CHAPTER IX.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

When Blanche received Cecil's note, informing her that he was to dine

at the club, she felt truly glad. Ill as she could spare his

company, especially in such a house as Mrs. Tring's, she felt glad.

The good little thing forgot her own loss in the idea of his

pleasure. She was so delighted that he was going to enjoy himself

for once among his old friends. After the miserable fare of their

boarding-house, how he would relish the cuisine of his club! He

wanted a little change. He wanted relaxation: he overworked himself.

This was the way little Blanche accepted her husband's first absence

from home. I dare say, thin-lipped madam, you wholly disapprove of

her simplicity; you think she did not understand men and husbands;

that she showed false generosity. You would not have taken it so

quietly--not you! In her place, you would at once have seen through

the selfishness and want of attention which permitted a husband, so

newly married, to leave his wife in that way, and return to his vile

bachelor haunts. In her place, you would have sat up for him,

cowering under a huge shawl, careful that the candles should be burnt

to the last inch, you having allowed the fire to go out; and you

would have received him either in the sullen dignity of silence, or

with hot, fast-falling tears.

In her place,--But Blanche, my dear madam, had not your thin lips and

fretful organization. She was an innocent, artless, affectionate,

little creature, adoring her husband, believing herself unworthy of

him, and only happy in his happiness. She lived for him. If he was

happy by her side, it gave her exquisite delight; if he was happy,

away from her, she felt, indeed, the void of his absence; but the

thought of his being amused, took from absence its pain. Jealousy

she had none. Her trusting nature could not harbour it: certain of

his love, to question it would be profanity.

So till ten o'clock she occupied herself cheerily enough. After

that, she began to expect him. Eleven struck. "He has been kept

later than he intended," she said.

A novel was on the table. She began to read it. Cecil's face was

constantly dancing on the page; and, once or twice, when the author

mentioned convivial dinners, she pictured to herself Cecil surrounded

by admirers, the wine passing freely, no one heeding the time; and,

as the clock struck twelve, she said, "He is greatly amused."

There was something of the sublime devotion of woman's love in this

quiet reflection, which, as in all generosity, had its own sweet

recompense. The thought made her happy, and hid from her the fact

that it was twelve o'clock, and she was waiting for him.

She continued her novel.

Cecil was hurrying home, very uneasy at having stayed out so late.

The stupor which wine had occasioned was quite gone, and he began to

reproach himself for having accompanied Chetsom to Hester's. He had

never left Blanche before. How could she have passed her evening?

What would her anxiety be when ten, then eleven, then twelve, then

one o'clock struck, and he not home? What excuse should he make?

Nothing can better express the difference between Cecil and Blanche,

than these two thoughts:--

"He is greatly amused!"

"What excuse shall I make?"

The confidence and love of the one is not more distinctly indicated

by the first, than the weakness of the other is by the second.

No excuse was needed. When he arrived home, instead of reproaches,

silent or expressed, he was met with kisses and joyous questions.

All she seemed curious about was, how he had been amused. For

herself, she had passed the time pleasantly enough. Her work and her

novel had amused her. Oh, he wasn't to think himself of such

consequence: existence was not insupportable without him--for a few

hours!

Cecil took both her hands in his, and, pressing his lips upon her

lovely eyes, felt deeply, inexpressibly, what a treasure he had got;

but he said nothing; nor was it necessary to say it. She understood

him.

Cecil was careful not to whisper a word of Hester's equivocal

position to Blanche, who imagined Miss Mason to be some worthy old

maid.

On the following Wednesday, Cecil again went to Hester's, and again

spent a pleasant evening. He there met some painters, whom he was

desirous to know. This gave a colouring of business to his visits--a

pretext to himself, for Blanche needed none.

The more Hester saw of Cecil, the more he engaged her fancy, and, at

last, her affections. Of this he was wholly unconscious. His own

love for his wife was an amulet against all Hester's coquetries. But

although no harm as yet had come to his affections, through this

acquaintance with Hester, who could say that it would long continue

thus? Cecil must discover her affection in time, and then...

Yet into this peril did Blanche innocently urge him. She knew he was

amused there; she knew he there extended his acquaintance among

artists; and she was happy that he should take the relaxation of one

evening in the week.

The peril was, however, twofold: it was not only that Cecil should be

entangled by Hester--that was an uncertainty; it was also--and this

more certain--that the poor, struggling artist, by nature indolent,

and by accident now pampered in his indolence, should, in these club

dinners and conversaziones, once more have the desire for luxury

awakened in him, and a distaste for his present condition render it

insupportable.

This latter peril was perhaps the more formidable of the two. Cecil

fell into it. The oftener he went to his club--he had never ceased

paying his subscription, having always had the prospect of very soon

being in a condition to belong to a club with propriety--the oftener

he went there, the greater his disgust at the gloomy house and

niggardly fare of the home he had chosen. Unhappily he could not

leave it. Partly, because his funds made its cheapness all

important; partly, because he still hoped its beggary would work upon

Meredith Vyner's feelings.

BOOK V.

CHAPTER I.

LOVE FEIGNED AND LOVE CONCEALED.

_Fidelia_. You act love, sir! you must but act it indeed after all I

have said to you. Think of your honour, sir:--love!

_Manly_. Well, call it revenge, and that is honourable. I'll be

revenged on her.

WYCHERLEY.--_The Plain Dealer._

When the Vyners returned to town, and Rose discovered that Julius was

in Italy, the grief which had assailed her, in the first remorse at

having played with his affection, was crossed with a certain feeling

of indignation at the calmness, as she called it, with which he

accepted his fate. This was very unreasonable, I allow; very. It

was not at all like a heroine; but it was like a woman, I believe;

and certainly like Rose.

For you must understand that my little darling, Rose, so exquisitely

pretty, so witty, so charming, and so good _au fond_, was by no means

faultless. She had her whims and caprices, her faults and her

follies, just as if she were an ordinary woman, and not the heroine

of a three volume novel. If I were painting women as they _should

be_, of course no speck or flaw would I permit upon the radiant

loveliness of my picture; but women as they _are_--the

darlings!--admit of no such flattery.

Rose reasoned thus:--He must know I love him; or, if he is so blind

as not to have seen it, he ought at least to have persevered. Who

ever heard of a man giving up a woman in that cool way, because she

did not throw herself into his arms, the first moment it pleased him

to declare himself? He can't be really in love. He is _rationally_

attached to me; and reason tells him to--go to Italy! Does he expect

I am to follow him? does he expect I am to write to him? does he

expect I am to be penitent? He is greatly mistaken! I will forget

him: I will!

But she could not. She was angry with him; but his image was

constantly before her. A spirit naturally high, and fostered into a

sort of pugnacity by the experience of her school life, Rose was at

all times too apt to rebel against the least opposition, and never

learnt to brook what could be construed into an insult. Julius's

conduct seemed to her an insult. Either it was dictated by a

coolness not akin to genuine love, or it was dictated by a desire to

make her repent her refusal. She adopted both suggestions

alternately, and both she construed into an offence. Her pride was

roused, and the struggle between pride and love had thrown her into

that "slight fever" of which she spoke to Blanche.

