AT the period of which we are speaking, no name in the new republic was
associated with ideas of more brilliant promise, or invested with a
greater prestige of popularity and success, than that of Colonel Aaron
Burr.
Sprung of a line distinguished for intellectual ability, the grandson
of a man whose genius has swayed New England from that day to this—the
son of parents eminent in their day for influential and popular talent,
he united in himself the quickest perceptions and keenest delicacy of
fibre with the most diamond hardness and unflinching steadiness of
purpose. Apt, subtle, dazzling, adroit, no man in his time ever began
life with fairer chances for success and fame. His name, as it fell on
the ear of our heroine, carried with it the suggestion of all this; and
when, with his peculiarly engaging smile, he offered his arm, she felt
a little of the flutter natural to a modest young person unexpectedly
honoured with the notice of the distinguished of the earth, whom it is
seldom the lot of humble individuals to know except by distant report.
But although Mary was a blushing and sensitive person, she was not what
is commonly called a diffident girl: her nerves had that steady poise
which gave her presence of mind in the most unwonted circumstances.
The first few sentences addressed to her by her new companion were in a
tone and style altogether different from any in which she had ever been
approached—different from the dashing frankness of her sailor lover,
and from the rustic gallantry of her other admirers. That indescribable
mixture of ease and deference, guided by a fine tact, which shows
the practised, high-bred man of the world, made its impression on her
immediately, as the breeze on the chords of a wind harp. She felt
herself pleasantly swayed and breathed upon: it was as if an atmosphere
were around her in which she felt a perfect ease and freedom—an
assurance that her lightest word might launch forth safely, as a tiny
boat on the smooth glassy mirror of her listener’s pleased attention.
‘I came to Newport only on a visit of business,’ he said, after a few
moments of introductory conversation; ‘I was not prepared for its many
attractions.’
‘Newport has a great deal of beautiful scenery,’ said Mary.
‘I have heard that it was celebrated for the beauty of its scenery and
of its ladies,’ he answered; ‘but,’ he added, with a quick flash of his
dark eye, ‘I never realised the fact before.’
The glance of the eye pointed and limited the compliment; at the same
time there was a wary shrewdness in it: he was measuring how deeply
his shaft had sunk, as he always instinctively measured the person he
talked with.
Mary had been told of her beauty since her childhood, notwithstanding
her mother had assayed all that transparent, respectable hoaxing by
which discreet mothers endeavour to blind their daughters to the
real facts in such cases; but in her own calm, balanced mind she had
accepted what she was so often told as a quiet verity, and therefore
she neither fluttered nor blushed on this occasion; but regarded her
auditor with a pleased attention, as one who was saying obliging things.
‘Cool,’ he thought to himself. ‘Hum—a little rustic belle, I suppose,
well aware of her own value; rather piquante, upon my word.’
‘Shall we walk in the garden?’ he said; ‘the evening is so beautiful.’
They passed out the door, and began promenading the long walk. At the
bottom of the alley he stopped, and, turning, looked up the vista of
box, ending in the brilliantly-lighted rooms, where gentlemen with
powdered heads, lace ruffles, and glittering knee-buckles were handing
ladies in stiff brocades, whose towering heads were shaded by ostrich
feathers and sparkling with gems.
‘Quite court-like, on my word,’ he said: ‘tell me, do you often have
such brilliant entertainments as these?’
‘I suppose they do,’ said Mary; ‘I never was at one before, but I
sometimes hear of them.’
‘And _you_ do not attend?’ said the gentleman, with an accent which
made the inquiry a marked compliment.
‘No, I do not,’ said Mary; ‘these people generally do not visit us.’
‘What a pity,’ he said, ‘that their parties should want such an
ornament! but,’ he added, ‘this night must make them aware of their
oversight: if you are not always in society after this, it will surely
not be from want of solicitation.’
‘You are very kind to think so,’ replied Mary; ‘but even if it were
to be so, I should not see my way clear to be often in such scenes as
this.’
Her companion looked at her with a glance a little doubtful and amused,
and said—
‘And pray, why not, if the inquiry be not presumptuous?’
