ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.
The pleasant days went on--April went out--May came in. On the tenth
of May, the Stuart family, Sir Victor Catheron, and Lady Helena Powyss
were to sail from New York for Liverpool.
To Edith, fresh from the twilight of her country life, these days and
nights had been one bewildering round of excitement and delight. Opera,
theatre, dinner and evening parties, shopping, driving, calling,
receiving--all that goes to make the round of that sort of life, had
been run. Her slender wardrobe had been replenished, the white Swiss
had been reinforced by half-a-dozen glistening silks; the corals, by a
set of rubies and fine gold. Mr. Stuart might be pompous and
pretentious, but he wasn't stingy, and he had insisted upon it for his
own credit. And half-a-dozen "spandy new" silks, fresh from Stewart's
counters, with the pristine glitter of their bloom yet upon them, were
very different from one half-worn amber tissue of Trixy's. Miss
Darrell took the dresses and the rubies, and looked uncommonly
handsome in both.
On the last night but one, of their stay in New York, Mrs. Featherbrain
gave a last "At Home," a sort of "P. P. C." party, Trixy called it.
Miss Darrell was invited, and said nothing at the time, unless tossing
the card of invitation contemptuously out of the window can be called
saying something; but at the last moment she declined to go.
"My head is whirling now, from a surfeit of parties," she said to Miss
Stuart. "Aunt Chatty is going to stay at home, and so shall I. I don't
like your Mrs. Featherbrain--that's the truth--and I'm not fashionable
enough yet to sham friendship with women I hate. Besides, Trix dear,
you know you were a little--just a little--jealous of me, the other
night at Roosevelt's. Sir Victor danced with me once oftener than he
did with you. Now, you dear old love, I'll let you have a whole
baronet to yourself, for this night, and who knows what may happen
before morning?"
Miss Edith Darrell was one of those young persons--happily rare--who,
when they take a strong antipathy, are true to it, even at the
sacrifice of their own pleasure. In her secret soul, she was jealous
of Mrs. Featherbrain. If she and Charley carried on their imbecile
flirtation, at least it would not be under _her_ disgusted eyes.
Miss Stuart departed--not the lilies of the field--not Solomon in all
his glory--not the Queen of Sheba herself, ever half so magnificent.
Charley went with her, a placid martyr to brotherly duty. And Edith
went down to the family sitting-room where Aunt Chatty (Aunt Chatty by
request) sat dozing in her after-dinner chair.
"We are going to have an 'At home' all to our two selves to-night,
auntie," Edith, said, kissing her thin cheek; "and I am going to sing
you to sleep, by way of beginning."
She was fond of Aunt Chatty--a meek soul, born to be tyrannized over,
_and_ tyrannized over, from her very cradle. One of those large women,
who obey their small husbands in fear and trembling, who believe
everything they are told, who "bless the squire and his relations,
and live contented with their stations;" who are bullied by their
friends, by their children, by their servants, and who die meekly
some day, and go to Heaven.
Edith opened the piano and began to play. She was looking very
handsome to-night, in green silk and black-lace, one half-shattered
rose in her hair. She looked handsome--at least so the young man who
entered unobserved, and stood looking at her, evidently thought.
She had not heard him enter, but presently some mesmeric _rapport_
between them, told her he was near. She turned her head and saw him.
Aunt Chatty caught sight of him, in her semi-sleeping state, at the
same moment.
"Dear me, Charley," his mother said, "_you_ here? I thought you went
to Mrs. Featherbrain's?"
"So I did," replied Charley. "I went--I saw--I returned--and here I am,
if you and Dithy will have me for the rest of the evening."
"Edith and I were very well off without you. We had peace, and that is
more than we generally have when you and she come together. You shall
be allowed to stay only on one condition, and that is that you don't
quarrel."
"_I_ quarrel?" Charley said, lifting his eyebrows to the middle of
his forehead. "My dear mother, your mental blindness on many points,
is really deplorable. It's all Edith's fault--all; one of the few
fixed principles of my life, is never to quarrel with anybody. It
upsets a man's digestion, and is fatiguing in the extreme. Our first
meeting," continued Mr. Stuart, stretching himself out leisurely on a
sofa, "at which, Edith fell in love with me at sight, was a row. Well,
if it wasn't a row, it was an unpleasantness of some sort. You can't
deny, Miss Darrell, there was a coolness between us. Didn't we pass
the night in a snow-drift? Since then, every other meeting has been a
succession of rows. Injustice to myself, and the angelic sweetness of
my own disposition, I must repeat, the beginning, middle, and ending
of each, lies with her. She _will_ bully, and I never could stand
being bullied--I always knock under. But I warn her--a day of
retribution is at hand. In self-defence I mean to marry her, and then,
base miscreant, beware! The trodden worm will turn, and plunge the
iron into her own soul. May I ask what you are laughing at, Miss
Darrell?"