She went into society with the determination of forgetting Julius,

and of finding some one to replace him in her heart--but found no one.

Violet began to suffer the depressing forebodings of jealousy. She

loved Marmaduke, and confessed it to herself. His attentions to Mrs.

Vyner at first irritated her, because she thought them hypocritical,

knowing his opinion of that false woman; and she could not brook the

idea of his stooping to conciliate one he despised, although he did

so merely to gain a frequent admission to the house. But after a

little while she fancied there was more in his attentions, and that

they had another aim.

This idea was slow in gaining ground, but it gained it steadily.

Unwilling as she must have been to believe it, both on account of

Mrs. Vyner being married, and also on account of Marmaduke's very

expressive attentions to herself, nevertheless there was no

withstanding the horrible suggestions of appearances; and combat them

as she might, they gained ground in her mind. Now rising into

something like a certainty, now driven back again by some word, look,

or act which spoke too plainly of his love for her; but advancing and

receding, and advancing and receding again, like the alternating

progress of a tide flowing in, this horrible idea gained upon her.

Marmaduke's conduct was indeed calculated to foster that suspicion.

He was placed in a strange position. Violet he loved, ardently

loved; but his impetuous nature somewhat curbed itself before her

equally haughty, and still more powerful mind. Violet had the

superiority of moral elevation, and moral firmness. Marmaduke,

though firm and dauntless, was more volatile; his organization, was

of that nervous and impressionable order, which, although capable of

carrying him with indomitable firmness through anything he willed,

was nevertheless more easily swayed by the caprice and passion of the

moment, than the more self-sustained calm strength of Violet. He

instinctively stood in a sort of awe of her. He bowed down to her

superior nature, which he admired and worshipped; but he did not feel

so much her slave as Mary Hardcastle had made him feel hers.

Perhaps this difference arose from the changes which had taken place

in his own nature, since the time when Mary Hardcastle had called him

hers. I know not. Certain it is that the tiny sylph-like Mary

exercised an almost absolute power over him; while the imperial

Violet cowed, but did not master him. Above all, he was repelled by

Violet's coldness. If in the country she had sometimes damped his

ardour by her haughty reserve, she had, since their arrival in town,

scarcely ever unbended, for she was hurt at his attentions to Mrs.

Vyner.

From time to time he fancied he discerned in her manner a secret

passion for him, and then his devotion to her was such as to irritate

Mrs. Vyner with tormenting suspicions. But these were only passing

moods; Violet soon relapsed into her old manner, and the baffled

indignant Marmaduke turned impatiently again to Mrs. Vyner.

As love seemed denied him, at least he would secure his revenge. To

secure that, required immense thought and ingenuity. He bestowed

upon it the patience and finesse of a savage. It was a drama which

called forth all his faculties, and which, as it might deepen into

tragedy at any moment, kept him in a state of intense excitement, and

greatly confused his moral perceptions.

The last sentence is one upon which I would lay great stress, because

it enables me to explain Marmaduke's actions, which, however

inexcusable, are not to be judged as if they were the results of calm

deliberation. Passion blinded him, as it blinds all men; confused

his judgment while sharpening his instincts; and altogether distorted

his sense of moral rectitude.

Nor is this all: the excitement not only confused his moral sense,

but also, by a physiological law, the subtle power of sympathy,

changed what was originally a pretence into a reality. The love we

begin by feigning, we end by feeling; at least so far as the mere

sensuousness of the feeling goes. Excitement at all times has a

singular power of awakening into life the germs of vague desires. It

intensifies a thought into a desire, a desire into a passion.

Marmaduke began by feigning a return of his former love for Mrs.

Meredith Vyner. Her artful doubts increased his desire to convince

her. His increased eagerness gave greater sharpness, and

distinctness to that desire. Carried away by his own acting, he

began at last to feel some of the passion of his part. Memory

recalled the charms he once adored; and Mrs. Vyner was there in all

the fascination of her strange beauty, to make his pulses vibrate as

of old. The spell of those tiger eyes; the perfume of that golden

hair; the witchery of that fantastic manner, began to move the

voluptuousness within him, as before. And the very restraints

imposed upon him no less by her position, than by her adroit

avoidance of him, irritated him the more. She would not permit him

to breathe a word of his passion. She would not suffer him to take

her hand; to his ardour she opposed her affectation of moral

scruples, and what "was due to her husband!" She kept him at a

distance, without forbidding him the house.

The result was, that Desire intensified the passion of Revenge. He

not only burned to conquer, in order that he might gratify the dark

passion which was rankling in his heart, as it only rankles in those

"children of the sun," but also because the woman he hated fascinated

him.

This fascination will be incomprehensible to those whose colder

temperaments, or more limited experience, have not brought home to

them the fact that we may at once despise and admire; that we may

have indeed, a positive contempt for a person in whose presence we

are as if under a spell.

The secret is, that esteem and respect are founded upon moral

sympathies and judgments; but the charm of beauty and manner appeals

to the more sensuous and emotional parts of our nature, and these,

while the charm continues, triumph.

Thus Marmaduke, when alone, despised Mrs. Meredith Vyner, as one who

knew her; but in her presence he was often strangely fascinated. Did

he then cease to love Violet? Not he. His heart never wavered;

never for an instant did she step from off the pedestal on which his

love had placed her. True that, owing to the wide signification in

which the word Love is used, he may have been said at times to love

Mrs. Vyner, because he certainly often felt for her that desire which

is all some men know of love. But, call it by what name you please,

it had no affinity to the love he felt for Violet.

And Mrs. Vyner? She was proud, excessively proud, of her triumph.

She watched Violet's dawning jealousy, and deepening sadness, with a

quiet savageness, horrible to think of; and she noted the increasing

entanglement of Marmaduke in her net, with the pride of a coquette

regaining her prey, and triumphing over a handsomer younger woman.

She never for an instant doubted Marmaduke's sincerity; and although

his attentions to Violet sometimes irritated her, she deceived

herself by supposing that he only paid them to excite her jealousy.

I have observed a paradoxical fact in human nature, which I here

record, without professing to explain it; and it is this--hypocrites

are easily duped by the hypocrisy of another, and liars are always

credulous. La Rochefoucauld has also noticed that "quelque défiance

que nous ayons de la sincérité de ceux qui nous parlent, nous croyons

toujours qu'ils nous disent plus vrai qu'aux autres." I suppose it

is in both cases our confidence in our own sagacity which misleads

us; but there is the fact, let moralists make what they can of it.

Well, this fact explains to us why that consummate actress, Mrs.

Meredith Vyner, was completely duped by the acting of Marmaduke, the

truth of whose passion she never thought of doubting. And what was

said before respecting the effect of acting upon the mind, and its

changing pretence into reality, must also be applied to her: with all

the greater force arising from her mind not being in any way disposed

against him, as his mind was against her. If he, who hated her, was

insensibly led to feel something of the passion which he feigned, how

much more likely would she be to admit the same influence, her mind

being free from all dislike?

She began to love him, but it was in her way: with the head not the

heart, with her senses not her soul!