‘Because,’ said Mary, ‘I should be afraid they would take too much time
and thought, and lead me to forget the great object of life.’
The simple gravity with which this was said, as if quite assured of the
sympathy of her auditor, appeared to give him a secret amusement. His
bright dark eyes danced as if he suppressed some quick repartee; but,
drooping his long lashes deferentially, he said, in gentle tones—
‘I should like to know what so beautiful a young lady considers the
great object of life?’
Mary answered reverentially, in those words familiar from infancy to
every Puritan child, ‘To glorify God, and enjoy Him for ever.’
‘_Really?_’ he said, looking straight into her eyes with that
penetrating glance with which he was accustomed to take the gauge of
every one with whom he conversed.
‘Is it not?’ said Mary, looking back, calm and firm, into the
sparkling, restless depths of his eye.
In that moment, two souls, going with the whole force of their being in
two opposite directions, looked out of their windows at each other with
a fixed and earnest recognition.
Burr was practised in every act of gallantry; he had made womankind
a study: he never saw a beautiful face and form without a sort of
restless desire to experiment upon it, and try his power over the
interior inhabitant. But just at this moment something streamed into
his soul from those blue, earnest eyes, which brought back to his mind
what pious people had so often told him of his mother—the beautiful and
early-sainted Esther Burr.
He was one of those persons who systematically managed and played upon
himself and others, as a skilful musician on an instrument. Yet one
secret of his fascination was the naïveté with which at some moments
he would abandon himself to some little impulse of a nature originally
sensitive and tender. Had the strain of feeling which now awoke in
him come over him elsewhere, he would have shut down some spring in
his mind, and excluded it in a moment; but talking with a beautiful
creature whom he wished to please, he gave way at once to the emotion:
real tears stood in his fine eyes; he raised Mary’s hand to his lips
and kissed it, saying—
‘Thank you, my beautiful child, for so good a thought! it is truly a
noble sentiment, though practicable only to those gifted with angelic
natures.’
‘Oh, I trust not!’ said Mary, earnestly, touched and wrought upon more
than she herself knew by the beautiful eyes, the modulated voice, the
charm of manner, which seemed to enfold her like an Italian summer.
Burr sighed—a real sigh of his better nature, but passed out with all
the more freedom that he felt it would interest his fair companion,
who, for the time being, was the one woman in the world to him.
‘Pure, artless souls like yours,’ he said, ‘cannot measure the
temptations of those who are called to the real battle of life. In
a world like this, how many nobler aspirations fall withered in the
fierce heat and struggle of the conflict!’
He was saying then what he really felt—often bitterly felt; but using
this real feeling advisedly, and with skilful tact, for the purpose of
the hour.
What was this purpose? to win the regard, the esteem, the tenderness
of a religious exalted nature, shrined in a beautiful form—to gain
and hold ascendency: it was a life-long habit; one of those forms of
refined self-indulgence which he pursued, reckless of consequences.
He had found now the key-note of the character: it was a beautiful
instrument, and he was well-pleased to play on it.
‘I think, sir,’ said Mary, modestly, ‘that you forget the great
provision made for our weakness.’
‘How?’ said he.
‘They that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength,’ she replied,
gently.
He looked at her as she spoke these words with a pleased, artistic
perception of the contrast between her worldly attire and the simple
religious earnestness of her words.
‘She is entrancing,’ he thought to himself; ‘so altogether fresh and
naïve.’
‘My sweet saint,’ he said, ‘such as you are the appointed guardians of
us coarser beings: the prayers of a soul given up to worldliness and
ambition effect little; you must intercede for us. I am very orthodox,
you see,’ he added, with that subtle smile which sometimes irradiated
his features. ‘I am fully aware of all that your reverend Doctor tells
you of the worthlessness of unregenerate doings; and so, when I see
angels walking below, I try to secure a “friend at court.”’
He saw that Mary looked embarrassed and pained at this banter, and
therefore added, with a delicate shading of earnestness—
‘In truth, my fair young friend, I hope you will sometimes pray for
me. I am sure if I have any chance of good, it must come to me in such
ways.’