"A slight confusion of metaphor, Charley--nothing more. What have you
done with Trix?"
"Trix is all right in the matronly charge of Mrs. Featherbrain, and
engaged ten deep to the baronet. By the bye, the baronet was inquiring
for you, with a degree of warmth and solicitude, as unwelcome as it
was uncalled for. A baronet for a brother-in-law is all very well--a
baronet for a rival is not well at all. Now, my dear child, try to
overcome the general nastiness of your cranky disposition, for once,
and make yourself agreeable. I knew you were pining on the stem for me
at home, and so I threw over the last crush of the season, made Mrs.
Featherbrain my enemy for life, and here I am. Sing us something."
Miss Darrell turned to the piano with a frown, but her eyes were
smiling, and in her secret heart she was well-content. Charley was
beside her. Charley had given up the ball and Mrs. Featherbrain for
her. It was of no use denying it, she was fond of Charley. Of late it
had dawned dimly and deliciously upon her that Sir Victor Catheron was
growing very attentive. If so wildly improbable a thing could occur,
as Sir Victor's falling in love with her, she was ready at any moment
to be his wife; but for the love which alone makes marriage sweet and
holy, which neither time, nor trouble, nor absence, can change--that
love she felt for her cousin Charley, and no other mortal man.
It was a very pleasant evening--_how_ pleasant, Edith did not care
to own, even to herself. Aunt Chatty dozed sweetly in her arm-chair,
she in her place at the piano, and Charley taking comfort on his sofa,
and calmly and dispassionately finding fault with her music. That
those two could spend an evening, an hour, together, without
disagreeing, was simply an utter impossibility. Edith invariably lost
her temper--nothing earthly ever disturbed Charley's. Presently, in
anger and disgust, Miss Darrell jumped up from the piano-stool, and
protested she would play no more.
"To be told I sing Kathleen Mavourneen flat, and that the way I hold
my elbows when I play Thalberg's 'Home,' is frightful to behold, I
will _not_ stand! Like all critics, you find it easier to point out
one's faults, than to do better. It's the very last time, sir, I'll
ever play a note for you!"
But, somehow, after a skirmish at euchre, at which she was ignobly
beaten, and, I must say, shamefully cheated, she was back at the piano,
and it was the clock striking twelve that made her start at last.
"Twelve! Goodness me. I didn't think it was half-past ten!" Mr. Stuart
smiled, and stroked his mustache with calm complacency. "Aunt Chatty,
wake up! It's midnight--time all good little women were in bed."
"_You_ need not hurry yourself on that account, Dithy," Charley
suggests, "if the rule only applies to good little women."
Miss Darrell replies with a glance of scorn, and wakes up Mrs. Stuart.
"You were sleeping so nicely I thought it a pity to wake you sooner.
Come, auntie dear, we'll go upstairs together. You know we have a hard
day's work before us to-morrow. Good-night, Mr. Stuart."
"Good-night, my love," Mr. Stuart responded, making no attempt to stir.
Edith linked her strong, young arm in that of her sleepy aunt and led
her upstairs. He lay and watched the slim green figure, the beautiful
bright face, as it disappeared in a mellow flood of gaslight. The
clear, sweet voice came floating saucily back:
"And Charley he's my darling,
My darling--my darling,
And Charley he's my darling,
The young Chevalier!"
All that was sauciest, and most coquettish in the girl's nature, came
out with Charley. With Sir Victor, as Trixy explained it, she was
"goody" and talked sense.
Mr. Stuart went back to the ball, and, I regret to say, made himself
obnoxious to old Featherbrain, by the marked _empressement_ of his
devotion to old Featherbrain's wife. Edith listened to the narration
next day from the lips of Trix with surprise and disgust. Miss Stuart,
on her own account, was full of triumph and happiness. Sir Victor had
been most devoted, "_most devoted_" said Trix, in italics, "that is,
for him. He danced with me very often, and he spoke several times
of _you_, Dithy, dear. He couldn't understand why you absented
yourself from the last party of the season--no more can I for that
matter. A person may hate a person like poison--I often do myself--and
yet go to that person's parties."