CHAPTER II.

DOUBTS CHANGED INTO CERTAINTIES.

Violet's fears were soon to be confirmed.

The reader may remember a certain Mrs. Henley, mentioned in our

prologue as the friend who consented to favour the meetings of

Marmaduke and Mary, and whose kindness Mary never, never could

forget. He will not be surprised to hear that Mary Hardcastle, on

becoming Mrs. Meredith Vyner, considerately cut her former friend; a

proceeding which so much astonished Mrs. Henley, that she declared

she had "always expected as much."

Now this Mrs. Henley was a sort of distant cousin of the anecdotical

Mrs. Merryweather, who boarded at the Tring establishment. Mrs.

Henley calling one day upon her cousin, was shown into that gloomy

reception-room the reader knows, and there, amongst other subjects of

gossip, the fellow-boarders of Mrs. Merryweather were biographically

and critically touched upon by that lively lady. When she came to

Blanche, and mentioned her being the daughter of no less a person

than Meredith Vyner, Esq., Mrs. Henley interrupted her to give a

detailed character of Mrs. Vyner, with an eloquent account of her

base ingratitude, and of the shameful way in which she had treated

poor Mr. Ashley.

This information Mrs. Merryweather, of course, imparted to Blanche,

with more circumlocutions and interspersed anecdotes than the reader

would like to have set down here. Blanche, aware of the state of her

sister's affections, felt somewhat uneasy on learning Marmaduke's

previous attachment; and although she did not guess how matters

stood, yet the idea of his having so far forgotten his former love,

as to pay court to a step-daughter greatly puzzled her.

The next time Violet and Rose called upon her, she communicated to

them the information she had received. Rose was greatly scandalized,

Violet deeply moved.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Rose, "to think of mama having behaved so!

But can it be true? Yes; the information is too precise. Yet

Marmaduke has forgiven...."

"But not _forgotten_ her!" said Violet, in a calm, stern voice.

"What do you mean?"

"He loves her still."

"Violet!"

"I am very serious."

"And his attentions to you...?"

"Hypocrisy!"

"Impossible! Violet, how can you think so ill of people?"

"You often ask me, Rose, how I can think so ill of mama. Yet you

have to-day heard that which will partly justify me. You believe

that mama assists dear Blanche, by money saved from her own

allowance. I know that it is papa who sends the money. I tell you

she is made up of falsehood."

"But Marmaduke?"

"Of him I thought better--yet you see?"

"I see nothing. He loves you--has forgiven mama, and is attentive to

her merely to gain opportunities of seeing you."

Violet shook her head mournfully.

"Do not condemn him unheard, Violet. Watch him closely, then

question him. You know not what explanation he may have. Oh! do not

let there be more misunderstanding in our family."

Violet had turned away her head to conceal her tears, but the effort

was in vain; her uncontrollable grief burst forth more violently from

having been a while restrained.

She resolved to bring Marmaduke to an explanation that very evening,

and the resolution calmed her.

It so happened that during the day Marmaduke had been more than

usually irritated by Mrs. Vyner's manners. He had spoken to her

eloquent words of love, and demanded a return; the more impassioned

he became, the more she drew back behind her position as a married

woman.

"You love me," he exclaimed, "I know you love me. You cannot deny

it."

"Marmaduke, I have already told you this is language I must not, will

not listen to."

"Answer me: can you deny it?"

"I shall answer nothing of the kind."

"But I insist."

"If I must leave the room," she said, "if you force me to leave

it,--and unless you change the subject, I shall certainly do

so,--this will be the last time I shall ever trust myself in your

presence."

He rose, and took up his hat as if to depart.

"Mary, you will repent this."

She only shrugged her shoulders.

He moved towards the door.

"Do you dine here to-day?" she said, with an affectation of

carelessness, through which pierced an entreaty.

"No."

He left her in anger. He did not dine there that day, but he came in

during the evening. Rose and Violet, watching his manner very

closely, could see nothing in it but polished courtesy, mixed with

some slight indications of dislike towards Mrs. Vyner, unmixed

courtesy towards Meredith Vyner, and unmistakeable affection for

Violet.

In truth he was more attentive to Violet that evening, owing to the

scene just recorded; and when Mrs. Vyner proposed a game at chess he

declined it, on the ground that he should not be able to stay long

enough that evening; he was engaged to two parties. Yet he never

moved from Violet's side until past eleven!

"Well," said Rose, as she went into Violet's room that night, "what

do you say now?"

"I think you are right."

"I am sure of it."

"And yet, Rose--place yourself in my position--is it not horrible to

think of his having once loved her?"

Rose felt that it was, but unwilling to say so, merely remarked that

he was then but a boy, and boys must love somebody.

"Yes, but _her_! Any one rather than her! Oh, Rose, I shall never

be happy!"

"Don't say that. He has clearly forgotten all about it--treats it as

a boyish flirtation. His heart is undeniably yours--happy girl that

you are to be able to say so! Would that I could know Julius was

mine on the same conditions!"

"Would you accept him?"

"Gladly."

"And the thought of her would not poison your happiness?"

"No."

Violet sighed deeply, and was silent. She tried to persuade herself

that she ought not to be affected by the dark and bitter thoughts

arising from the discovery of her lover's prior attachment; but

instinctively she returned to the subject, to dwell on it with morbid

satisfaction.

She passed a wretched night. Broken dreams of Marmaduke at her

mother's feet, suddenly changing to dreams of her own marriage,

interrupted at the foot of the altar, made her sleep restless. Her

waking thoughts were scarcely less irritating. Sometimes she would

try to believe that Mrs. Henley might have been misinformed,

sometimes that the Mr. Ashley of whom she spoke might have been

another Mr. Ashley, and sometimes that it was a mere flirtation which

gossip had magnified, into an engagement. But these thoughts were

chased away by the recollection of various looks interchanged with

Marmaduke, when her mother was mentioned, looks which plainly told

her that he had discovered the falsehood which was under the little

creature's affected sensibility and goodness.

CHAPTER III.

DECLARATION.

Marmaduke persevered for several days in his system of polite

indifference towards Mrs. Meredith Vyner, while his attentions to

Violet became more and more explicit. Her suspicions were gradually

giving way.

One evening they sat in the drawing-room discussing _Norma_, which

they had seen the night before; and passing from the singers to the

story, Violet remarked what a grand tragic idea it contained.

"Yet I scarcely think," said Mrs. Vyner, "that the story is taken up

at its best point. Suppose the author had shown us the early

struggles of Norma--her passion gradually consuming religious

scruples--would not that have been fine? Then, again, after she

loves Pollio, her struggles to conceal from others the crime she has

been guilty of; surely there is nothing more fearful than the combat

in a woman's breast, when she is hourly striving first to resist a

passion, and then to conceal it because she knows its guilt!"

Her eyes were bent upon Marmaduke as she said this, and Violet

noticed their strange expression.

"You will accuse me of libelling your sex," said he, laughing, "if I

answer as I think."

"Let us hear what ill you think of us," said Rose. "Mr. Wincot will

defend us, I am sure; won't you?"

