MISS HILDRETH.
A Novel.
BY A. DE GRASSE STEVENS,
AUTHOR OF "OLD BOSTON," "THE LOST DAUPHIN,"
"WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE," ETC.
In Three Volumes.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
WARD AND DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
1888.
[_All rights reserved._]
_Copyright by_ A. de GRASSE STEVENS, 1888.
TO MY ONLY SISTER,
MRS. FRANK H. EVANS,
I Dedicate this Book.
Dreams, books are each a world; and books we know
Are a substantial world, both pure and good;
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
WORDSWORTH.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. A LETTER 1
CHAPTER II. THE FOLLY 22
CHAPTER III. "THE SINS OF THE FATHERS" 41
CHAPTER IV. A FAIR PARLIAMENT 51
CHAPTER V. SENTIMENT AND "BACCY" 66
CHAPTER VI. STAGE-STRUCK 82
CHAPTER VII. DANGER AHEAD 101
CHAPTER VIII. AN ARRIVAL AND A MEETING 123
CHAPTER IX. THE IMPERIAL CHANCELLERIE 152
CHAPTER X. A COURT FAVOURITE 176
CHAPTER XI. A WOMAN SCORNED 204
CHAPTER XII. A PINK BILLET-DOUX 227
CHAPTER XIII. IN THE HAZEL COPSE 253
MISS HILDRETH.
CHAPTER I.
A LETTER.
"THE RED HOUSE,
"Benton's Station, New Hampshire,
"_April, 188--_.
"MY FRIEND,
"A clever Frenchman once said, 'On revient toujours à ses premiers
amours.' Let us suppose this to have been said of a woman who, in
her first youth, had loved a man and jilted him, and then, after
many years and much sorrow, her heart returned again to him with a
love and constancy unknown before. Cannot the past teach you to
read between the lines? I did not write to you of my engagement;
but now that it is over, and I am free, I find myself
instinctively seeking the old shelter of your friendship, which at
one time was never denied me; appealing to the old sympathy to
which I then never appealed in vain. Are you astonished--surprised?
I am not. In those old days--whose glory is not yet faded, over
whose memory 'Requiescant in pace' has not yet been written--I came
to you at all times, and you refused me nothing save one
thing--once. So now I creep back to the old refuge, and bid you
fold down the cere-cloth from our dead past, and see if still,
after all these years, it does not look somewhat fair; if still
there does not cling to it the memory of those old days; of blue
skies, bluer waters, sweet roses, sweeter vows, bright sunshine,
brighter promises! My marriage engagement is broken, Philip. Why? I
can give no reason. He was all that the world calls worthy, and I
believe he loved me; yet I found him wanting. Memory is a rare and
delusive beautifier, and my memory is sadly tenacious of the past;
therefore I am free. I could not be dishonest to him, even though
I would. Yes, I am free, and I am writing you after years of
silence. I wonder will you smile over this half-confession, and
say, 'Impetuous as ever!' or will you understand, and, so
understanding, send me the answer I desire? But should you choose
to misconstrue my words, I can but say that I have wished to be
honest, however late in the day. Write to me, Philip, or better,
come to me. After all, I am but a woman, and a very weak one.
"PATRICIA."
This was the letter that awaited Philip Tremain on his breakfast-table,
one bright spring morning of that most fickle, yet most beautiful month,
April. Even as he entered the room he became aware of its subtle
presence made known to him by its faint, dead odour of violets;
consequently it caused him no great shock of surprise to find the large,
square envelope, sealed with the device of a lighted candle and a silly
moth, and the motto "Delusion" below a monogram; with the firm
handwriting forming his name and address looking up at him from its
dainty surroundings of silver and damask. As the face of a once dearly
loved friend, neglected yet not forgotten, comes back to one from out
the mists of memory, recalled unexpectedly by some trivial
circumstance--a strain of music, a line of poetry, a faded flower.
Time was when each succeeding morning of Mr. Tremain's life, the early
post brought a similar letter, but in those days his manner of receiving
it differed exceedingly from this greeting. Then, he would take it up
tenderly, holding it for a few moments before his longing eyes, and
perhaps--for he was young and very adoring--raise it to his lips before
he broke the seal--which in those days was not a cynical candle and
blind moth, but a true lover's knot, with a French sentiment
intertwined.