But this was a society maxim Miss Darrell could by no means be brought
to understand. Where she liked she liked, where she hated she
hated--there were no half measures for her.
The last day came. At noon, with a brilliant May sun shining, the ship
fired her farewell guns, and steamed away for Merrie England. Edith
leaned over the bulwark and watched the receding shore, with her heart
in her eyes.
"Good-by to home," she said, a smile on her lip, a tear in her eye.
"Who knows when and how I may see it again. Who knows whether I shall
_ever_ see it?"
The luncheon bell rang; everybody--a wonderful crowd too--flocked
merrily downstairs to the saloon, where two long tables, bright with
crystal and flowers, were spread. What a delightful thing was an ocean
voyage, and sea-sickness--bah!--merely an illusion of the senses.
After lunch, Charley selected the sunniest spot on deck for his
resting-place, and the prettiest girl on board, for his companion,
spread out his railway rug at her feet, spread out himself thereon,
and prepared to be happy and be made love to. Trix, on the arm of the
baronet, paraded the deck, Mrs. Stuart and Lady Helena buried
themselves in the seclusion of the ladies' cabin, in expectation of
the wrath to come. Edith got a camp-stool and a book, and hid herself
behind the wheel-house for a little of private enjoyment. But she did
not read; it was delight enough to sit and watch the old ocean smiling,
and smiling like any other coquette, as though it could never be cruel.
The afternoon wore on; the sun dropped low, the wind arose--so did the
sea. And presently--staggering blindly on Sir Victor's arm, pale as
death, with speechless agony imprinted on every feature--Trixy made
her appearance behind the wheel house.
"O Edith, I feel awfully--awfully! I feel like death--I feel--"
She wrenched her arm from the baronet's, rushed wildly to the side,
and--Edith's dark, laughing eyes looked up into the blue ones, that no
effort of Sir Victor's could _quite_ control. The next moment she
was by Trixy's side, leading that limp and pallid heroine to the
regions below, whence, for five mortal days, she emerged not, nor did
the eye of man rest on Miss Beatrix Stuart.
The weather was fine, but the wind and sea ran tolerably high, and of
course everybody mostly was tolerably sick. One day's ordeal sufficed
for Edith's tribute to old Neptune; after that, she never felt a qualm.
A great deal of her time was spent in waiting upon Aunt Chatty and
Trix, both of whom were very far gone indeed. In the case of Miss
Stuart, the tortures of jealousy were added to the tortures of
sea-sickness. Did Sir Victor walk with the young ladies on deck? Did
he walk with _her_, Edith? Did he ever inquire for herself? Oh, it
was shameful--shameful that she should be kept prostrate here, unable
to lift her head! At this juncture, generally, in her excitement,
Trixy did lift it, and the consequence was--woe.
It was full moon before they reached mid-ocean. How Edith enjoyed it,
no words can tell. Perhaps it was out of merciful compassion to Trix,
but she did not tell her of the long, brisk twilight, mid-day, and
moonlight walks she and the baronet took on deck. How, leaning over
the bulwarks, they watched the sun set, round and red, into the sea,
and the silver sickle May moon rise, like another Aphrodite, out of
the waves. She did not tell her, how they sat side by side at dinner,
how he lay at her feet, and read aloud for her, in sheltered sunny
nooks, how uncommonly friendly and confidential they became altogether,
in these first half-dozen days out. People grow intimate in two days
at sea, as they would not in two years on land. Was it _all_
gentlemanly courtesy and politeness on the baronet's side? the girl
sometimes wondered. She could analyze her own feelings pretty well. Of
that fitful, feverish passion called love, described by the country
swain as feeling--"hot and dry like--with a pain in the side like,"
she felt no particle. There was one, Mr. Charles Stuart, lying about
in places, looking serene and sunburnt, who saw it all with sleepy,
half-closed eyes, and kept his conclusions to himself. "_Kismet_!"
he thought; "the will of Allah be done. What is written is written.
Sea-sickness is bad enough, without the green-eyed monster. Even
Othello, if he had been crossing in a Cunard ship, would have put off
the pillow performance until they reached the other side."
One especial afternoon, Edith fell asleep after luncheon, on a sofa,
in her own and Trixy's cabin, and slept through dinner and dessert,
and only woke with the lighting of the lamps. Trix lay, pale and
wretched, gazing out of the porthole, at the glory of moonlight on the
heaving sea, as one who sorrows without hope of consolation.
"I hope you enjoyed your forty winks, Edith," she remarked; "what a
Rip Van Winkle you are! For my part, I've never slept at all since I
came on board this horrid ship! Now, where are you going?"