‘Indeed I will,’ said Mary, fervently, her little heart full, tears
in her eyes, her breath coming quick; and she added, with a deepening
colour, ‘I am sure, Mr. Burr, there should be a covenant blessing for
you, if for any one, for you are the son of a holy ancestry.’
‘Eh bien, mon ami, qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?’ said a gay voice behind
a clump of box, and immediately there started out, like a French
picture from its frame, a dark-eyed figure, dressed like a marquise of
Louis Fourteenth’s time, with powdered hair, sparkling with diamonds.
‘Rien que m’amuser,’ he replied, with ready presence of mind, in the
same tone, and then added—
‘Permit me, madame, to present to you a charming specimen of our
genuine New England flowers. Miss Scudder, I have the honour to present
you to the acquaintance of Madame de Frontignac.’
‘I am very happy,’ said the lady, with a sweet lisping accentuation of
English, which well became her lovely mouth. ‘Miss Scudder, I hope, is
very well?’
Mary replied affirmatively, her eyes resting the while, with pleased
admiration, on the brilliant speaking face and diamond-bright eyes
which seemed looking her through.
‘Monsieur la trouve bien séduisante apparemment,’ said the stranger
in a low, rapid voice to the gentleman, in a manner which showed a
mingling of pique and admiration.
‘Petite jalouse, t’assure toi,’ he replied, with a look and manner
into which, with that mobile force which was peculiar to himself, he
threw the most tender and passionate devotion. ‘Ne suis-je pas à toi
tout-à-fait?’ and as he spoke he offered her his other arm.
‘Allow me to be an unworthy link between the beauty of France and
America.’
The lady swept a proud curtsy backward, bridled her beautiful neck, and
signed for them to pass.
‘I am waiting here for a friend,’ she said.
‘Your will is always mine,’ replied Burr, bowing with proud humility,
and passing on with Mary to the supper-room.
Here the company were fast assembling in that high tide of good-humour
which generally sets in at this crisis of the evening. The scene, in
truth, was a specimen of a range of society which in those times could
have been assembled nowhere else but in Newport. There stood Dr.
H., in the tranquil majesty of his lordly form, and by his side the
alert, compact figure of his cotemporary and theological opponent, Dr.
Styles, who, animated by the social spirit of the hour, was dispensing
courtesies to the right and left with the debonair grace of the trained
gentleman of the old school. Near by, and engaging from time to time
in conversation with them, stood a Jewish Rabbi with one or two
wealthy bankers of the same race, whose olive complexion, keen eyes,
and aquiline profile spoke their descent, and gave a picturesque and
foreign grace to the scene.
Colonel Burr, one of the most brilliant and distinguished of the
rising men of the new republic, and Colonel de Frontignac, who had
won for himself laurels in the corps of Lafayette during the recent
revolutionary struggle, with his brilliant and accomplished wife, were
all unexpected and distinguished additions to the circle.
Burr gently cleared the way for his fair companion, and purposely
placing her where the full light of the wax chandeliers set off
her beauty to the best advantage, devoted himself to her with a
subserviency as deferential as if she had been a goddess.
For all that, he was not unobservant when, a few moments after, Madame
de Frontignac was led in on the arm of a distinguished senator, with
whom she was presently in full flirtation.
He observed, with a quiet, furtive smile, that, while she rattled and
fanned herself, and listened with apparent attention to the flatteries
addressed to her, she darted every now and then a glance keen as a
steel blade towards him and his companion. He was perfectly adroit
in playing off one woman against another, and it struck him with a
pleasant sense of oddity, how perfectly unconscious his sweet and
saintly neighbour was of the position in which she was supposed to
stand by her rival.
[Illustration: _Col. Burr amuses himself._
_Page 136._
Sampson Low, Son & Co. June, 25th, 1859.]
And poor Mary all this while, in her simplicity, really thought she had
seen traces of what she would have called ‘the strivings of the Spirit
in his soul.’
