different since we came from New York, I know,
and has not kept me quite so much at arm’s-length. Mother,” and Frank
spoke more energetically than before, “I am so glad you have broken the
ice; so glad you like her and are willing. I did not know but you might
object, you are so straight-laced about blood and birth and all that.”
“I am a little particular about such things, I’ll admit,” Mrs. Irving
replied; “but in Magdalen’s case I am ready to make an exception. She is
a splendid girl and created a great sensation in New York; while better
than all, she is, or will be, an heiress. Roger has made his will, and
on her bridal day she is to have one hundred thousand dollars dowry.”
“How do you know that?” Frank asked quickly, and his mother replied: “No
matter how. It is sufficient that I do know it, and with poverty staring
us in the face the sooner you appropriate that hundred thousand the
better for both of us.”
“Mother,” and Frank spoke sternly, “I wonder what you take me for! A
mere mercenary wretch? Understand plainly that I am not so base as that,
and I love Magdalen well enough to marry her if she was never to have a
penny in the world. Much as I hate work I could work for _her_, and a
life of poverty shared with her has more attractions for me than all the
kingdoms in the world shared with another.”
They had reached Millbank by this time, and Magdalen met them at the
door. She had been out for a drive, and the exercise and clear wintry
air had brought a deeper glow than usual to her cheeks and made her eyes
like diamonds. She had never been more beautiful to Frank than she was
that evening in her soft crimson dress, with her hair arranged in long
curls, which fell about her face and neck in such profusion. Magdalen
did not often curl her hair; it was too much trouble, she said, and she
had only done so to-day because of something which Roger had said to
her. He had been standing with her before the picture of his mother,
whose golden hair covered her like a veil, and to Magdalen, who admired
the flowing tresses, he had said, “Why don’t you wear curls, Magda? I
like so much to see them when I know they are as natural as yours would
be.”
That afternoon Magdalen had taken more than usual pains with her toilet,
and Celine, the French maid, whom Mrs. Walter Scott had introduced into
the house, had gone into ecstasies over the long, beautiful curls which
fell almost to Magdalen’s waist and somewhat softened her dashing style
of beauty. Roger, too, had complimented her, when about four o’clock he
came in, saying he was going to drive out a mile or two from Millbank,
and asking her to accompany him. The day was very cold, and with careful
forethought he had seen that she was warmly clad,—had himself put the
hot soap-stone to her feet, and wrapping the fur robes around her, had
looked into her bright face and starry eyes, and asked if she was
comfortable. On their return to Millbank, he had carefully lifted her
from the sleigh and carried her up the steps into the hall, where he set
her down, calling her Mother Bunch, with all her wraps around her, and
trying to help her remove them. Roger was a little awkward in anything
pertaining to a woman’s gear, but he managed to unpin the shawl and
untie the ribbons of the pretty, coquettish rigolette, which were in a
knot and troubled him somewhat, bringing his face so close to Magdalen’s
that her curls fell across his shoulder and he felt her breath upon his
cheek.
“Your ride has done you good, Magda. You are looking charmingly,” he
said, when at last she was undone and stood before the fire. He was
obliged to go out again, and as it was not likely he should return till
late, they were not to wait dinner for him,—he said.
Something in his manner toward her more than his words had affected
Magdalen with a sweet sense of happiness, and her face was radiant as
she met Frank in the hall, and went with him to the dining-room, where
dinner was waiting for them. She explained that Roger would not be
there, and then, as Frank took the head of the table, rallied him upon
his awkwardness in carving and his absent-mindedness in general. He had
a bad headache, he said, and after dinner was over and they had
adjourned to the library, where their evenings were usually passed, he
lay down upon the couch and looked so pale and tired, that Magdalen’s
sympathy was awakened at once, and she insisted upon doing something for
him. Since their return from New York she _had_ been far more familiar
in her intercourse with him than she would have been had she not
believed there was something between him and Alice Grey which might
ripen into love. With no fears for herself, she could afford to be
_very_ gracious, and being naturally something of a coquette, she had
tormented and teased poor Frank until he had some reason for believing
that his affection for her was returned, and that his suit would not be
disregarded should he ever urge it upon her. With the remembrance of
Roger’s words and manner thrilling every nerve, she was in an unusually
soft, amiable mood to-night, and knelt at last by Frank’s side and
offered to bathe his aching head.