"To get something to eat from my friend the stewardess," Edith
answered; "I see I am too late for dinner."
Miss Darrell went, and got some tea and toast. Then wrapping herself
in a blanket shawl, and tying a coquettish red wool hood over her hair,
she ascended to the deck.
It was pretty well deserted by the ladies--none the worse for that,
Edith thought. The full moon shone with untold splendor, over the vast
expanse of tossing sea, heaving with that majestic swell, that never
quite lulls on the mighty Atlantic. The gentlemen filled the
smoking-room, the "Tabak Parliament" was at its height. She took a
camp-stool, and made for her favorite sheltered spot behind the
wheel-house. How grand it was--the starry sky, the brilliant white
moon, the boundless ocean--that long trail of silvery radiance
stretching miles behind. An icy blast swept over the deep, but,
wrapped in her big shawl, Edith could defy even that. She forgot Sir
Victor and the daring ambition of her life. She sat absorbed in the
beauty and splendor of that moonlight on the sea. Very softly, very
sweetly, half unconsciously, she began singing "The Young May Moon,"
when a step behind made her turn her head. It was Sir Victor Catheron.
She awoke from her dream--came back to earth, and was of the world
worldly, once more. The smile that welcomed him was very bright. She
would have blushed if she could; but it is a disadvantage of pale
brunettes that they don't blush easily.
"I heard singing, sweet and faint, and I give you my word, Miss
Darrell, I thought it might be the Lurline, or a stray mermaid combing
her sea-green locks. It is all very beautiful, of course, but are you
not afraid of taking cold?"
"I never take cold," Miss Darrell answered; "influenza is an unknown
disease. Has the tobacco parliament broken up, that I behold you here?"
"It is half-past eleven--didn't you know it?--and all the lights are
out."
"Good Heaven!" Edith cried, starting up aghast; "half-past eleven!
What will Trixy say? Really, moon-gazing must be absorbing work. I had
no idea it was after ten."
"Stay a moment, Miss Darrell," Sir Victor interposed, "there is
something I would like to say to you--something I have wished to speak
of, since we came on board."
Edith's heart gave one great jump--into her mouth it seemed. What
could such a preface as this portend, save one thing? The baronet
spoke again, and Miss Darrell's heart sunk down to the very soles of
her buttoned boots.
"It is concerning those old papers, the _Chesholm Courier_. You
understand, and--and the lamentable tragedy they chronicle."
"Yes?" said Miss Darrell, shutting her lips tight.
"It is naturally a deeply painful subject to me. Twenty-three years
have passed; I was but an infant at the time, yet if it had, occurred
only a year ago, I think I could hardly feel it more keenly than I
do--hardly suffer more, when I speak of it."
"Then _why_ speak of it?" was the young lady's very sensible question.
"_I_ have no claim to hear it, I am sure."
"No," the young man responded, and even in the moonlight she could see
his color rise, "perhaps not, and yet I wanted to speak to you of it
ever since. I don't know why, it is something I can scarcely bear to
think of even, and yet I feel a sort of relief in speaking of it to
you. Perhaps there is 'rapport' between us--that we are affinities--who
knows?"
Who indeed! Miss Darrell's heart came up from her boots, to its proper
place, and stayed there.
"It was such a terrible thing," the young man went on, "such a
mysterious thing. To this day it is wrapped in darkness. She was so
young, so fair, so good--it seems too horrible for belief, that any
human being could lift his hand against so innocent a life. And yet it
was done."
"A most terrible thing," Edith said; "but one has only to read the
papers, to learn such deeds of horror are done every day. Life is a
terribly sensational story. You say it is shrouded in darkness, but
the _Chesholm Courier_ did not seem at all in the dark."
"You mean Inez Catheron. She was innocent."
"Indeed!"
"She was not guilty, except in this--she knew who _was_ guilty, and
concealed it. Of that, I have reason to be sure."
"Her brother, of course--the Juan Catheron of the papers?"
"Who is to tell? Even that is not certain. No," in answer to her look
of surprise, "it is not certain. I am sure my aunt believes in his
innocence."
"Then who--"
"Ah--_who_?" the baronet said mournfully, "who was the murderer? It
may be that we will never know."
"You will know," Edith said decidedly. "I am sure of it. I am a firm
believer in the truism that 'murder will out.' Sooner or later you
will know."
She spoke with the calm conviction of prophecy. She looked back to
shudder at her own words in the after-days.