Tom Wincot, who was quietly winning Vyner's money at écarté,

answered, as he marked the king,--

"You know, Miss Wose, knight-ewantwy is a principle with me; without

being womantic I have an exaggewated wespect for the sex, which makes

me cwedulous of all their virtues; so wely on me."

"Oh, I am not going to maintain my opinion at the sword's point,"

said Marmaduke; "but, nevertheless, since you wish to hear it, this

it is: women are such capital actresses, that I fancy it would have

given Norma very little trouble either to feign or conceal any

feeling she pleased."

"Atwocious! ... (I pwopose--thwee, if you please)."

"Mr. Ashley's opinion of the sex does not say much for his

acquaintance with it," said Violet, with a slight touch of scorn in

her tone.

"It does not," he replied; "in fact, my _early_ impressions were not

calculated to make me gallant."

He looked at Mrs. Vyner as he spoke; she kept her eyes fixed on her

embroidery; but Violet noticed her efforts to conceal agitation.

The entrance of Sir Chetsom Chetsom put an end to the discussion.

The old beau was more resplendent than ever; and the belief that

Hester loved him had really made him look younger. Conversation

became frivolous at once, except between Marmaduke and Violet, who

were earnestly talking together: too earnestly for Mrs. Vyner's

comfort, and, accordingly, she from time to time addressed a question

to Marmaduke, in the hope of bringing him into the general discourse;

but he contented himself with a simple reply, and then resumed what

he was saying to Violet.

Jealousy was tormenting Mrs. Vyner, and Marmaduke knew it. He had so

studied every look and movement of her, that, actress as she was, she

could not easily deceive him; and he felt a strange delight in thus

penetrating beneath her mask, and there contemplating the agitated

features.

To understand his persistance in the perilous game he was playing,

you must endeavour to appreciate the strange, intense, never-ceasing

excitement which every scene of the drama afforded him; you must

remember that almost every phrase had its interpretation, every

trivial act revealed some motive, every look was carefully noted. Of

her consummate hypocrisy he was fully aware; but he was also aware

that she loved him. How much was love, and how much pretence, he

could not tell, and he was always on the alert to discover it;

meanwhile, the very doubt was an extra stimulus. Those who, no

matter for what purpose, have ever been obliged thus to watch the

acts, words, and looks of one whose real motives and feelings it is

important they should detect, will be able to understand the

excitement of this situation. Marmaduke the more readily indulged in

it owing to his peculiar organization, which made excitement a sort

of necessary stimulus to him.

That very evening he saw her turning over the leaves of a book,

occasionally casting an anxious glance at the contents, which made

him aware that she was seeking for some particular passage. At last

she seemed to find it. The silk ribbon, which served to mark the

place, she moved from where it was before, and with a careless and

apparently unintentional action, let it fall at that part of the

volume which she then held open. Turning over a few more leaves, she

then closed the book, and leaned her arm upon it.

Violet had also noticed this, but in that casual way in which we

notice things which have no significance for us at the time, though

afterwards, when some light is thrown upon them, the memory repeats

every detail. This she had _seen_ without _observing_. In about ten

minutes afterwards Mrs. Vyner said,--

"By-the-bye, Mr. Ashley, were not you to borrow my Petrarch? Here it

is for you. Be careful of it, for it is one of my favourite books."

Marmaduke at once guessed there was something in this offer, which

did not appear on the face of it; and then recollecting her search

for a passage, and the removal of the book-marker, concluded that the

passage was meant for him to read.

Violet recollected it also, and rightly guessed the meaning.

Marmaduke took the volume, and placed it on a side table, and then

resumed his conversation with Violet.

Her anxiety to get hold of the volume, and read the pages where the

book-marker was placed, became so great that she soon ceased to pay

any attention to what he said. By way of diverting him from the

present position, she proposed that they should sing a duet. He

readily accepted, and Rossini's _M'abbraccia Argirio_ was at once

commenced.

When that was finished, Violet asked him to sing _Io son ricco e tu

sei bella_ from L'Elisire d'Amore, with Rose, and while they were

singing it, she returned to her former place. Then, as if casually,

but with an agitated heart, she took up the Petrarch. It opened at

the Trionfo della Morte, at that passage where Laura makes the

exquisite avowal of her love veiled by reserve; as Violet read these

words,--

Mai diviso

Da te non fu'l mio cor, nè giammai fia;

Ma temprai la tua fiamma col mio viso.

Perchè a salvar te e me, null' altra via

Era alla nostra giovinetta fama;*

* "Never was my heart separated from thee, never will it be; but I

tempered the ardour of thy passion with the austerity of my look,

since there was no other way to save us both."

Her breath was suspended, and with a feeling of sick anxiety, she

continued to read,--

Quante volte diss' io: questi non ama

Anzi arde, onde convien ch' a ciò proveggia.

E mal può proveder chi teme o brama.

_Quel di fuor miri, e quel dentro non veggia_.*

* "How often have I said to myself, he loves me, nay, he burns for

me, and I must avert the danger: let him see my face, but not what

passes in my heart!"

Her head began to swim; there was no mistaking the significance of

the avowal. With an effort she continued--

Più di mille fiate ira dipinse

Il volto mio, ch' amor ardeva il core,

Ma voglia in me ragion giammai non vinse.

Poi se vinto ti vidi dal dolore

Drizzai'n te gli occhi allor soavemente

Salvando la tua vita e'l nostro onore.*

* "A thousand times and more, anger was painted on my brow, while

love flamed in my heart; but never did desire vanquish reason in me.

Then, when I saw thee subdued by grief, I softly raised my eyes to

thine, thus saving thy life and our honour."

The lights danced before her eyes, her head was dizzy, and had she

been alone she must have fainted; but the strong necessity for

self-mastery gave her strength.

Marmaduke's clear voice was at that moment giving mock tenderness to

the words--

Idol mio non più rigor,

Fa felice un senator.

Tom Wincot was leisurely dealing.

Violet was horribly conscious of her position, and gaining, in that

consciousness, energy enough to subdue her emotion, with a trembling

hand she replaced the book. As she did so, her eye encountered, for

an instant, the piercing gaze of Mrs. Vyner. It was but a look, it

lasted but an instant, but in that look what meaning was concentrated!

The duet was finished, and Mrs. Vyner was by Marmaduke's side,

complimenting him on his singing, before Violet had recovered from

the shock which that look had given her.

What a situation! Not only had she intercepted Mrs. Vyner's

unmistakeable avowal, but she had been detected by her in the very

act. The secret was not only discovered, but it was known to be

discovered.

Violet, unable longer to remain in the room, retired quietly to

indulge in her intense sorrow by herself.

With a sense of utter desolation she threw herself on a chair, her

eyes fixed vacantly on the ground, her hurrying thoughts whirling

round one object, restless, agitating, and feverish. She did not cry

at first: it was more like stupor than grief; but as her ideas became

clearer, they awakened her to anguish, and she wept.

She wept over the hopelessness of her love; she wept over the

degradation of her lover. Low sobs burst from her, and the tears

which rolled down her cheeks were unchecked.

