A WOMAN'S MIND.
When Louisa entered the boudoir on the morning which succeeded this
eventful night, nothing in Walter's countenance denoted the painful
emotions that filled her bosom. She narrated the particulars of the
burglarious entry of the dwelling, and Montague's opportune arrival upon
the scene of action, with a calmness which surprised her faithful
attendant. The truth was, that the attempt of the robbers upon the
house, and even the danger in which her own life had been placed, had
dwindled, in her own estimation, into events of secondary importance,
when compared with that one atrocity which had suddenly wrecked all her
hopes of love and happiness for ever.
The usual mysterious toilet was speedily performed; and, with a firm
step and a countenance expressive of a stern decision, she descended to
the breakfast-parlour.
Montague was already there--pale, haggard, abashed, and trembling. He
knew that the chance of possessing a lovely woman and ten thousand
pounds was then at stake; and, in addition to this perilous predicament
of his nearest and dearest hopes, his position was embarrassing and
unpleasant in the extreme. Had he succeeded in his base attempt, he
would have been a victor flushed with conquest, and prepared to dictate
terms to a woman entirely at his mercy:--but he had been foiled, and he
himself was the dejected and baffled being who would be compelled to
crave for pardon.
As Louisa entered the room close upon the heels of Walter, the latter
greeted George Montague with a most affable morning's welcome, and
conversed with him in a manner which seemed to say that she had totally
forgotten the occurrence of the night.
But the moment that Louisa had completed the arrangements of the
breakfast table, and had left the room, Walter's tone and manner
underwent an entire and sudden change.
"You must not think, sir," she said, while a proud smile of scorn and
bitterness curled her lips, "that I have this morning tasted of the
waters of oblivion. To save you, rather than myself, the shame of being
exposed in the presence of my servant, I assumed that friendly and
familiar air which appears to have deceived you."
"What! then you have not forgiven me?" exclaimed Montague, profoundly
surprised.
"Forgive you!" repeated the lady, almost indignantly: "do you suppose
that I think so little of myself, or would give you such scope to think
so little of me, as to pass by in silence a crime which was atrocious in
a hundred ways? I loved you sincerely--tenderly--oh! God only knows how
I loved you; and you would have taken advantage of my sincere and
heartfelt affection. The dream in which I had indulged is now dispelled;
the vision is over; the illusion is dissipated. Never would I accompany
to the altar a man whom I could not esteem; and I can no longer esteem
you. Then again, I offered you the hospitality of my abode; and that
sacred rite you would have infamously violated. I cannot, therefore,
even retain you as a friend. In another sense, too, your conduct was
odious. You saved my life--and for that I shall ever remember you with
gratitude: but you nevertheless sought to avail yourself of that service
as a means of robbing me of my honour. Oh! all this was
abominable--detestable on your part; and what is the result? My love can
never avail you now; I will crush it--extinguish it in my bosom first.
My friendship cannot be awarded; my gratitude alone remains. That shall
accompany you; for we must now separate--and for ever."
"Separate--and forever!" ejaculated Montague, who had listened with deep
interest and various conflicting emotions to this strange address:
"no--you cannot mean it? you will not be thus relentless?"
"Mr. Montague," returned the lady, with great apparent coolness--though
in reality she was inflicting excruciating tortures upon her own heart;
"no power on earth can alter my resolves. We shall part--here--now--and
for ever and may happiness and prosperity attend you."
"But Mr. Stephens?" cried Montague: "what can you say to him? what will
he think?"
"He shall never know the truth from _me_," answered Walter solemnly.
"This is absurd!" ejaculated Montague, in despair at the imminent ruin
of all his hopes. "Will not my humblest apology--my sincerest excuses--my
future conduct,--will nothing atone for one false step, committed under
the influence of generous wines and of a passion which obtained a
complete mastery over me? Will nothing move your forgiveness?"
"Nothing," answered Walter, with unvaried coolness and determination.
"Were I a young girl of sixteen or seventeen, it might be different:
_then_ I might be deceived by your sophistry. _Now_ it is impossible! I
am five and twenty years old; and circumstances," she added, glancing
over her male attire, "have also tended to augment my experience in the
sinuosities of human designs and the phases of the human heart."
"Yes--you are twenty-five, it is true," cried Montague; "but that age
has not robbed your charms of any of the grace and freshness of youth.
Oh! then let your mind be cautious how it adopts the severe notions of
riper years!"
"I thank you for the compliment which you pay me," said Walter,
satirically; "and I can assure you that it does not prove a welcome
preface to the argument which you would found upon it. Old or
young--experienced or ignorant in the ways of the world--a woman were a
fool to marry where she could not entertain respect for her husband. I
may be wrong: but this is my conviction;--and upon it will I act."
"This is but an excuse to break with me," said Montague: "you no longer
love me."
"No--not as I did twelve hours ago."
"You never loved me! It is impossible to divest oneself of that passion
so suddenly as this."
"Love in my mind is a species of worship or adoration, and can be
damaged by the evil suspicions that may suddenly be thrown upon its
object."