"Three-and-twenty years is a tolerable time to forget even the
bitterest sorrow, but the thought of that tragedy is as bitter to my
aunt to-day, as it was when it was done. She cannot bear to speak of
it--I believe she cannot bear to think of it. What I know, therefore,
concerning it, I have learned from others. Until I was eighteen, I
knew absolutely nothing. Of my mother, of course I have no remembrance,
and yet"--his eyes and tone grew dreamy--"as far back as I can recall,
there is in my mind the memory of a woman, young and handsome, bending
above my bed, kissing and crying over me. My mother was fair, the face
I recall is dark. You will think me sentimental--you will laugh at me,
perhaps," he said, smiling nervously; "you will set me down as a
dreamer of dreams, and yet it is there."
Her dark, earnest eyes looked up at him, full of womanly sympathy.
"Laugh at you! Think better of me, Sir Victor. In these days it is
rare enough to see men with either memory or veneration for their
mother--whether dead or alive."
He looked at her; words seemed struggling to his lips. Once he half
spoke. Then he checked himself suddenly. When he did speak it was with
a total change of tone.
"And I am keeping you selfishly here in the cold. Take my arm, Miss
Darrell; you must not stop another instant."
She obeyed at once. He led her to her cabin-door--hesitated--took her
hand and held it while he spoke:
"I don't know why, as I said before, I have talked of this; I could
not have done it with any one else. Let me thank you for your sympathy
with all my heart."
Then he was gone; and, very grave and thoughtful, Edith sought Trixy
and the upper berth. Miss Stuart lay calmly sleeping the sleep of the
just and the sea-sick, blissfully unconscious of the traitorous goings
on about her. Edith looked at her with a sort of twinge. Was it fair,
after all? was it strictly honorable? "Poor Trix," she said, kissing
her softly, "I don't think it will be _you_!"
Next morning, at breakfast, Miss Darrell noticed that Mr. Stuart,
junior, watched her as he sipped his coffee, with a portentous
countenance that foreboded something. What it foreboded came out
presently. He led her on deck--offered her his arm for a morning
constitutional, and opened fire thus wise:
"What were you and the baronet about on deck at abnormal hours of the
night? What was the matter with you both?"
"Now, now!" cried Edith, "how do you come to know anything about it?
What business have small boys like you, spying on the actions of their
elders, when they should be safely tucked up, and asleep in their
little beds?"
"I wasn't spying; I was asleep. I have no restless conscience to keep
me prowling about at unholy hours."
"How do you come to know, then?"
"A little bird told me."
"I'll twist your little bird's neck! Who was it, sir? I command you."
"How she queens it already! Don't excite yourself, you small Amazon.
It was the officer of the deck."
"The officer of the deck might be much better employed; and you may
tell him so, with my compliments."
"I will; but you don't deny it--you were there!"
"I never deny my actions," she says with royal disdain; "yes, I was
there."
"With Sir Victor--alone?"
"With Sir Victor--alone!"
"What did you talk about, Miss Darrell?"
"More than I care to repeat for your edification, Mr. Stuart. Have you
any more questions to ask, pray?"
"One or two; did he ask you to marry him, Edith?"
"Ah, no!" Edith answers with a sigh that is genuine; "there is no such
luck as _that_ in store for Dithy Darrell. A baronet's bride--Lady
Catheron! no, no--the cakes and ale of life are not for me."
"Would you marry him, if he did? Will you marry him when he does? for
that is what it comes to, after all."
"Would I marry him?" She looks at him in real incredulous wonder.
"Would I marry Sir Victor Catheron--I? My dear Charley, when you ask
rational questions, I shall be happy to answer them, to the best of my
ability, but not such absurdity as that."
"Then, you _will_?"
"Charley, don't be a tease--what do young persons of your juvenile
years know about such things? I don't like the turn this conversation
has taken; let us change it, let us talk about the weather--that's
always a safe subject. Isn't it a splendid morning? Isn't it charming
to have a perpetual fair wind? And how are you going to account for it,
that the wind is always fair going to England, and always ahead coming
out?
"'England, my country--great and free
Heart of the world--I leap to thee!'"
She sings, with a wicked look in her dark eyes, as she watches her
cavalier.
Charley is not going to be put off however; he declines to talk of
either wind or weather.
"Answer my question, Edith, if you please. If Sir Victor Catheron asks
you, will you be his wife?"
She looks at him calmly, steadily, the man she loves, and answers:
"If Sir Victor Catheron asks me, I will be his wife."