A touch upon her hand startled her: it was the rough paw of her

affectionate Shot, who had been seated by her side, looking

sorrowfully in her face, sympathizing with her sorrow; finding

himself unheeded, he had lifted his paw, and rested it upon her hand.

She smiled mournfully upon him through her tears; he answered her

with a plaintive whine, and rising upon his hind legs, thrust his

shaggy head caressingly into her hand.

"My poor Shot!" she said, "_you_ love me--you are not false!"

He whined again, and thrust his nose into her hand.

But his demonstrations of affection only made her grief the greater,

his caressing whining sympathy only made her more painfully aware of

her need for sympathy, and she sank back in a paroxysm of tears which

lasted some time. Then rising, she dried her eyes, gulped down her

sighs with a strong effort, and said,--"I will endure!"

The passion of her grief had passed, and she was calm.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TEMPEST LOURS.

Immediately on reaching home that night, Marmaduke sat down to read

the pages of Petrarch, which had been so significantly marked for

him. As he found the passages before quoted, his attention became

excessively eager; and having read them with curious emotion, he

re-read them with intense care, weighing every line, and interpreting

them to the fullest extent.

He let the book fall upon the table, and throwing himself back in his

arm chair, allowed the current of his thoughts to take their

flattering course.

No man can receive, unmoved, the avowal of a woman's love; and when

that avowal breaks through all prudence, and disdains all ties, the

flattery is irresistible. To Marmaduke, it had an additional charm:

it was the capitulation of an enemy he had almost despaired of

conquering. His revenge was at hand!

But now the crisis was so near, his perplexity became tenfold. Now

Mrs. Vyner was won, he was condemned to adopt some plan which would

both secure his vengeance, yet not lose Violet.

Violet had not been so cold of late. His ideas also became clearer.

The agitation of doubt once passed--Mrs. Vyner's declaration having

stilled his impatience--his love for Violet resumed its empire. He

saw that his vengeance was impossible, if he still thought of her;

yet he could not renounce his vengeance. How to attain both objects?

He would invent some plan.

He was in anxious doubt. The invention on which he had relied to

extricate him when the crisis came was now powerless. He could think

of nothing feasible.

Men who scheme are too apt to be caught in their own nets, from this

reckless confidence in their resources. They foresee the danger but

shut their eyes to it. They propose to avoid it by "some plan." But

the vagueness of "some" plan, has to be changed into the precision of

one decided plan, when the time for action arrives; and this must be

one adequate to the occasion.

The next day Violet accompanied Rose on a visit to Fanny Worsley, who

was about to be married. The invitation was eagerly accepted by

Violet, for home had become hideous since the fatal discovery of Mrs.

Vyner's guilty passion. The agonizing struggles she had gone through

on becoming fully aware of her own hopeless love, had sorely tried

the strength of her soul; for although she could not doubt that

Marmaduke loved her, however inexplicable his relations to Mrs.

Vyner, yet she at once saw that these must utterly destroy all hope

of ever being united to him, even could she so far overcome her own

scruples as to accept him. But the masculine strength of mind with

which she was endowed, saved her from being entirely prostrated by

the blow. She rose up against misfortune, looked it fixedly, though

mournfully, in the face, saw its extent, and resigned herself with

stoic courage. Suffer she did, and deeply; but she bore it as an

irremediable affliction, and thus, by shutting herself from the

wearying agitations of fallacious hopes, saved herself from a great

source of pain.

Rose had marked the sudden change in her demeanour, and the traces of

violent grief in her face; but all her affectionate questions had

been so evidently painful, that she ceased to ask them. The

impatience Violet exhibited to be gone, the anxiety to leave home,

more and more excited her curiosity, and as the carriage rolled away

from the door, and Violet fervently exclaimed "thank God!" Rose

twined an arm round her waist, and said,--

"Dearest Violet, tell me what has happened. Something I know has.

Your wretchedness is too visible. Do tell me."

Violet burst into tears, and throwing her arms round her sister's

neck, kept her tightly embraced for some minutes, sobbing fearfully,

and kissing her, but making no effort to speak.

"Talk of it, do dear," said Rose, sobbing with her; "it will comfort

you."

Violet only pressed her closer.

"Tell me what it is. Perhaps I shall be able to explain it."

Violet sobbed, and shook her head in despair.

"Dear, dear, Violet! Don't give way so. Tell me what it is. It may

be only some misunderstanding. It may be cleared up by a word."

Not a word escaped from the wretched girl. Rose wiped away her

sister's fast falling tears, and then wiped her own eyes, and kissed

and entreated, but no answer could she get, beyond a sob, a moan, or

a violent pressure of the hand.

In this way they rode on for some miles.

Exhausted with weeping, Violet closed her eyes, and dozed awhile upon

her sister's shoulder. When she awoke she was calm again. A deep,

unutterable sadness, sharpened her pallid features; and, in a low

voice, she said,--

"Dear Rose, let me beg of you to ask me no questions respecting my

grief: it is irreparable, and it cannot be mentioned. I shall have

strength to bear it, at least I hope so--but not strength to talk of

it. Leave me to my own reflections and to time. Let them know at

Fanny's that I have been ill, and am not yet recovered; but give no

hint of any cause for sorrow."

CHAPTER V.

VACILLATION.

_Lady Plyant_. O consider it, what you would have to answer for, if

you should provoke me to frailty. Alas! humanity is feeble, and

unable to support itself.

WYCHERLEY.--_The Double Dealer._

When Marmaduke called, he found Mrs. Vyner as polite and as distant

as before, with something in her manner which looked like timidity.

He had anticipated a very different reception. After the implicit

avowal, contained in the passage of Petrarch, he anticipated that all

coquetry, all reserve, would be cast aside, and that she would throw

herself into his arms. How little he understood her!

Irritated by this resumption of her former manner, he at last said,--

"Mary, I am not to be trifled with any longer. Tell me once for

all,--Did you give me that book on Monday evening to make a fool of

me; or did you give it that I might understand you?"

She was knitting a purse, and continued her work without making the

slightest observation.

"Mary, take care! take care! I am violent--do not rouse me. I must

decide to-day whether I am to be your's or _another's_."

She trembled slightly as he said this, and raised her eyes to his.

"You have played with my affection too long already. To-day must end

it. Mary, do you love me?"

She kept her eyes fixed upon his, and smiled.

"I will take no equivocal answer," he said, rising, and approaching

her; "if it is to end, it had better end at once."

She shook back her golden tresses, and motioning him to be seated,

with a most significant smile, said,--"Marmaduke, you need not go."

He sat upon the ground at her feet, and looking up into her face,

whispered,--

"My own Mary!"

She drooped over him, so as to cover his head with her luxuriant

hair, and kissed him on the brow.

His heart swelled with triumph, and his senses were violently

agitated.

She also triumphed, as she gazed upon the fierce, impetuous creature

whom she had subdued, and who now sat at her feet, his head resting

on her lap, passion darting from his lustrous eyes, sitting there her

slave and her adorer. A scornful remembrance of the haughty Violet,

over whom she now triumphed, gave additional keenness to her delight.

