But oh, to know that our heart has been,
Like the toy of an Indian queen,
Torn, trampled, without thought or care,
Where is despair like this despair.
L. E. L.
The next morning was the beginning of one of those early and fleeting
days of spring, which are so gladly welcomed at the close of a long
winter. The rising sun smiled mildly and pleasantly, and all nature
welcomed its beams by dewy freshness from herb and flower. Here and
there, some few buds, the graceful blossom of the nut, and the silken
tuft of the palm, gave promise of coming leaves and flowers, while the
yellow crocus and the primrose, soon to become so plentifully luxurious
in meadow and hedgerow--here and there looked forth from their dewy
bed--rich treasures for those who sought them.
It was not, however, to welcome these early harbingers of spring, that
Lucy Villars hurried past the streets, and entered the Victoria Park,
which, though at a late hour of the day, the fashionable lounge of the
inhabitants of the gay city, was now scarcely the resort of a single
person.
As she went on with rapid step, her cheeks flushed, and her bright eyes
beamed with expected triumph.
"Why," she hastily reasoned, as she entered the silent walks, "why
should Beauclerc have sought such an interview, if not to make her
acquainted, rather with the history of his present feelings, than with
his past life; and what could those feelings be, if they referred not to
her. Or, perhaps, some obstacle lay in his way, which one light word of
hers might be able to remove."
But she had reached the appointed spot, and now stood there alone. A
mass of rock-work, surmounted by the cumbrous head of some heathen God,
was the place appointed. Was it like a lover, to be so unpunctual!
rather should he come an hour too soon, than one minute too late--for
the first time, she began to feel an uneasy conviction of the
impropriety of her situation; but sophistry seldom, till too late,
deserts those who trust in it. The grim head frowned down upon her; as
she walked up and down before it, reasoning with herself, that there
could be no possible harm in taking a morning walk, to dissipate the
weariness of a ball. She had a quarter of an hour for reflection, but,
as it was spent in such reasoning it was of little service to her. At
the end of it, Beauclerc was seen advancing in the distance. He must
perceive her, and now retreat would be foolish and unavailing, had she
even desired it, which she did not; for the thought of being able to
announce her proposed marriage to her mamma and sisters, not as a matter
of speculation, but of certainty, made her heart beat vehemently; and
she did not stop to analyse the feeling of infatuation or vanity, which,
in its effect, seemed so akin to love.
"Have you waited for me, Miss Villars?" he enquired, when he reached
her, with his usual earnest manner, but with less of ardour than she had
expected--so she replied hastily and carelessly--
"Oh, no, only a few minutes; but I see I am a better riser than you
are."
"Perhaps an earlier sleeper; I have scarcely closed my eyes since we
parted; but you will take my arm and then--." He stopped and sighed.
"And then," replied Lucy, "and then."
"I will, if you still desire it," he replied, in a tone which checked
her playfulness, "repeat some part of my own sad history, in order that
you may give me that assistance which I am told you have the power to
afford me. If, indeed, I am not mistaken in hoping that you feel some
kindly sentiments towards me. Some part you know already."
Lucy raised her eyes archly, but said nothing. Her companion seemed
satisfied, for he continued, still more gravely--
"Where, or how shall I begin?"
"Who are you--what are you--and why are you sad?" said Lucy.
"Who am I? Yes, that will do very well," said he, suddenly assuming the
quick flow of language most natural to him.
"Like your father, mine was a wealthy merchant; I was his only son, and
he earnestly prided himself on bestowing upon me all the learning and
accomplishments which money could procure. The advantages of a
first-rate education, joined, perhaps, to some natural ability, enabled
me to shine at the University; and I left Oxford to pursue the study of
the bar in Lincoln's Inn, trusting to be able to use my money skilfully
in the pursuit of fame; but how fallacious are all the expectations of
human life! My father made some enormous speculations, and, after years
of successful ventures, failed this once and for ever. He did not many
days survive his loss, and dying broken-hearted, left me heir to his
poverty; but how unfit for it--accustomed, from infancy, to the
gratification of every whim--lavish in my expenditure, and boundless in
my ambition, with nothing but a profession, yet untried, and a feeble
dependence on a sick uncle. What a fall for one accustomed to all the
elegances of life. But this was not all; I had at this time become
acquainted with the daughter of a banker, reported to possess enormous
wealth."
