THE FEMALE IAGO.
The engagement between Laurence and Margaret Waring had been a family
affair, brought about principally by the romance of a maiden aunt, with
whom the young man was a favorite.
Edward had been under this relative's charge after the death of his
parents, which occurred during his childhood, and she had petted and
spoiled the boy as only a spinster could have done.
Mr. Waring, the uncle of Margaret, was one of Miss Laurence's nearest
neighbors, and the girl had been almost as great a favorite with the
spinster as her own nephew. Indeed, it was said that Mabel Laurence had
loved Margaret's father in her youthful days; but how that might be
nobody really knew, for the old maid wisely kept her own secrets, as
women, after all, are apt to do when there is nothing to gratify the
vanity in them.
But it happened that the boy and girl were reared almost like brother
and sister, and the two houses were almost equally homes to both.
Mr. Waring was a confirmed invalid, whose life seemed to hang upon a
thread, and Miss Laurence had always been in yearly expectation that
the girl would soon come entirely under her charge.
People are generally mistaken in such calculations, and Miss Laurence
was no exception; for when Margaret Waring was sixteen, the spinster
died in her arms after a short but violent illness.
Edward, then a youth of twenty, was traveling in Europe, and by one
of the old lady's last commands was to remain there at least a year
longer. When the will was opened, it was found to contain a singular
clause--one common enough in novels, and as the spinster had been an
insatiable devourer of light literature, it is quite probable that she
derived from thence the idea which was expressed in her testament.
Her fortune, which was a very large one, was divided equally between
her nephew and Margaret Waring, on condition that they became husband
and wife; otherwise, no provision was made for Margaret, a small
annuity was left Laurence, and the rest of the property was to be
employed in founding a hospital for old maids.
Now, I am not drawing upon my imagination for these details; this
was the will as it was actually written. Miss Laurence was convinced
that Margaret and her nephew had loved each other from childhood, so
that she believed herself acting for their happiness; besides, she
had English blood in her veins, and could not resist the true British
desire to display her own power and authority, even after death.
The year passed. Edward Laurence returned home when Margaret was
seventeen; the engagement had been regarded as a settled thing. The
young people loved each other--there could be no doubt of that; but,
after a time, the very certainty that their destinies had been settled
for them in a fashion so compulsory, led to all manner of disagreements
and quarrels.
Two years before the commencement of this record, Mr. Waring had been
obliged to go South for his health, and it was necessary to provide a
companion for Margaret during his absence. Some friend had introduced
Sybil Chase, and she spent the winter in the family. From the time of
her entrance into that house could be dated the first real unhappiness
of the young pair.
Sybil had been brought up by a bad, unprincipled mother, educated far
beyond what the woman's means seemed to permit, and for what end only
her own erratic mind ever knew. Soon after she left school, the young
girl quarreled with her mother, and for several years earned her own
living as best she might. We will not inquire too closely into the
records of that Bohemian life. It is sufficient for our story that she
at length took up her residence with Margaret Waring, just as that
young lady's engagement to young Laurence became known.
How it came about, Margaret could never have told; but before she
had been many weeks in the house, Sybil Chase had made herself of the
utmost importance there. She quietly relieved Margaret of every duty;
she read to her, she talked with her--not at all with the manner of a
dependent, which, in a certain sense, she was not, but as an equal and
friend.
When Margaret had time to think, she felt a certain unaccountable
repugnance to Sybil; yet in her society there was a charm which few
people could have resisted. Against her better judgment, contrary to
her principles and her common sense, Margaret acquired a habit of
talking freely with her. Sybil knew all the disagreements and troubles
which disturbed the house, understood perfectly Margaret's character,
and had studied Laurence himself with still more subtle criticism.
With all the wild fervor of her passionate youth, Sybil Chase became
fatally attached to young Laurence; yet so firm was her self-command,
so deep her powers of duplicity, that she gave no sign of the passion
that consumed her. In the depths of her soul she was resolved that the
man she loved should never fulfill his engagement; but just as she was
beginning to weave her meshes around him, Mr. Waring came home, broke
up his establishment, and proceeded with his daughter on a long tour
through the West Indies and Southern States.
Once more this singular young creature was thrown back upon her
mother's support. An imperfect reconciliation took place between them,
and she sunk gradually into her old life, which became more and more
irksome from contact with persons so unlike those with whom she had
been recently associated.
While her mind was in this restless state, she heard that young
Laurence had followed his betrothed to Cuba, in which place the
marriage had taken place. The news stung her to madness. In the first
paroxysm of wounded affection and mortified pride, she fell in with
Philip Yates, married him privately, and went away.
