THE FRAIL ONE'S NARRATIVE.
We must now return to Richard Markham.
Sir Rupert Harborough and the Honourable Arthur Chichester apparently
took a very great fancy to him, for they were constantly making
appointments to meet him in town, and hastening to his own house to
ferret him out when he did not appear at their usual places of
rendezvous. He dined at least three times a week at Mrs. Arlington's,
and, to confess the truth, his morning calls were repeated at intervals
which gradually grew shorter and shorter.
Richard thus frequently passed hours together alone with Diana. In spite
of himself he now and then suffered his eyes to rest tenderly upon her
countenance; and by degrees her glances encountered his and were not
immediately withdrawn. Those glances were so languishing, and withal so
melancholy, that they inspired Richard with a passion amounting almost
to a delirium; and he felt at times as if he could have caught that
beauteous creature in his arms and clasped her rapturously to his bosom.
One morning, as he took leave of her, he fancied that her hand gently
pressed his own. The idea filled him with a joy till then unknown, and
which he could not describe even to himself.
On the following morning he called a little earlier than usual. Diana
was in a delicious _déshabillé_, which set off her voluptuous person to
its very greatest advantage. Richard was more tender than usual--the
Enchantress more enchanting.
[Illustration]
They were seated upon the sofa together; and a pause in their
conversation ensued. Richard heaved a deep sigh, and suddenly exclaimed,
"I am always thinking of the period when I must bid adieu to your
charming society."
"Bid adieu!" cried Diana; "and wherefore?"
"It must happen, sooner or later, that our ways in the world will be
different."
"Then you are not your own master?" said Diana, enquiringly.
"Certainly I am. But all friends must part some time or another."
"True," said Diana; then, in a subdued tone, she added, "There are
certain persons who are attracted towards each other by kindred feelings
and emotions, and it is painful--very painful, for them to part!"
"Heavens, Diana!" ejaculated Richard; "you feel as I do!"
She turned her face towards him; her cheeks were suffused in blushes,
and her eyes were filled with tears. But through those tears she cast
upon him a glance which ravished his inmost soul. It seemed fraught with
love and tenderness, and inspired him with emotions which he had never
known before. The words "You feel as I do," contained the ingenuous and
unsophisticated avowal of a new passion on the part of a mind that was
as yet as unskilled in the ways of this world as the unfledged bird in
the nest of its mother is ignorant of the green woods. But those tears
which stood in the lady's eyes, and the blushes which dyed her checks,
and the glance which, like a sunbeam in the midst of an April shower,
she darted upon the youth at her side, inspired him with courage,
awakened undefined hopes, and filled him with an ecstacy of joy.
"Why do you weep, Diana? why do you weep?"
"You love me, Richard," she replied, turning her melting blue eyes fully
upon him, and retaining them for some moments fixed upon his
countenance: "you love me; and I feel--I know that I am not worthy of
your affection!"
Richard started as if he were suddenly aroused from a dream--as if he
had abruptly awoke to a stern truth from a pleasing vision. He suffered
her hand, which he had taken in his, to fall from his grasp; and for
some moments he remained buried in a profound reverie.
"Ah! I knew that I should remind you of your duty towards yourself,"
said Diana, bitterly. "No--I am not worthy of you. But that you may
hereafter give me credit for frankness and candour,--that you may be
actually warned by myself _against_ myself,--that you may learn to
esteem me as a friend, if you will, I shall in a few words relate to you
the incidents that made me what I am!"
"Proceed," said Richard, "proceed! Believe me I shall listen with
attention,--with the greatest attention!"
"My father was a retired tradesman," began Mrs. Arlington; "and as I was
his only child and he enjoyed a competency, he gave me the best
education that money could procure. Probably the good old man made up
his mind that I should one day espouse a nobleman; and, as my mother had
died when I was very young, there was no one near me to correct the
vanity with which my father's adulation and ambitious pretensions
inspired me. About three years ago I met at the theatre--whither I went
with some friends--a young gentleman--tall, handsome, and fascinating
like yourself. He contrived to obtain a formal introduction to my
father, and was invited to our house, at which he speedily became a
constant visitor. He had a happy tact in suiting his humours or tastes
to those with whom he came in contact; and he quite won my father's
heart by playing chess with him, telling him the news of the City, and
reading the evening paper to him. George Montague soon became an
established favourite; and my father could do nothing without him. At
length Montague proposed to him certain speculations in the funds: my
father was allured by the prospect of quadrupling his capital, and
consented. I must confess that the young man's handsome person had
produced a certain effect upon me--a giddy young girl as I was at that
time; and I rather encouraged my father in these schemes than otherwise.
At first the speculations were eminently successful; but in a short time
they took a turn. Day after day did Montague come to the house to
announce fresh losses and the necessity of farther advances. He declared
that he should now speculate for a grand stake, which could not fail
shortly to turn to his advantage. A species of infatuation seized upon
my father; and I was not aware of the ruinous course he was pursuing
until it was too late. At length my father was totally ruined; and
George come to announce to us the failure of our last chance. My father
now repented when it was too late. Eight short months had sufficed to
dissipate his whole fortune; he had not even enough left to pay the few
debts which he had contracted, and which he had neglected to liquidate,
trusting each day to the arrival of the lucky moment when he should find
himself the master of millions!"