After allowing him to remain some minutes in ecstatic contemplation,

she bade him rise.

"Oh, let me still sit here. Here could I spend my life. Here, my

own exquisite Mary, at your feet--your strange eyes looking thus into

mine, and stirring the fibres of my heart as no eyes ever stirred

them."

"Dearest Marmaduke, remember our love is sacred, but it must not make

us forget prudence--

Salvando la tua vita e'l nostro onore."

This quotation from the passage in Petrarch at once checked the

current of Marmaduke's feelings, and made him remember he had a part

to play. It quelled the emotions of the scene, and recalled to him

that he was but an actor.

He rose, and with well-feigned reluctance entered into her plans for

the preservation of her honour and her virtue, without, at the same

time, affecting their love. They were to love Platonically; they

were to imitate Petrarch and Laura in the depth, constancy, and

purity of their affection.

"Now," thought he, "for my revenge."

How great his vexation when he found that Violet had left home, and

left it for some weeks. He had anticipated an immediate triumph; he

thought from vows of Platonic and Petrarchian love to pass at once to

his declaration to Violet, so that his engagement to her should come

upon Mrs. Vyner like a thunderclap. But now he saw this delayed for

weeks; and to one of his impatient temper this was a serious

irritation.

The absence of Violet weakened his resolution. He was too

susceptible of Mrs. Vyner's personal charms, and too fascinated by

her manner, to remain long in her society without danger. So long as

Violet was present, her magnificent beauty and strong character were

as spells upon him, which counteracted the more sensual attractions

of Mrs. Vyner, and kept him to his meditated plans. But Violet

absent, his senses and vanity were laid open to the assaults of the

adroit coquette. He became more and more in earnest. His desire for

her possession daily encroached upon his desire for vengeance; till

at last he began to think only of accomplishing the former.

The reader may condemn him: he will do so; but he should remember

that Marmaduke was no paragon of virtue, who could resist the

temptations of his senses and his vanity. He belonged, indeed, to

that race of human beings on whom, however great the moral qualities,

yet, from their highly nervous organizations, temptation comes with

tenfold force to what it does on colder-blooded mortals. He had fine

qualities; but neither his education nor his organization fitted him

for a paragon. He was, indeed, a most imperfect hero: very erring,

very human. And, bold and reckless as he was, he pursued the

suggestions of his erring nature without regard to consequences: if

those suggestions were noble, they led him to heroism; if base, they

led him to crime. I state the facts, "nothing extenuate, nor set

down aught in malice;" let those cast the first stone at him, who

feel they can do so with a clear conscience.

CHAPTER VI.

THE TRIAL.

Sa pensée est un monde son cœur un abîme;

C'est ainsi qu'elle va, forte, de crime en crime

Bravant impunément et la peuple et la cour

Ne méritant que haine et n'inspirant qu'amour!

MAD. EMILE GIRARDIN.--_Cléopatre_.

Poor Meredith Vyner was tormented with jealousy. He had blindly

credited his wife, when she told him that she sought to bring about a

match between Marmaduke and Violet, and had rivalled her in his

attentions to the bold suitor, who was to wed this imperious girl.

But from time to time he had felt twinges of jealousy. It seemed to

him that Marmaduke was a great deal too attentive to his wife. He

dared not make any remark; but he observed it with pain. Now, that

Violet was away, and he saw Marmaduke still more assiduous in his

visits, saw him daily in the house, and closeted with his wife for

hours together, his suspicions began to assume a more galling fixity.

He could not deceive himself respecting the dangerous attractions of

his rival. He could not persuade himself that a man of his age had

any strong hold of a young woman's affections. Indeed, his wife had

recently too often reminded him of the difference of their ages, and

made him feel too grateful for the slightest show of affection, for

him to doubt the precariousness of his tenure. It was one of the

weapons she used against him; she knew its value, and never allowed

it to rust. Although, therefore, he adored her, was proud of her,

was proud of even the slight degree of love she pretended to feel for

him, he began to feel that the degree was but small; and this was

perhaps the principal cause of his submissive spaniel-like adoration.

Poor human nature!

If, however, the consciousness of the small return which his

affection met with, made that affection greater, it also made his

jealousy more poignant, and more easily alarmed. He never saw any

one pay her the slightest attention without a qualm. He was jealous

of old men, he was jealous of young men; he was jealous of fools, he

was jealous of wits; he was even jealous of his daughters, because

she showed them so much tenderness!

Judge, then, what he must have felt when he began to see clearly into

the nature of Marmaduke's attention! The poor old pedant used to

pace up and down his study, sometimes up and down the corridor, while

Marmaduke was sitting alone with her in the drawing-room, or in her

boudoir; never venturing to enter, lest his anxiety should be legible

on his countenance, and counting the minutes till the tête-à-tête

broke up.

Several times, while she was out in the carriage, did he open her

escritoire, of which he had a duplicate key, and hurriedly read all

the letters there locked up. But he found nothing that he could

construe into an appearance of criminality. The notes from Marmaduke

were friendly answers to invitations, for the most part, or trifling

communications, in which no word of tenderness, no allusion to

secrets, could give him the slightest uneasiness. Marmaduke had been

too guarded ever to allow himself a suspicious phrase. Not that he

feared Vyner, but because he knew the danger of letters.

These fruitless searches only threw the jealous husband into fresh

perplexities, and made him doubt the justice of the suspicions which

Marmaduke's manner invariably revived.

Nor was it Marmaduke's attentions which alone alarmed him. His

wife's manner was greatly changed. She no longer came into his study

that he might read aloud to her for an hour or two in the morning.

She no longer interested herself in his Horatian labours. She no

longer cajoled him, no longer petted him. She was fretful,

capricious, abstracted. She threw his old age more frequently in his

face. She began to talk sentimentally about "incompatibilities;" and

to declaim about the necessity for "passion." The gay, little,

sarcastic, worldly-wise woman changed into a fervent admirer of

Petrarch, Byron, and Rousseau.

Symptoms not to be mistaken!

The truth is, Mrs. Vyner, always more in earnest than Marmaduke, had

now so completely caught the feeling of the part she had assumed,

that from feigning, it had passed into reality. She loved him. She

even sighed over her lot in being wedded to another, and reproached

herself for having been false to her first love.

What had she gained by her falsehood? Station and wealth; but with

it a false and difficult position as stepmother to three girls; and

an old, foolish, pedantic husband whom she mastered, but could not

love. And what are wealth and station in comparison with affection?

The amount of the change which had taken place may be estimated by

that one question.

Such being the disposition of the parties, it may seem strange that

matters did not speedily come to a crisis. But neither the passion

of these guilty lovers, nor the jealousy of the husband forced a

crisis; and for this reason:--

Marmaduke had early committed a capital mistake; a mistake, I mean,

in gallantry. Urged by the impetuosity of his nature, he had

endeavoured to overcome her resistance by persuading her to be his.

Now, a woman yields from excitement, not from persuasion: passion,

not argument, is the instrument of her fall. In endeavouring to

argue the point with her, he was always at a disadvantage, because

his cause was so bad, and he forced her to bring forward good reasons

for refusal. Having uttered these reasons she was forced to abide by

them, not because they were right, but because she could not so

glaringly contradict them by her acts.