In two years she came back to her mother again, but to be the
protector, not the dependent, now. She had money, which was shared
generously with the old woman; but, in a short time, this constant
companionship with an unrefined and evil-minded woman became
unendurable. Sybil was in no state of mind to accept the dull life
presented in this companionship. She had rested long enough, and now
felt that keen hunger for excitement which follows prolonged inaction.
While this fever was strong upon her, she met Laurence in the street.
Little suspecting the passion that drove the blood from her cheek, or
that they had met before in far distant mountains of the golden State,
he upbraided her kindly for keeping aloof from her old friends, spoke
regretfully of Mr. Waring's still infirm health, and of Margaret's
protracted feebleness.
She choked down the passion that swelled in her throat, and inquired
kindly if his wife had been seriously ill.
Laurence laughed. "Wife?" he answered, coloring a little. "Oh, Maggie
and I are not married yet. The old gentleman says that we are young
enough to wait."
Sybil's heart bounded in her bosom. Her eyes flashed--she could not
altogether conceal the triumph of her joy.
"Are you never coming to see Margaret?" he said.
"Margaret--Margaret Waring? Oh yes."
"The old gentleman is seriously ill again. You ought to come. He often
says no one ever proved so good a nurse as you."
"The good old man. I will go to him."
She went to Waring's house the next day, and stayed there. Mr. Waring
was ill and selfish; he would not let her go away. She yielded with
apparent reluctance, and quietly commenced her work. By her soft words,
broken sentences, and subtle looks, Margaret and Laurence had become
almost completely estranged, and nothing but the persuasions of mutual
friends prevented their breaking the engagement which bound them. Sybil
looked on and waited, fostered their difficulties, and watched for the
moment which should secure the victory to her love.
She was greatly aided by the manner in which their betrothal had been
brought about, the consequences of which had been exactly those a wise
person would have anticipated. The romance of an involuntary engagement
wore rapidly away. Both were pained, and each blamed the other for
things which were at once the fault and the misfortune of a forced
position.
Margaret was proud and exacting, morbidly sensitive, and her high
spirit revolted at the idea of submission, often prevented her yielding
to her lover's wishes when she knew herself to be in the wrong. These
feelings rendered her fearful of betraying her fondness, and in
numberless ways brought pain to her own heart and that of the man who
loved her.
On the other hand, Edward was as passionate and imperious as she could
possibly be; his temper was violent, and when that was roused, he
gave way to every reckless word that anger could suggest, forgetting
them entirely when his temper cooled. Margaret could not forget; she
remembered them all, treasured up every cruel word, every scornful
sneer, like poisoned arrows wherewith to pierce her heart anew in her
lonely hours.
The young girl grew cold and unsympathetic, careless of exciting his
rage, but often taking refuge in an icy impassibility, which excited
him more than any recrimination would have done. A stubborn, obstinate
will developed itself in her character, against which the waves of her
lover's passions beat in vain; but that very resolution separated them
still further.
All this had been the growth of Sybil's subtle influence. For the
first period of their engagement they had been very happy. What
caused their first quarrel, neither could have told; the source was
probably as slight as it usually is in such cases; the effect had been
fraught with many evil influences, such as are apt to follow similar
misunderstandings.
They had reached a point where each looked back on the past with angry,
defiant feelings. It was like gazing across a troubled sea upon a fair
landscape--to glance from the present back into the beautiful past.
Had they been older and wiser, both parties might have done much toward
changing the state of things. A single honest effort would have swept
aside the heavy clouds which loomed darkly in the future. But neither
of them understood this, or would have made any effort of the kind had
it been pointed out. So they quarreled openly and avowedly, and the
fact that in each heart lay a great well-spring of affection, made
their quarrels more bitter and implacable.
Margaret was made to believe that her lover had ceased to care for her,
and wished to continue his engagement only that he might tyrannize
and command. Her health had become more delicate than ever, the bloom
of early girlhood was fading, and although still very lovely, she
had learned to think her beauty gone, and decided that with it all
affection had departed from the heart of her betrothed. Those feelings
and suspicions made her colder and more unyielding, until Edward
wondered he could ever have thought her winning or gentle. He was
irritated by the indifference with which she treated every attempt at a
reconciliation, and the violence of his temper increased in proportion
to the pain of his position.