"What can be coming," thought Lucy, beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"I had not hesitated to seek her," continued Beauclerc; "she returned my
affection, and we fondly looked forward to our union. But, when my poor
father died, I felt that we must meet on different terms, and that I had
no right to claim a promise given under such different circumstances. I
felt, indeed, the curse of poverty, too bitterly, to wish to make her a
sharer in it; and so I went to her at once, and offered to resign all
pretensions to her hand."
"You may imagine how a generous warm-hearted girl would receive such an
offer. She saw at once, that nothing but my love for her induced me to
make it; and declared that she was ready to share my poverty, and would
become my wife, as soon as I was able to marry. She only stipulated that
I should enter on my professional duties, with some chance of success,
in which case she promised to obtain her father's consent."
Lucy began to listen with that constrained attention which a person
possessed by nightmare, might give to some horrid vision, from which
they would willingly break, though obliged to wait its conclusion in
silence. Beauclerc, however, seemed too much occupied by his own
thoughts to regard hers, and presently, continued:--
"I was then almost without money or resources; but, being of a confident
disposition, I felt there were few things which love could not
surmount. I knew, besides, that my wife must be the heiress to her
father's wealth, for she was an only child--but, as I was unable to
settle any thing of my own upon her, I was timid of approaching the
subject; particularly, as, whenever I did so, her father seemed so
pained, that I instantly dropped it again. I could not but feel
gratitude for this delicacy towards my feelings, and this trust in my
honour, where so dear a child was concerned, and I resolved to deserve
it. I was far too proud to be dependent on him; and, therefore,
privately borrowed money on bond--took chambers, furnished a small
house, and obtained a few briefs through the interest of some of my
father's friends; and probably, had I been careful, I might have done
well.
"This industrious commencement induced my intended father-in-law to give
his consent to our marriage; and, in a few months, I had the
satisfaction of seeing my wife at the head of a small, but elegant
establishment. Poor thing, she had been so accustomed to the luxuries
of her old home, that she never doubted me when I told her that mine
was arranged with the greatest economy.
"But the consciousness of deceiving her, and the perpetual dread of that
wretched debt always hovering round me, insensibly soured my temper, and
wore upon my spirits. But this only called forth the depth of her
affection. She was never weary of pleasing me, and my very fretfulness
rendered her more sweet and patient. It was beautiful to see," he
continued with emotion, "how she schooled her naturally fiery and
uncurbed temper, to bear my sour complaint, or peevish rebuke. Beautiful
to see how little it humbled her when she was most patient; and what a
sweet, and gentle, and loving wife, the spoilt child of wealth had
become, at my bidding. But, let me spare myself the agony of
remembrance. A greater trial was yet in store for her; for we had
scarcely been married six months, when her father died. I had by that
time become so deeply in debt, that, though I hated myself for it, I
felt relieved by the news which fell so heavily on my wife.
"If the clouds we so much dread, are often big with blessing--how often
is the sunshine only the fore-runner of the storm?
"In a few days I had cause to know this; for I found, when affairs were
inspected, that, instead of being, as I expected, possessed of
thousands, I was again the heir of a ruined man. And, even worse, ruined
myself; for it was only upon this tacit expectation that I had obtained
credit, and creditors would soon press upon me. I knew, now, that all
hope was gone. Ah, wretch that I had become, simply, perhaps, because, I
had despised the common-place business of money matters.
"Almost mad with the intelligence I had just learned, I rushed home to
insult my innocent wife, with the knowledge of her parent's disgrace.
Heaven forgive me, I must have been mad, or I could not have done it.