To put the case to the reader's experience I would say, that many a

time has he, the reader, been refused a kiss he was fool enough to

ask for, which he might have had for the taking!

The consequence was, that Mrs. Vyner kept within the programme of

Platonic love; and this she managed without exasperating Marmaduke

beyond endurance. An adroit woman has a thousand ways of preserving

herself, and Mrs. Vyner was exceedingly adroit.

Meanwhile, she indulged in her passion without troubling herself much

about consequences. She was content with keeping Marmaduke her

slave. The delight that gave her is indescribable. She was always

inventing some new plan to assure herself of it.

One day he was seated with her in the boudoir, which I have not yet

described, but which, as the temple where she received her devotees,

merits a few words. It was exquisitely fitted up. To throw the

proper light upon her blonde beauty, the furniture was of a pale

blue; and the curtains which, in lieu of a door, separated the

boudoir from the bed-room, were of blue velvet. The walls were

painted: a light, elegant border of arabesque, and a centre piece of

flowers on a light blue ground. A few statuettes, and some recherché

knicknacks, were distributed with art about the room.

Dressed in a light peignoir, the deep rich lace trimmings of which

only half concealed her dazzling bosom, she looked a most seductive

syren in this retreat, and it is no wonder that Marmaduke's senses

were captivated.

On that day, she was fretful. Never had he known her so exasperated

against her husband, and against the wretched bondage in which she

was held as wife to a man she could not love. To hear her talking

about "incompatibilities," and the "degradation" of being linked to

one man, while her heart was another's, you would have supposed she

had been forced into the match, had been sold by some mercenary

parent. From time to time, she would throw up her eyes and sighing

exclaim,--

"No escape! to think there is no escape!"

Marmaduke could not comprehend this. He understood clearly enough

that she never had loved Vyner; but why these bitter complaints at

this moment?

The truth is, she was about to make a great, a wanton experiment of

her power over him; she wished to see how far his passion had made

him her blind and willing instrument; and she suddenly interrupted an

eloquent speech of his by,--

"Of what use is protestation? You say you love me. You say that you

would move heaven and earth to gain me; yet you do nothing: it is all

talk."

"Do! What can I do?"

"Is it for me to tell you?" she said scornfully.

He looked at her wonderingly; but she had resumed her work and was

silent.

"Abuse me for my stupidity," he said; "for upon my word, I do not

understand you."

She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.

"Will you not tell me?" he asked.

She took a skein of silk and said,--

"Hold this, while I wind it."

She fixed the skein on his hands, and began calmly winding, as if

nothing whatever had been said. He waited a few moments expecting

her to speak, but she gave no signs of intending to pursue the

subject.

"Why will you not tell me what is in your thoughts at this moment?"

he said.

"Contempt."

"For what?"

"For mere talkers."

"If you mean me, the contempt is undeserved. Tell me what it is that

can be done, and it shall be done."

She continued to wind the silk, but refused to answer.

"Mary, dear Mary, tell me what you mean."

She kept her eyes bent down and said,--

"Can you not guess?"

"I cannot."

She was again silent. The silk was all wound.

"What is it? For God's sake, speak!"

"There is an obstacle to our happiness--is there not?"

"There is."

"And but one?"

"But one."

She raised her head a little, so as to look him full in the face, and

then closing her eyes, in the way peculiar to her, suddenly flashed

them upon him. In that instant he divined the diabolical thought

which was in her mind, but which she did not dare to utter; he felt a

sickening disgust steal over him, as this idea rushed hideously into

his soul.

There was a breathless pause. He mastered his emotion as well as he

could, and determined to have no possible uncertainty on the subject,

but to make her avow it in all its explicitness. Collecting himself,

therefore, he whispered,--

"_That obstacle must be removed!_"

A strange expression stole over her eyes, as she heard this, and

said,--

"Have you the courage?"

He could scarcely falter out,--

"I have!"

Her point was gained. She no more meant her horrible suggestion to

be realized, than he meant to realize it. They were both trying each

other. She, to see the extent of her power; he, to ascertain the

truth of his suspicions.

Imagining her power great enough to lead him into any crime, she

burst out laughing.

"And do you mean to say you thought me serious, Marmaduke?"

"I did."

"Then what a villain you must be!"

"I am only your slave."

She shook her head at him, and said,--

"Slaves should not listen to such thoughts. If I thought you were

serious, I should loathe you."

"And I should loathe myself," he said, coldly.

It so happened that both believed the other guilty of the serious

intention, and attributed the disavowal to fear of having been

understood. Marmaduke had noticed the affected tone of her laughter;

it was affected, but not from the cause he imagined: it arose from a

sense of uneasiness at having pushed the experiment too far, and from

a dread of his really believing her to be serious.

On the other hand, she noticed the faltering hesitation and coldness

of his tone, which she interpreted into the uneasiness of guilt, but

which really arose from the intense loathing he felt for her. It

only seemed a confirmation of her power.

Nothing could ever have persuaded Marmaduke that Mrs. Vyner was

innocent of the thoughts he attributed to her; and his loathing was

so great, that it not only completely crushed the sort of love he had

felt for her, but revived his desire for vengeance, which he thought

could not be made terrible enough to fitly punish such a wretch.

He dissembled his disgust, and only more urgently pleaded her to

elope with him. At the conclusion of one of his speeches to that

effect, he noticed that she seemed not to attend to him, but to be

eagerly listening. Presently she put her finger upon her lips by way

of caution, and then, in a voice she strove to make calm and

distinct, said,--

"Marmaduke, I do not doubt your love, but I must not, will not listen

to it. I am married. I never can forget that; do not you! If a

sisterly regard will suffice you, that will I give; but you must here

engage to think of me as a brother, and, above all, never again to

let me hear from your lips the language I have heard to-day. Will

you promise me?"

She nodded significantly to him to reply in the affirmative, and he

said,--

"Will you, then, give me no hope?"

"None. You have heard my conditions. Do you accept them?"

"If I must."

"You must."

"Then I do."

"That's right. Now go home."

She put her finger again upon her lips, and motioned him to listen.

The gentle creak of retiring footsteps stealing away was then

distinctly heard. As they ceased, she said,--

"That was my husband. He has overheard us. But fortunately he heard

nothing which I cannot explain. Leave him to me."

Marmaduke went home in a state of fever, torn by the most vehement

emotions, and seeing all darkly before him.

CHAPTER VII.

FATHER AND CHILD.

Meredith Vyner stole back to his study, after having overheard a

portion of the foregoing scene, like one who has just received a

sentence of death. He loved his wife with the unreasoning idolatry

of one who has centred all his affections on a single object. His

children had been gradually estranged from him, his wife had taken

their place in his heart, and now she was listening to the vows of

another!

What he had heard was enough to make him fear the worst. Her refusal

to listen to Marmaduke, and her offer of a purely sisterly regard,

although it assured him that at present she was resolved not to

forget her duty, gave him no assurance that such prudence would long

continue. Could she restrict herself to that sisterly love? Could

she know that one so young, so handsome, so imposing, loved her, and

not at last yield to his love?