Alas! that a phrase weighed down with such a mysterious truth and
meaning should ever come to fall on the ear as mere empty cant: with
Mary it was a living form, as were all her words, for in nothing was
the Puritan education more marked than in the earnest reality and
truthfulness which it gave to language. And even now, as she stands by
his side, her large blue eye is occasionally fixed in dreamy reverie,
as she thinks what a triumph of divine grace it would be if these
inward movings of her companion’s mind should lead him, as all the
pious of New England hoped, to follow in the footsteps of President
Edwards.
She wishes that she could some time see him alone, where she could talk
with him undisturbed. She was too humble, too modest, fully to accept
the delicious flattery which he had breathed, in implying that her hand
had power to unseal the fountains of good in his soul; but still it
thrilled through all the sensitive strings of her nature, a tremulous
flutter of suggestion.
She had read instances of striking and wonderful conversions from words
dropped by children and women; and suppose some such thing should
happen to her, that this so charming, distinguished, and powerful being
should be called into the fold of Christ’s church by her means! No, it
was too much to be hoped; but the very possibility was thrilling.
When, after supper, Mrs. Scudder and the Doctor made their adieus,
Burr’s devotion was still unabated: with an enchanting mixture of
reverence and fatherly protection, he waited on her to the last,
shawled her with delicate care, and handed her into the small one-horse
waggon as if it had been the coach of a duchess.
‘I have pleasant recollections connected with this kind of an
establishment,’ he said, as, after looking carefully at the harness,
he passed the reins into Mrs. Scudder’s hands; ‘it reminds me of
school-days and old times. I hope your horse is quite safe, madam?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs. Scudder; ‘I perfectly understand him.’
‘Pardon the suggestion,’ he replied, ‘what is there that a New England
matron does not understand? Doctor, I must call by-and-by and have
a little talk with you; my theologies, you know, need a little
straightening.’
‘We should all be happy to see you, Colonel Burr,’ said Mrs. Scudder;
‘we live in a very plain way it is true.’
‘But can always find a place for a friend; that, I trust, is what you
meant to say,’ he replied, bowing with his own peculiar grace as the
carriage drove off.
‘Really, a most charming person is this Colonel Burr,’ said Mrs.
Scudder.
‘He seems a very frank, ingenuous young person,’ said the Doctor; ‘one
cannot but mourn that the son of such gracious parents should be left
to wander into infidelity.’
‘Oh, he is not an infidel,’ said Mary: ‘he is far from it; though I
think that his mind is a little darkened on some points.’
‘Ah!’ said the Doctor, ‘have you had any special religious conversation
with him?’
‘A little,’ said Mary; ‘and it seems to me, that his mind is perplexed
somewhat in regard to the doings of the unregenerate. I fear that it
has rather proved a stumbling-block in his way; but he showed so much
feeling! I could really see the tears in his eyes.’
‘His mother was a most godly woman, Mary,’ said the Doctor; ‘she was
called from her youth, and her beautiful person became a temple for the
indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Aaron Burr is a child of many prayers,
and therefore there is hope that he may yet be effectually called. He
studied awhile with Bellamy,’ he added, musingly; ‘I have often doubted
whether Bellamy took just the right course with him.’
‘I hope he will call and talk with you,’ said Mary, earnestly. ‘What
a blessing to the world if such talents as his could become wholly
consecrated!’
‘Not many rich, not many mighty, not many noble are called,’ said the
Doctor. ‘Yet, if it would please the Lord to employ my instrumentality
and prayers, how much should I rejoice! I was struck,’ he added,
‘to-night, when I saw those Jews present, with the thought that it was,
as it were, a type of that last ingathering, when both Jew and Gentile
should sit down lovingly together at the gospel feast. It is only
by passing over and forgetting these present years, when so few are
called, and the gospel makes such slow progress, and looking forward
to that glorious time that I find comfort. If the Lord but use me as a
dumb stepping-stone to that heavenly Jerusalem, I shall be content.’
Thus they talked while the waggon jogged slowly homeward, while the
frogs and turtles and the distant ripple of the sea made a drowsy
mingling concert in the summer-evening air.