"No--that is not love," exclaimed Montague, passionately: "true love
will make a woman follow her lover or her husband through all the most
hideous paths of crime--even to the scaffold."
"The woman who truly loves, will follow her husband as a duty, but not
her lover to countenance him in his crimes. We are not, however, going
to argue this point:--for my part, I am not acting according to the
prescribed notions of romances or a false sentimentality, but strictly
in accordance with my own idea of what is suitable to my happiness and
proper to my condition. I repeat, I am not the heroine of a novel in her
teens--I am a woman of a certain age, and can reflect calmly in order to
act decidedly."
Montague made no reply, but walked towards the window. Strange and
conflicting sentiments were agitating in his brain.
'Twas thus he reasoned within himself.
"If I use threats and menaces, I shall merely open her eyes to the real
objects which Stephens has in view; and she will shrink from the fearful
dangers she is about to encounter. Whether she changes her mind or not
with regard to me, and whether I proceed farther in the business or not,
the secret is in my hands; and Stephens will pay me handsomely to keep
it. Perhaps I had even better stop short where I am: I am still in a
position to demand hush-money, and avoid the extreme peril which must
accrue to all who appear prominently in the affair on the 26th of the
month."
The selfish mind of George Montague thus revolved the various phases of
his present position: and in a few moments he was determined how to act.
Turning towards Walter Sydney, he exclaimed, "You are decided not to
forgive me?"
"I have made known to you my resolution--that we should now part, for
ever."
"How can we part for ever, when your friend and benefactor, Mr.
Stephens, requires my services?"
"Mr. Stephens informed me '_that a third person was necessary to the
complete success of his designs, and that he had fixed upon you_.'
Consequently, another friend may fill the place which he intended you to
occupy."
"You seem to have well weighed the results of your resolution to see me
no more," said Montague bitterly.
"There is time for thought throughout the live-long night, when sleep is
banished from the pillow," returned the lady proudly.
"I can scarcely comprehend your conduct," said Montague, after another
pause. "You do not choose that your servants should know what occurred
last night: is it your intention to acquaint Mr. Stephens with the real
truth?"
"That depends entirely upon yourself. To speak candidly, I do _not_ wish
to come to any explanation with Mr. Stephens upon the subject. He will
blame me for having concealed from him the attachment which has
subsisted between us; and he will imagine that some levity on my part
must have encouraged you to violate the sanctity of my chamber. If you,
sir, are a man of honour," added the lady emphatically,--"and if you
have a spark of feeling and generosity left, you will take measures with
Mr. Stephens to spare me that last mortification."
[Illustration]
"I will do as you require," returned Montague, well pleased with this
arrangement. "This very day will I communicate to Mr. Stephens my desire
to withdraw from any further interference in his affairs; and I will
allege the pressing nature of my own concerns as an excuse."
"Act as you will," said the lady; "but let there remain behind no motive
which can lead you to repeat your visits to this house. You comprehend
me?"
"Perfectly," replied Montague. "But once more let me implore you--"
"Enough--enough!" exclaimed Walter. "You know not the firmness of the
female mind: perhaps I have this morning taught you a lesson in that
respect. We must now part, Mr. Montague; and believe me--believe me,
that, although no power on earth can alter the resolution to which I
came during the long and painful vigil of the past night, I still wish
you well;--and, remember, my gratitude accompanies you!"
Walter hesitated for a moment, as if another observation were trembling
upon her tongue: then stifling her emotions with a powerful effort, she
waved her hand to the delinquent, and abruptly left the room.
"Is this a loftiness of mind of which not even the greatest of men often
afford example? or is it the miserable caprice of a vacillating woman?"
said Montague to himself, as he prepared to take his departure from the
villa in which he had spent some happy hours. "I must candidly admit
that this time I am at fault. All appears to be lost in this
quarter--and that, too, through my own confounded folly. But Stephens's
secret still remains to me; and that secret shall be as good as an
annuity for years to come. Let me see--I must have money now to insure
my silence, upon breaking off all further connexion with the business.
Then I must keep an eye upon him; and should he succeed on the 26th of
this month--and he _must_ succeed, if this punctilious lady does not see
through his designs in the meantime--then can I step forward and demand
another sum under a threat of exposing the entire scheme. And then,
too," he added, while his countenance wore an expression of mingled
revenge and triumph,--"then, too, can I appear before this vain, this
scrupulous, this haughty woman, and with one word send her on her knees
before me! Then will she stoop her proud brow, and her prayers and
intercessions upon that occasion shall be expressed as humbly as her
reproaches and her taunts were tyrannically levelled at me to-day!
Yes--I will keep my eye upon Walter Sydney and her benefactor Stephens,"
he said, with an ironical chuckle: "they may obtain their princely
fortune, but a due share shall find its way into my pocket!"
These or similar reflections continued to occupy the mind of George
Montague, after he had left the villa, and while he was on his way to
the nearest point where he could obtain a conveyance to take him into
the City.