Now he eyed it askance for a second or more before he lifted it, and
then after balancing it lightly on his open palm, put it down unopened,
made his tea, buttered his toast, and opened his newspaper; nor did he
glance towards it again until, his breakfast finished, his cigar alight,
sitting in the sunshine that flooded his apartment, he took it up and
broke the seal.
Various emotions passed over his face as he read. Surprise, half anger,
half scorn, and lastly, as he came to the final lines, a quiver of pity
or tenderness softened the stern outlines of forehead and lips. He laid
the open letter on his knee, and as he sat motionless, the increasing
noise of the shrill street cries, and the echo of commencing traffic
bespoke the reawakening of the great city to one more day of toil and
strife and unrest, passed by him unheeded.
A breath of the past was mingled with the present, and bore along with
it the scent of fresh grass, a mingled perfume of fruit and flowers, a
vision of flowing muslin draperies, a lithe, graceful figure, dark,
lustreless hair crowning a proud little head, eyes of deepest violet
shaded by black, pencilled brows and lashes, a face whose almost dusky
colouring flushed in an instant into richest carmine when deeply moved.
Ten years had gone by since Philip Tremain, a young barrister struggling
for briefs, idle, clever, lazy, and cursed with expectations of money,
first met Patricia Hildreth. He was living then in a small city, in the
interior of New York State, situated near one of those great lakes so
renowned for their beauty and their treachery. On account of his talents
and position he was rather the _enfant gâté_ of society in that
aristocratic little town; which, by the way, held itself very exclusive,
and counted among its residents many blue-blooded descendants of old
colonial families; its customs were colonial as well as its traditions,
and it looked down with contempt upon its sister city, on the borders
of a sister lake, because it had admitted within the doors of
hospitality scions of fathers who were known to have made their money in
trade.
To this hot-bed of traditional conservatism came Patricia as a
guest--handsome, disdainful, capricious, city-bred Patricia--armed with
all her little wiles and graces, a creature of wonderful resource, to be
looked upon from afar, and to be judged and condemned by the narrow code
and petty by-laws of the unwritten Blackstone of Hurontown. To the
married women she was a dangerous siren; to the girls a triumphant,
unapproachable Thetis; to the men a delusion and a snare, so soon as
ever she burned them with the blue fire of her eyes, or flashed her
smile upon them from the freshest of red lips, revealing the whitest of
pearly teeth.
In virtue of Philip Tremain's long acknowledged precedence where
anything feminine was concerned, all the other young eligibles of
Hurontown stood aloof and watched the coming flirtation, half in envy,
half in pride; for was not the conquering hero one of their own
belongings, and one also who had never known the arts and cajoleries of
women, save as portrayed by the demure maidens of their own little town;
whose manners and conversation betook largely of the Puritan training
bestowed upon them by their mothers? And was not this mocking, fearless
young amazon a maiden fresh from that modern Babylon, New York, where,
if all the girls were fair, all, too, were more or less false, and like
the Lorelei, only ensnared to destroy? Would it not be a proud boast for
all future Huronites if this beautiful young witch should be captured by
their village Perseus, and so changing the classic rôle be made
subservient to his will and pleasure all the days of her life?
But Patricia was petulant and capricious, and Patricia was not to be
easily won; both of which reasons made Philip pursue her the more
eagerly; to him, as to all men, that which is easy of attainment is not
to be desired. Whether he was successful or not remained for a long time
unknown to the outside world, but before many weeks had gone by Patricia
had given over her superior little airs, ceased pursing up her pretty
mouth, and become indeed wondrously meek and gentle, as she cast down
her proud eyes and hung out the red flag of danger, followed by the
white flag of truce; all of which signals signified a total surrender to
the enemy.
Thus one evening as they drifted idly about in a cockle-shell of a boat
on the blue waters of the great lake, she holding the oars, he sitting
at her feet, the softly fading pink and amber light in the west casting
a rosy hue over her sweet face and fleecy white draperies, he put his
hand on hers, and drawing down her not unwilling head, told his
love--the old, old story--and gained the assurance of hers.
Then followed days of beatific bliss and rapture, though both were poor,
and a more undesirable and foolish marriage for either in the world's
eyes--even the little world of Hurontown, which aped the morals and
cynicism of modern Babylon--could not be imagined. As a punishment for
their precipitate happiness came an indignant letter from Patricia's
mamma summoning her home, and peremptorily bidding her give up such
foolish playing at love. What did she think would be her chances for the
future if she marred all possibilities by such reckless flirtations? Was
she really devoid of all sense and judgment?