Meanwhile Colonel Burr had returned to the lighted rooms; and it was
not long before his quick eye sought out Madame de Frontignac, standing
pensively in a window-recess, half hid by the curtain. He stole up
softly behind her, and whispered something in her ear.
In a moment she turned on him a face glowing with anger, and drew back
haughtily; but Burr remarked the glitter of tears, not quite dried even
by the angry flash of her eyes.
‘In what have I had the misfortune to offend?’ he said, crossing his
arms upon his breast. ‘I stand at the bar and plead not guilty.’
He spoke in French, and she replied in the same smooth accents—
‘It was not for her to dispute monsieur’s right to amuse himself.’
Burr drew nearer, and spoke in those persuasive, pleading tones which
he had ever at command, and in that language whose very structure, in
its delicate tu toi, gives such opportunity for gliding on through
shade after shade of intimacy and tenderness, till gradually the
haughty fire of the eyes was quenched in tears; and in the sudden
revulsion of a strong impulsive nature, she poured out to him what she
called words of friendship, but which carried with them all the warmth
of that sacred fire which is given to woman to light and warm the
temple of home, and which sears and scars when kindled for any other
shrine; and yet this woman was the wife of his friend and associate.
Monsieur de Frontignac was a grave and dignified man of forty-five.
Virginie de Frontignac had been given him to wife when but eighteen; a
beautiful, generous, impulsive, wilful girl.
She had accepted him gladly for very substantial reasons. First, that
she might come out of the convent where she was kept for the very
purpose of educating her in ignorance of the world she was to live in.
Second, that she might wear velvet, lace, cashmere, and jewels. Third,
that she might be a madame, free to go and come, ride, walk, and talk,
without surveillance. Fourth, and consequent upon this, that she might
go into company, and have admirers and adorers.
She supposed, of course, she loved her husband—whom else should she
love? he was the only man except her father and brothers that she had
ever seen; and in the fortnight that preceded their marriage, did he
not send her the most splendid bons-bons every day, with bouquets of
every pattern that ever taxed the brain of a Parisian artiste? Was not
the corbeille de mariage a wonder and an envy to all her acquaintance?
and after marriage had she not found him always a steady, indulgent
friend, easy to be coaxed as any grave papa?
On his part, Monsieur de Frontignac cherished his young wife as a
beautiful, though somewhat absurd little pet; and amused himself with
her frolics and gambols, as the gravest person often will with those of
a kitten.
It was not until she knew Aaron Burr that poor Virginie de Frontignac
came to that great awakening of her being which teaches woman what
she is, and transforms her from a careless child to a deep-hearted,
thinking, suffering, human being.
For the first time, in his society, she became aware of the charm of
a polished and cultivated mind; able, with exquisite tact, to adapt
itself to hers; to draw forth her inquiries; to excite her tastes; to
stimulate her observation. A new world awoke around her—the world of
literature, of taste, of art, of sentiment. She felt somehow as if
she had gained the growth of years in a few months. She felt within
herself the stirring of dim aspiration—the uprising of a new power of
self-devotion and self sacrifice; a trance of hero worship; a cloud of
high ideal images; the lighting up, in short, of all that God has laid
ready to be enkindled in woman’s nature when the time comes to sanctify
her as the pure priestess of a domestic temple.
But, alas! it was kindled by one who did it only for an experiment;
because he felt an artistic pleasure in the beautiful light and heat
which had burned a soul away.
Burr was one of those men, willing to play with any charming woman the
game of those navigators who give to simple natives glass beads and
feathers in return for gold and diamonds; to accept from a woman her
heart’s blood in return for such odds, ends, and clippings as he could
afford her from the serious ambitions of life.
Look in with us one moment, now that the party is over, and the busy
hum of voices and blaze of lights have died down to midnight silence
and darkness. We make you clairvoyant; and you may look through the
walls of this stately old mansion, still known as that where Rochambeau
held his headquarters, into this room, where two wax candles are
burning on a toilette-table before an old-fashioned mirror.