"I well remember it was morning, and I found my way, I scarce knew how,
to her dressing-room--she was weeping--but when I entered, she tried to
dry her tears. I was, however, past control, and bitterly did I reproach
her for the deception, I alleged she had practised upon me--taunting her
with angry violence. At first, she seemed stunned, by what she learnt
from my wretched complaints--but then, as if suddenly stung to the
quick, she retorted on me, accusing me, with bitter calmness, of having
loved her for her expected fortune. I hardly know what I replied--but
bad enough it was, I know--I, passionate and abusive; she, cold and
contemptuous--and then, with a bitter curse, I left the house.
"I hurried out of town; any where to forget myself--some where to the
country; it did not signify where. The cool air refreshed me, and nature
called me to better feelings, for, happily, passion is of short
duration--it told me, as I lingered amongst its beauties, of our happy
honeymoon--it told me how, from that time, I had declined in my kindness
to the wife whom I believed I loved better than self, and how, through
all the trying months which had followed, she had preserved an unvarying
meekness of temper, till that one day, when, galled beyond endurance,
she had ventured to oppose passion to passion. Such sweetness might well
atone for this single act of opposition--and spent with rage, and half
repentant, I resolved to return and forgive her, though in a dignified
manner; and to offer her my continued love and protection, if she
desired to accompany my flight abroad, which I felt certain she would be
too willing to do.
"There was a stillness about my house when I returned, which I was not
surprised to find, for it was a house of sorrow--yet I had not noticed
it so much before--I was late, as I intended, hoping to find my wife
frightened and penitent--yet she did not come to meet me--no one did but
my man, who asked me, with the tone of one accustomed to a sharp answer,
'if I intended waiting dinner for his mistress?' I hastily replied in
the affirmative--and concealing my alarm, I hurried to the room where I
had left her. A note lay upon her dressing-table, and, in the haste with
which I opened it, something fell jingling to the ground. The note
itself contained a few lines, written in a decisive tone, expressive of
farewell, and telling her determination of renouncing, at once, my
protection and my name. I stooped to pick up what had fallen--it was her
wedding ring--that ring which, in happier days, we had so delighted to
look upon, because the pledge of a faith which, it seemed, she could so
easily cast aside.
"Let me pass over that dreadful day of stupefaction, and bitter
repentance, at the end of which I found myself in prison, for all care
for liberty had passed from me when she went--and I had not even tried
to fly. You see," he continued, perceiving that Lucy listened with
breathless attention, "that I was, thus, prevented from instituting any
enquiry; and, indeed, I felt glad to hide myself from her eyes, for how
could I wish her to acknowledge me in a prison--I believe I was
completely humbled, and when I say that, I say a good deal--and that I
was truly so, must be seen by the candour with which I have unveiled my
meanness. Tell me, do you not pity me?"
Lucy made no reply.
He continued, in a more agitated voice--
"Do not turn from me--you can, you will serve me, I know. Stay, I forgot
to finish my story. Only two months since, my old uncle died, and
bequeathed me his whole fortune. He did not know I was in prison, or he
might have cancelled this will. It found me there, wretched and
desponding, and relieved me from its chilling influence. Once more free,
I discharged every debt of honesty or honor, and then sought for my
wife. I found that she had again taken her maiden name, which enabled me
to trace her to this city. The rest you know."
"I don't," screamed Lucy.
"Good Heavens," cried Beauclerc, seizing her hand, "the bosom friend of
Millie Foster, and not know--"
A hysterical scream, and another, and another, burst from the poor
girl--she sunk fainting in his arms.
What was to be done--Lucy could not be left--yet Beauclerc felt the
increasing awkwardness of the scene. In his interest in his own
narrative, he had not had time to mark her rising agitation till too
late to check its effects.
As he was bending over her, endeavouring, with trembling hands, to untie
the strings of her bonnet, a hasty step struck upon his ear, and turning
quickly, he confronted Captain Clair.
"Beauclerc," said the latter, sternly, "what does this mean?"