The lovers parted with vows of undying constancy, and the flame of their
love was kept alight by the interchange of daily letters, which, on
Patricia's part at least, were the cause of considerable deception and
hood-winking. Thus the months wore on; winter came, and with it a kind
friend, lately visiting in modern Babylon, brought news of Patricia's
gay life in that city, and rumours of her not too innocent flirtations,
of her daring public opinion by various foolhardy escapades; of her
beauty, her wit, her heedlessness of public censure; to all of which
Philip listened, smiling, believing in her fully, trusting that his love
for her, and hers for him, was sufficient safeguard against all attacks
made upon her loyalty by those in her own home.
But when there came a letter from Patricia, short, and not very
gracious, flippant and worldly in tone, announcing her approaching visit
to Europe under the chaperonage of a lady rather too well known for her
leaning towards a brilliant life, and altogether unfitted to be the
guide, philosopher, and friend of so impetuous a nature as his lady
love's, Philip aroused himself from his indolence, and awakened to
dangers ahead for him and her, betook himself to modern Babylon, and
presented himself before her without word of warning. Came, indeed, most
unexpectedly upon her, as she was holding her little court, composed of
one or two clever men, several handsome ones, a sprinkling of fair girls
and equally fair matrons; in the midst of whom Patricia shone forth
resplendent, as the planet Venus among her satellites.
Upon this fashionable throng burst poor Philip, disturbed,
travel-stained, and weary. From the fulness of a young, loving, jealous
heart, overcharged and ready to explode at the first touch of powder, he
demanded, not too courteously perhaps, that she should instantly then
and there, explain the presence of those obnoxious men, renounce her
contemplated journey, throw aside the useless, frivolous life she was
leading; marry him at once, and come to him in his poverty and toil with
him; he did not add _for him_, or she might have yielded. He was not
even gracious in his manner of asking, and his hand clasped hers
roughly, sending the brilliant rings into the soft fingers mercilessly.
Patricia drew back her injured hand, noting with self pity the red marks
his violence had left upon it, glanced down at her dainty costume of
delicate laces and softest silk, looked at the evidence of wealth in
her soft surroundings, turned a little towards the inner room,
brilliantly lighted, where she had left her subtle flatterers and
adorers, their words still echoing in her ears, then brought her
unwilling eyes back to Philip's tired, angry, harassed face, noted,
although half ashamed, his rumpled hair and ill-fitting coat, his
general lack of finish and repose, and drawing one hand slowly over the
other, slightly shook her head.
"You will not?" he cried out hoarsely. Then without waiting for her
reply, he burst into a torrent of disappointment and recrimination,
urged thereto by his hurt self-love; as he, quick as Patricia to make
comparisons, noted in proud disdain his provincial appearance beside the
perfectly-mannered, faultlessly-dressed, languidly-interested young
moths, who fluttered about the flame of Patricia's beauty, stupidly
singing their sensibilities in the fire of her brilliancy. Yet none the
less, though he knew and felt his own worth and truth to be boundless,
compared to theirs, he also felt that in the eyes of the woman he loved,
he looked--oh, unpardonable sin--honest, jealous, and countrified.
"You are not worthy of my love, or of me," he cried. "Go your own way,
Patricia, lead your own life; I release you, but don't for one moment
think you have injured or blighted mine. If all these luxurious
dainties, and all those brainless fools," with a contemptuous wave of
his hand towards the innocent revellers and their surroundings, "are
more to you than my love, then is your love too dainty a luxury for me.
I loved you, Patty, God knows how I loved you; but that goes for nothing
in your eyes. Good-bye, Patricia, good-bye."
She stood very still and silent while he spoke, the colour burned red in
her cheeks, the fire gleamed in her eyes, her bosom rose and fell
rapidly with the quick beating of her heart. She had not intended that
half unwilling shake of her head to be taken so literally, and used
against her. Was he not over anxious to grasp at this chance of freedom?
Were there not others, only waiting for her to declare herself
unfettered, to offer her so much more than this one poor man could give?
Above all, did he not snatch at this suddenly-made breach between them
with almost indecent haste? Her head rose proudly. She met his look
gallantly.
"As you say; no, I cannot live without what to me makes up the sum of
life; luxuries, dainties, call them what you will; they have not entered
over much into your life, I know; but they have become a part of mine,
and of me. I should be miserable without them."