The slumbrous folds of the curtains are drawn with stately gloom around
a high bed, where Colonel de Frontignac has been for many hours quietly
asleep. But opposite, resting with one elbow on the toilette-table,
her long black hair hanging down over her night-dress, and the brush
hanging listlessly in her hand, sits Virginie, looking fixedly into the
dreamy depths of the mirror.
Scarcely twenty yet; all unwarned of the world of power and passion
that lay slumbering in her girl’s heart; led, in the meshes of custom
and society, to utter vows and take responsibilities of whose nature
she was no more apprised than is a slumbering babe, and now at last
fully awake, feeling the whole power of that mysterious and awful force
which we call love, yet shuddering to call it by its name; yet by its
light beginning to understand all she is capable of, and all that
marriage should have been to her!
She struggles feebly and confusedly with her fate, still clinging to
the name of duty, and baptizing as friendship the strange new feeling
which makes her tremble through all her being. How can she dream of
danger in such a feeling, when it seems to her the awakening of all
that is highest and noblest within her? She remembers when she thought
of nothing beyond an opera ticket or a new dress; and now she feels
that there might be to her a friend for whose sake she would try to be
noble and great and good; for whom all self-denial, all high endeavour,
all difficult virtue, would become possible; who would be to her life,
inspiration, order, beauty.
She sees him, as woman always sees the one she loves—noble, great,
and good; for when did a loving woman ever believe a man otherwise?
too noble, too great, too high, too good, she thinks for her, poor,
trivial, ignorant coquette—poor, trifling, childish Virginie! Has he
not commanded armies? she thinks; is he not eloquent in the senate?
and yet, what interest he has taken in her, a poor, unformed, ignorant
creature! She never tried to improve herself till since she knew him:
and he is so considerate too; so respectful; so thoughtful and kind;
so manly and honourable; and has such a tender friendship for her;
such a brotherly, fatherly solicitude. And yet, if she is haughty, or
imperious, or severe, how humbled and grieved he looks! How strange
that she could have power over such a man!
It is one of the saddest truths of this sad mystery of life, that woman
is often never so much an angel as just the moment before she falls
into the bottomless depths of perdition; and what shall we say of the
man who leads her up to this spot as an experiment? who amuses himself
with taking woman after woman up these dazzling, delusive heights,
knowing, as he certainly must, where they lead?
We have been told, in extenuation of the course of Aaron Burr, that he
was not a man of gross passions or of coarse indulgence, but in the
most consummate and refined sense a man of gallantry: this, then, is
the descriptive name which polite society has invented for the man who
does this thing.
Of old it was thought that one who administered poison in the
sacramental bread and wine had touched the very height of impious
sacrilege; but this crime is white by the side of his who poisons
God’s eternal sacrament of _love_, and destroys woman’s soul through
her noblest and purest affections.
We have given you the after view of most of the actors of our little
scene to-night, and therefore it is but fair that you should have a
peep over the Colonel’s shoulder as he sums up the evening in a letter
to a friend.
‘MY DEAR ——,
‘As to the business, it gets on rather slowly: L—— and T——
are away, and the coalition cannot be formed without them;
they set out a week ago from Philadelphia, and are yet on
the road.
‘Meanwhile, we have some providential alleviations; as, for
example, a wedding-party to-night at the Wilcox’s, which was
really quite an affair. I saw the prettiest little Puritan
there that I have set eyes on for many a day. I really
couldn’t help getting up a flirtation with her, though it
was much like flirting with a small copy of the Assembly’s
catechism, of which I had enough years ago, heaven knows.
But really, such a naïve, earnest little saint, who has such
a real, deadly belief, and opens such blue pitying eyes
on one, is quite a stimulating novelty. I got myself well
scolded by the fair madame (as angels scold), and had to
plead like a lawyer to make my peace.
‘After all, _that_ woman really enchains me. Don’t shake
your head wisely. “What is going to be the end of it?” I am
sure I don’t know; we’ll see when the time comes.
‘Meanwhile, push the business ahead with all your might. I
shall not be idle.
‘D—— must canvass the Senate thoroughly. I wish I could be
in two places at once, and I would do it myself. Au revoir.
‘Ever yours,
‘BURR.’