And, as he said this, he turned full upon him, with anger flashing in
his eyes.
Beauclerc turned pale, and then red, as he answered his angry glance,
saying, hurriedly--
"There has been some fearful mistake here: indeed, indeed, it has been
no fault of mine."
"No fault of yours," said Clair, even more sternly, "that you have drawn
the eyes of all Bath upon your heartless flirtation, and subjected a
young girl's name to the ribald jest of any who chose to comment upon
it. As I am a soldier, you shall answer for it."
"Whatever you do," said Beauclerc, with a face of ashy paleness, "let us
think of her first. Do not let this get abroad."
"Canting hypocrite," cried Clair, fiercely, "do you not know that you
have made her a jest, in every place where men congregate, and you would
ask me not to let this get abroad--stand back from her I tell you."
Beauclerc, however, did not heed the latter remark, for, having
succeeded in loosening the strings, he threw back her bonnet, and
suffered the morning air to play, undisturbed, among her fair tresses,
and over her heated brow, and, as it did so, the color slowly returned
to her blanched lips, and again breathing more freely she slowly raised
her head; and then, perhaps, feeling able to stand, she drew herself
from the support of Beauclerc's arm, and, as she did so, encountered
Clair; she looked at him for an instant, with a terrified expression,
and then hid her face in her shawl.
"Will you let me take you home, Miss Lucy," he said, in an abrupt, but
kind voice, at the same time, handing her, her bonnet, which he held in
his hand, and studiously turning his back on Beauclerc.
"Home!" said Lucy, almost wildly.
Clair made no reply, except by placing himself by her side.
"Yes, I will go anywhere," said Lucy, in the same vacant tone.
He drew her hand within his arm, and without a second glance at
Beauclerc, who stood like one who had lost his senses, he hurried her
forward at a brisk pace.
She did not speak, and, it is probable, almost forgot whose arm
supported her; neither did Clair attempt to gain her attention, till
they reached her father's door. He suffered her to enter alone, waiting
a short interval before he himself gained admission, when he hurried to
Hargrave's room. The latter was waiting for him with some anxiety, and
turned towards him as he entered.
"Well!" he exclaimed, "nothing, after all, I trust?"
"Nothing!" said Clair, "nothing! when I found her in the Park, lying in
his arms in a fainting fit--scoundrel."
"And you have brought her home?"
"Yes; she came very willingly when I asked her. What had passed I cannot
divine, but if she does not know the truth already, the sooner she does,
no doubt, the better. Have you seen Miss Lesly?"
"Yes; she promised to keep watch for her, and they are together by this
time."
"So far so good, then," said Clair, endeavouring to compose himself into
his naturally careless air, "now for Beauclerc--I declare," he added,
brushing his hand angrily over his eyes, "it almost unmans me to see a
woman in distress."
"And yet, my dear Arthur," said Hargrave, laying his hand kindly on his
shoulder, "I fear you are not guiltless."
"Well, if I have given her pain, nobody else shall. Come Hargrave, will
you go to him, I can trust no one so implicitly as I can you."
"If you are determined on meeting him, I will go, certainly, but only
consider, first, how little right you have to take up her quarrel, and
the unnecessary publicity you give to the affair."
"With regard to that, how, I cannot tell, but, depend upon it, before
to-morrow night, the affair will be discussed in every _coterie_ in the
town."
"What do you require, then?" said Hargrave, taking up his hat.
"The most ample apology."
"And who shall I say you are--a friend of the family?"
"Never mind that--he knows me, I was his friend once, and he will not
enquire into my right to question his motives."
"Very well then, wait for me in your rooms at the Lion, and I will join
you directly."
"I have seen him--stay, where is he?"
"We are both at the Lion, so we will walk there together," said Clair,
following him into the street.
A few minutes walk brought them to the hotel, and, parting at the public
entrance, Clair proceeded to his room, while Hargrave sent in his card
to Beauclerc.
He was immediately admitted.
Beauclerc was standing by the table, his face expressing much internal
agitation, while his usual self-possessed air was entirely gone.