They suffered greatly, those poor, blind creatures! Daily the cloud
which had descended upon their home grew blacker and swept them still
further apart. Indeed, they had reached that point where it would need
but a little thing to bring the tempest down in its wild fury--the
terrible tempest which should wrench from them all hope of happiness or
peace, which must desolate their after lives, and leave them stranded
upon a desert with no hope left, no memory unstained, no love in the
future.
The marriage of this young couple had been deferred from various
causes, the principal ones being Mr. Waring's frequent illnesses and
the delicate state in which Margaret's health had fallen during the
past year.
Laurence almost made his home at the house, and as he had no profession
or settled business, he found more time than was requisite for making
himself miserable, and gave way to all manner of repinings.
During her former residence at Mr. Waring's house, it had chanced that
Hinchley had never seen Sybil Chase, and her very existence was almost
unknown to him, before that agitated introduction on the hill-side.
Thus she had no fears of a recognition, or that her face would bring
back to him that fearful night in the valley ranche. With her heart
thus at rest, she went down stairs on the morning after his arrival,
according to her usual habit since the pleasant June weather had come
in. No members of the family were stirring except the servants, for
Margaret was inclined to gratify the indolence arising from ill-health,
and the family breakfast-hour was always a late one.
With her cheeks fresh as the roses, Miss Chase descended the stairs,
went forth to the garden, and proceeded into the rose thickets, looking
beautiful and bright as the dewy scene that surrounded her. Indeed,
as she stood there in her gipsy bonnet and muslin dress, a prettier
picture could not well be imagined.
She had a basket on her arm, a pair of scissors in her hand, and
daintily snipped off the stems of such blossoms as pleased her; she
pressed the gathered roses to her red lips till they were wet with dew,
took the fresh scent of each in turn, and dropped one after another
into her basket. While pursuing her task, she sung snatches of pleasant
tunes in a clear soprano voice that floated richly on the air.
Occasionally, in the midst of her employment, Miss Chase glanced toward
the upper windows or the hall-door. The first person who appeared
was Mr. Laurence. He saw Sybil and walked toward her. Miss Chase was
greatly occupied just then, and gave no attention to his approach.
"Good-morning," he said; "are you talking so sweetly with those roses
that you can neither see nor hear?"
"I am trying to steal their color," she replied, with an honest sort of
frankness that was very captivating. "Look at this bud, Mr. Laurence;
did you ever see any thing more beautiful?"
"Lovely, indeed; you perceive you were over fastidious about giving
away your flowers last night. Margaret did not prize them as highly as
you expected."
"What proof have you?"
"She gave one to Hinchley."
"Oh yes, so she did; but he is a relative, remember. I need not
offer you flowers in your own garden. I am certain it was the merest
thoughtlessness which made Margaret bestow the roses on your guest last
night."
"Who ever supposed it was any thing else?"
"Oh, I thought--that is, from the way you spoke--"
"What did you think?"
"That you were not pleased, if I must say it."
"I thought very little about the matter. I have no fancy for setting up
as a pale-faced Othello."
"Oh dear, I should hope not; there would be nobody but me to play
Emilie, and I should certainly run away, instead of standing by poor
Desdemona. But I have to beg your pardon for my absurd mistake."
"What do you mean?"
"For thinking you were displeased. I might have known you had more
sense, but I have seen men who would have pouted for a week over a
trifle of less consequence."
"Did you think it wrong?"
"Good heavens, no; but I am not a proper judge. I suppose every wife
ought to be exceedingly careful; but then, is a woman to be deprived of
every bit of sentiment or romance?"
"I don't think Margaret addicted to either. I should be sorry to
believe it."
"And I too. But I must take my basket of flowers into the house; don't
stand here fighting shadows, Mr. Laurence."
"I am not aware that I have been doing battle with any such
unsubstantial thing," he answered.
Miss Chase turned toward the house; he followed, but with a new train
of thought awakened in his mind. He began to wonder if he really had
been displeased at this trifle; certainly, he was not jealous, but he
would permit no impropriety. Had there been any? The simple giving of
a flower--she had done nothing more than that; and yet--well, he had
not thought much of it at the time, but Miss Chase had in a measure
convinced him that he was more impressed than he had believed. If
Margaret was going to add coquetry to her numerous other faults, his
life would be irksome enough!
He accompanied Sybil into the breakfast-room, helped her arrange the
flowers, and in the process they fell into a pleasant conversation. It
was a full half-hour before Hinchley or Margaret made their appearance.
A great deal can be done in that length of time, especially when
economized with as much wisdom as Sybil Chase was capable of employing.