"Even as my wife?" he asked royally.
"Even as your wife," she answered proudly.
He said no more, but as he turned to go from her, she came close up to
him, touching him lightly on his arm. His love had been very dear to
her; might she not keep a slight chain upon him still, so that in the
future she might have some little hold upon him; and, indeed, did she
not love him all the more because of his hot anger, and bitter truth,
and loyal love?
She put out both her hands to him--her voice was very gentle and
pleading:
"Since we are to part, Philip, and you will have it so, will you not
kiss me once, only once more, for good-bye?"
He turned from her, unheeding her pleading voice or hands.
"Do not say it is _my_ will that we part, Patricia; be just at least, if
you cannot be generous. No, I will not kiss you now, I am not quite a
hypocrite; perhaps one day, when I can believe and trust in you again,
Patty, or when all my love for you is dead, or when I can think of you,
look at you, judge you, as other men do, then I will kiss you, but not
until then. Ask me then, Patricia."
"I will never ask you again," she answered passionately; "but you,
Philip, shall be the first to beg a kiss from me, and I shall be the
one to make your pride suffer, as you now make mine."
Then she left him, sweeping by him, proud, tremulous, excited, stung to
the heart, but making no sign. He heard her laugh ring out joyously, a
moment later, as she applauded some witticism of one of her admirers,
and with a muttered exclamation he made his way out into the night.
So they had parted, and never since that unhappy evening had they met.
Time went on; there came trouble to Patricia in the death of her mother;
he wrote her a cold note of condolence, to which he received no reply;
then rumour brought him the knowledge of her inherited wealth, and,
shortly after, of her engagement to a man many years her senior. Of her
wealth he thought little, of her engagement he spoke calmly, and with
the air of a cynic, who beholds all things pass by, good and bad, and
says, in the bitterness of his soul, _cui bono_? But, inwardly his love
and pride were roused from their sleep of years, and he owned to
himself, with a hard honesty, that to think of her as belonging to
another man than he was intolerable. He had not been able to keep her
love when he won it, but it was none the less a pain to find that
another had succeeded where he had failed. Time, however, that wonderful
physician, in a measure numbed his distress, and to his world he posed
as a charming man, though cold and heartless; not one to be sentimental
over a dead past, but rather one to make his power felt, and to lead and
bend other wills by the stern inflexibility of his own.
And then had come Patricia's letter, telling of her broken toys; asking
to be taken back into his affections; seeking to creep back into the old
shelter of his heart, where once she had ruled so proudly.
Ten years had passed since he, in that sweet month of roses, had first
met and loved her. Ten years; and in the mean time Philip Tremain had
risen high in the world, and in men's opinions; his money had come to
him, partly by inheritance, partly through his own hard work; he had
made his name well known, his fame was still a rising one. No need to
feel ashamed for him now; indeed, no greater sybarite lived than he, no
truer _dilettante_, and no one whose surroundings were more daintily
luxurious.
But notwithstanding the changes that had developed this, to her, unknown
side of his nature, as he sat in the sunshine this fair spring morning,
holding Patricia's letter in his hand, he judged her no less harshly,
blamed her no whit the less, than he had when last he saw her, and
refused to kiss her for good-bye. With her own hands she had torn the
veil from his idol ten years ago, and he would not now voluntarily raise
a finger to restore its shattered beauty.
An hour glided by, his cigar was finished, the freshness of the morning
had departed, before he aroused himself from his retrospect; he turned
to his writing-table with a smile, and a half-uttered: "No, not even for
you, my once beloved Patty; you have made your own life, and you must
live it out to the bitter end--alone."
His answer therefore to Patricia was a polite stiff note of condolence
or congratulation, which she chose, on the failure of her matrimonial
plans. A regret he was unable to accept her invitation, a hope for her
happiness, an assurance that she might always consider him her friend,
but nothing more; not one word in answer to the love she proffered, not
one of remembrance of, or regret for the past.
Patricia Hildreth's face was not good to look upon, as she read his
response; if ever mortified vanity and determined revenge was readable
on a woman's countenance, it was to be seen on hers then.
"So I have humbled myself in vain," she said. "Well, it shall be your
turn next, my Philip, or my woman's wit is of no account; you shall
feel the same sting as you have given me, incased in your armour of
pride and well-being though you may be. Take care, Philip, my hand is
small but it is firm to strike, and he is most lost who thinks himself
invulnerable to a woman's charms."