"Oh! the absurd hope!" exclaimed Richard, deeply interested in this
narrative.
"Alas! this event was a fatal blow to my father's health, at the same
time that it wrecked his happiness," continued Diana. "He implored
Montague not to desert 'his darling child'--for so he called me--in case
anything should happen to himself; and that same day--the day on which
he saw all his prospects and hopes in this life blasted--he put a period
to his existence by means of poison!"
"This was horrible!" cried Markham. "Oh! that villain Montague!"
"My father's creditors came to seize the few effects which remained,"
said Diana, after a pause; "and I was about to be turned houseless and
unprotected into the streets, when Montague arrived. He took gold from
his pocket, and satisfied the demands of the creditors. He moreover
supplied me with money for my immediate wants. I was totally dependent
upon him;--I had no relations--no friends to whom I could apply for
succour or comfort. He seemed to commiserate my position----"
"Perhaps," observed Richard, "he was not so very guilty, after all,
relative to the loss of your father's property?"
"Judge by the sequel," answered Diana bitterly. "He was as base as he
was in reality unfeeling. The transition from that state of dependence
upon a young man to a more degraded one still, was to be expected. He no
longer talked to me of marriage, as he once had done; but he took
advantage of my forlorn situation. I became his mistress."
"Ah! it was base--it was ungenerous--it was unmanly!" ejaculated
Richard.
"He seemed to be possessed of ample resources; but he accounted for this
circumstance by assuring me that he had found another friend who was
backing him in the same speculations in which my poor father had failed.
We lived together for four months; and he then coolly informed me that
we must part. I found that I had never really entertained any very
sincere affection for him; and the little love which I experienced at
first, had been quenched in my bosom by his cold cruelty. He seemed
unfeeling to a degree. Observations, calculated to wound most acutely,
fell from his lips upon all occasions----"
"The dastard!" exclaimed Richard, profoundly touched by this recital.
"If I wept at this cruelty, he treated me with increased brutality. You
may, therefore, suppose that I was not deeply distressed to part with
him. He gave me twenty guineas, and bade me a chilling farewell. From
that moment I have neither seen nor heard of him. A few weeks after our
separation my money was exhausted. I resolved to lead a virtuous and
honourable life, and atone for my first fault. O God! I did not then
know that society will not receive the penitent frail one;--that society
excludes poor deceived woman from all hopes of reparation, all chances
of repentance! I endeavoured to obtain a situation as a governess;--I
might as well have attempted to make myself queen of England.
Character--references! I had neither. Vainly did I implore one lady to
whom I applied to give me a month's trial. She insulted me grossly. To
another I candidly confessed my entire history: she patiently heard me
to the end, and then ordered her lacquey to turn me out of the house.
Oh! society does more than punish: it pursues the unfortunate female who
has made one false step, with the most avenging and malignant
cruelty;--it hunts her to suicide or to new ways of crime. These are the
dread alternatives. At that moment, had some friendly hand been
stretched out to aid me,--had I met with one kind heart that would have
believed in the possibility of repentance,--had I only been blest with
the chance of entering upon a career of virtue, I should have been
saved! Yes--I should have redeemed my first fault, as far as redemption
was possible;--and to accomplish that aim, I would have worked my nails
down to the very quick,--I would have accepted any position, however
menial,--I would have made any sacrifice, enjoyed any lot, so long as I
was assured of earning my bread in a manner which need not make me
blush. But society treated me with contempt. Why, in this Christian
country, do they preach the Christian maxim, that '_there is more joy
over one sinner who repenteth, than over ninety-and-nine just persons
who need no repentance_?' Why is this maxim preached, when the entire
conduct of society expresses in terms which cannot be misunderstood, a
bold denial of its truth?"
"Merciful heavens," ejaculated Richard, "can this be true? are you
drawing a correct picture, Diana, or inventing a hideous fiction?"
"God knows how true is all I say!" returned Mrs. Arlington, with
profound sincerity of tone and manner. "Want soon stared me in the face:
what could I do? Chance threw me in the way of Sir Rupert
Harborough:--compelled by an imperious necessity, I became his mistress.
This is my history."
"And the baronet treats you kindly?" said Richard, inquiringly.
"The terms upon which our connexion is based do not permit him an
opportunity of being either very kind or very cruel."
"I must now say farewell for the present," exclaimed Markham, afraid of
trusting himself longer with the Syren who had fascinated him with her
misfortunes as well as by her charms. "In a day or two I will see you
again. Oh! I cannot blame you for what you have done:--I commiserate--I
pity you! Could any sacrifice that I am capable of making, restore you
to happiness and--and--"
"Honour, you would say," exclaimed Diana, firmly.
"I would gladly make that sacrifice," added Richard. "From this moment
we will be friends--very sincere friends. I will be your brother,
dearest Diana--and you shall be my sister!"
The young man rose from the sofa, as he uttered these disjointed
sentences in a singularly wild and rapid manner; and Diana, without
making any reply, but apparently deeply touched, pressed his hand for
some moments between both her own.
Richard then hastily escaped from the presence of that charming and
fascinating creature.