“The girls at school used to tell me there was some mesmerism in my
fingers,” she said, “some power to drive away pain or exorcise evil
spirits. Let me try their effect on you.”
Mrs. Walter Scott, who had been watching the progress of matters, found
it convenient just then to leave the room, and Frank was alone with
Magdalen. For a few moments her white fingers threaded his hair,
brushing it back from his forehead and passing lightly over his
throbbing temples until it was not in human nature to endure any longer,
and rising suddenly from his reclining position, Frank clasped his arms
around her, and straining her to his bosom, pressed kiss after kiss upon
her lips, while he poured into her astonished ear the story of his love,
telling her how long ago it began,—telling her how dear she was to
him,—how for her sake he had lingered at Millbank trying to do something
for himself, because she had once suggested that such a thing would be
gratifying to her,—how thoughts of her were constantly in his mind,
whether awake or asleep, and lastly, that his mother approved his choice
and would gladly welcome her as a daughter.
As he talked, Magdalen had struggled to her feet, her cheeks burning
with surprise and mortification, and sorrow too, that Frank should have
misjudged her so. She knew he was in earnest, and she pitied him so
much, knowing as she did how hopeless was his suit.
“Speak to me,” he said at last, “if it is only to tell me no. Anything
is better than your silence.”
“Oh, Frank,” Magdalen began, “I am so sorry, because—”
“Don’t tell me no. I will not listen to that answer,” Frank burst out
impetuously, forgetting what he had just said when he begged her to
speak. “You do like me, or you have seemed to, and have given me some
encouragement, or I should not have told you what I have. Don’t you like
me, Magdalen?”
“Yes, very much, but not the way you mean. I do not like you well enough
to take you for my husband. And, Frank, what of Alice Grey? You say I
have encouraged you, and perhaps I have. I’ll admit that since I thought
you loved Miss Grey, I have been less guarded in my manner towards you;
but I never meant to mislead you,—never. I felt towards you as a sister
might feel towards a brother,—nothing more. But you do not tell me about
Miss Grey. Are _you_, then, so fickle?”
“Magdalen,” Frank said, “I may as well be truthful with you now; that
was all a ruse,—done for the sake of piquing you and rousing your
jealousy. I did care for Alice when she was a young girl and I in
college at New Haven, and when I met her again abroad, and found her the
same sweet, lovely creature, I don’t know what I might have done but for
her father, who seemed to dislike me, and always imposed some obstacle
to my seeing her alone, until at last he took her away and I saw her no
more, until I met her in New York; and had learned to love you far more
than I ever loved Alice Grey.”
“And so to win me you stooped to play with the affections of another. A
very manly thing to do,” Magdalen rejoined, in a tone of bitter scorn,
which made poor Frank’s blood tingle as he tried to stammer out his
excuses.
“It was not a manly act, I know; but, Magdalen, so far as Alice was
concerned, it did no harm. I _know_ she does not care for me now, if she
ever did. Our intercourse was merely friendly,—nothing more; and I
cannot flatter myself that she would feel one heart-throb were she to
hear to-day of my marriage with another. Forgive me, Magdalen, if in my
love for you I resorted to duplicity, and tell me that you can love me
in time,—that you will try to do so. Will you, Magdalen?”
“No. Frank. I can never be your wife; never. Don’t mention it again;
don’t think of it again, for it cannot be.”
This was Magdalen’s reply, which Frank felt was final. She was leaving
the room, and he let her go without another word. He had lost her, and
throwing himself upon the couch, he pressed his hands together upon his
aching head, and groaned aloud with pain and bitter disappointment.