Hargrave, on the contrary, was perfectly cool, but very grave, as he
bowed to him somewhat stiffly, and said, courteously--
"My friend, Captain Clair, was--"
"I know what you would say, Colonel Hargrave," interrupted Beauclerc,
quickly, "he would ask me for an explanation of the strange
circumstances under which he met me this morning--I will not ask what
right he has to question my conduct--I am too angry with myself to seek
to take shelter under any such subterfuge--I have done wrong, I now see,
but how to atone for that I cannot tell."
"I fear there is no atonement to be made, except the poor satisfaction
of an open explanation and apology."
"That I am most ready to make," replied Beauclerc, with unaffected
sadness, "and I wish I had more to offer."
He then hurried over what he had repeated before to Lucy, while
Hargrave listened with that acute attention which seldom failed to give
him an insight into the characters of those about him, when he chose to
exercise it.
"Miss Lucy Villars," said Beauclerc, in conclusion, "was the first
acquaintance I made here, and, knowing her to be the intimate friend,
nay, almost the only admitted friend of my wife, I looked upon her with
peculiar interest--not for an instant doubting her knowledge of the
connection existing between her friend and myself, from the readiness
with which she fell into my confidence--and, indeed, from her replies to
all my allusions to the subject. Believing that she knew me to be a
married man, I never (pardon my alluding to this subject,) thought the
attention she bestowed upon me any other than that, which love for her
friend, and pity for my situation, called for."
"Are you sincere in that?" said Hargrave suddenly, changing his tone of
courteous attention to deeper earnestness, as, with his dark eyes fixed
upon him, he waited his answer.
"I am," returned Beauclerc, decidedly.
"And you were not aware of the danger in which you placed a young girl
of ardent imagination?"
"I might, had I considered; but I did not consider."
"And I may suppose myself warranted in conveying to my friend this
explanation, together with the fullest apology for the mischief you have
unknowingly caused."
"Most certainly."
"Then, sir," said Hargrave, rising, "however deeply I may regret the
mistake which has arisen between you and Miss Villars, I feel bound to
offer my testimony to the sincerity of your purpose."
"Thank you, thank you," cried Beauclerc; "where I was wrong, was,
perhaps, in believing the possibility of a friendship of so much warmth
existing between a young girl of singular attraction, and myself, a
married man."
"Why, yes," replied Hargrave, sternly; "I am not a married man myself,
yet I have my own peculiar, and, perhaps, very strict notions of the
duties of married life, which would scarcely admit of the freedom you
have allowed yourself."
"You open my eyes," said Beauclerc, as if a sudden idea had occurred to
him; but then, remembering he was speaking to a stranger, he colored,
and was silent.
Hargrave, unwilling to intrude on his private confidence, by any further
remark, immediately wished him good morning, extending his hand, as he
did so. Beauclerc shook it warmly, thanking him for his patience and
temper, and, with many repeated assurances of regret, suffered him to
withdraw.
He immediately went to Clair, who was waiting for him, with some
impatience, and, in a few words, repeated the subject of his
interview.
"There," he said, in conclusion, "I have done my best, and so I think
have you. It is as I suspected--Beauclerc had really no intention of
doing harm--and Lucy would have suffered none, had she not jumped to the
conclusion that, of course, he admired her. We cannot, with the best
will in the world to serve her, atone for the consequences of her own
folly--and this, I fear, she has displayed in the whole affair. What a
pity it is that girls possessing so many natural attractions should not
wait to be sought."
"A great pity, indeed," said Clair; "I know few girls who would be more
attractive than Lucy Villars, if she had but the one necessary
appendage--sterling principle."
"Perhaps, it may be so," said Hargrave, "and if she had, besides, a
greater, and a less reliance, on her own powers. But we have had
excitement enough for one morning in settling her affairs. I am going
into the country, will you walk with me?"
"Willingly," said Clare, taking his hat and stick.
And the two young men sallied forth together for a long country
excursion.