He would snatch her from the danger by taking her at once from

London. Away from her lover, she might forget him, or he might seek

another. It was necessary to take a decided step.

When Mrs. Vyner came into his study, he at once assumed an unusual

tone of command, and informed her that it was his pleasure they

should at once return to the country.

"My dear Meredith, what are you thinking of? The country! We cannot

leave town in the height of the season."

"I have my reasons," he said, with as much dignity as he could assume.

"And I have mine for not going."

"But I insist upon it."

She seated herself in one of the easy chairs, and said, quietly,--

"You will not insist when you have heard me. This very morning, Mr.

Ashley has made a foolish declaration of love to me."

He was thunderstruck. The quiet matter-of-fact style in which she

communicated this intelligence, was indeed a masterpiece of

adroitness. There are moments in our lives when audacity is

prudence; and this was one, when nothing but an audacious avowal

could, by anticipating, defeat the accusation she knew he would bring

forward. She lost nothing by avowing it, as she was certain he

already knew it; but, on the other hand, by anticipating him, she was

enabled to give her own colouring to the appearances which condemned

her.

"I see your surprise," she added; "you little expected it, nor did I.

You thought he was attached to Violet; I thought so too; and as I am

sure Violet is attached to him, I have set my mind upon the match.

But now, look here: I received his declaration without anger and

without encouragement. I told him I would love him as a sister, and

made him promise, on pain of instantly refusing to see him, to cease

all such language, and to crush all such hopes. Did I act rightly?"

"Yes--very--very."

"But, suppose I run away into the country, what will he imagine?

That I am afraid of him, afraid of myself; that I love him, and avoid

him. Do you wish him to think _that_? You do not. Then we remain."

"But ... and you ... will you continue to see him?"

"Why not? If I am to avoid him let it be done at once. If not, let

us treat him as if he had never made that silly declaration. He will

soon get over this. It is only a passing fancy. He saw me a mere

girl, wedded to one old enough to be my father, and imagined, as all

men would imagine, that I should be easily persuaded to forget what

was due to my husband, and to myself. I have undeceived him. My

coldness and firmness will soon cure him. He will then think of

Violet."

She ceased. He took vast pinches of snuff in an agitated absent

manner, but made no remark. She perceived that she had gained the

day, and left him to his reflections.

Bitter enough those reflections were. The explicit avowal had

staggered him--had taken from him the very weapon he was to use; but

it had in no way alleviated his jealous anguish. He could not answer

her--yet could not satisfy himself. The reference she had made to

his age still rung in his ears, and told him plainly that his rival

would one day be happy.

That afternoon Violet and Rose returned. He received them with

unwonted tenderness, for his heart ever yearned to those whom he had

excluded from it, and he felt bitter remorse for having sacrificed

them to his wife. Violet was peculiarly dear to him at this moment.

He felt for her misplaced attachment, and remembered how ill she had

been treated at home. He folded her to his breast, with a lovingness

which brought the tears into her eyes, and as she sat down on his

knee, one arm around his neck, delighted with this change in his

manner, she divined at once the real cause of the change. As it was

Mrs. Vyner who had estranged him from her, so must it be Mrs. Vyner

who had brought back his love.

It was a touching sight to see this parent and child united by a

common sorrow, mutually pitying and mutually comforting each other,

having in one embrace forgotten all that had once been distrust and

coldness, and now possessed by that overflowing love which, in its

exaggeration, desires to atone for past coldness.

It was not what they said; for few words passed between them; it was

their eloquent looks, significant pressure of hands, convulsive

embraces, and tones pregnant with meaning. The father mutely

demanded forgiveness, and the child demanded a continuance of love.

After an hour of this intense emotion they grew calmer, and began to

talk of indifferent things. From time to time they hovered about the

name of Marmaduke, and betrayed, in their very recurrence to the

subject, and hesitation in speaking openly of it, how predominant it

was in their minds. At last they ventured on the name. It is

impossible to convey an idea of the conversation which ensued,

because it was conducted in phrases of the most guarded vagueness,

but made full of meaning by the looks which accompanied them.

Slowly, but irresistibly, the conviction came upon her, that her

father had discovered his wife's guilty passion; or, at least,

_suspected_ it. Her object, therefore, was, if possible, to persuade

him that Marmaduke came there for herself; and she even went so far

as to laugh faintly at his efforts to make himself agreeable to Mrs.

Vyner, by way of using a stepmother's influence in his favour.

Her voice shook, as she uttered this heroic falsehood.

He gazed at her with mournfulness; a tear rolled down his cheek; his

heart swelled as he sobbed out,--

"My poor child! my poor child!"

He dared not undeceive her, dared not tell her what he knew.

She saw that she was not believed, but little did she know the

mournful pity with which her supposed credulity filled him.

It was a relief to her when the dinner-bell rang, and put an end to

their interview.

He saw her depart, and sat sighing deeply, wholly bewildered at the

inextricable difficulties of his position; and when Mrs. Vyner came

in, and chatted away about the opera, to which they were going that

night, as if nothing whatever had occurred, he almost felt as if he

had just awakened from a dream-troubled sleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE CRISIS.

Quelle nouvelle a frappé mon oreille!

Quel feu mal étouffé dans mon cœur se réveille!

Quel coup de foudre ô ciel! et quel funeste avis!

RACINE.--_Phèdre._

False! I defy you both:

I have endured you with an ear of fire;

Your tongues have struck hot irons on my face.

CYRIL TOURNEUR.--_The Revenger's Tragedy._

There was an appalling struggle in Marmaduke's breast that day as he

reached home. The terrible scene which had passed between him and

Mrs. Vyner, with its plainly expressed hint at assassination, made

him shudder as he again and again went over it in memory. False and

heartless he had known her; but for _this_ he had not been prepared.

And he felt a sort of sickness come over him as he reflected on the

peril which he had escaped, in Vyner's not coming to listen at the

very moment when she had proposed, and he had affected to accept the

proposition! He would then have been accused of having really meant

to perpetrate the crime; for who would have credited his disavowal?

who would have credited his assurance that he was but feigning what

his soul abhorred?

By a retrospective glance at his own conduct, and at the peril he had

escaped, he was led to meditate on the nature of this woman; and by a

reflection on her criminal thoughts, he was shown the criminality of

his own.

This revenge which he had planned so remorselessly, what was it but a

crime? If he had been wronged by a heartless woman, was it for him

thus to measure out the punishment? and did her jilting him deserve

so terrible a retribution?

After all, was not vengeance a "wild justice," but only the justice

of savages? Was it worthy of civilized, christianized man? And for

a man to wreak it on a woman, was not that petty, ignoble, more like

spite than retribution?

Such were the thoughts which possessed him. That they never

suggested themselves before, arises from the fact of his never having

before been cool enough to question the legitimacy of his feelings.

But now they staggered him; now they came upon him like a remorse;

and he _relinquished his scheme of vengeance_!

The next day, impelled by some strange impulse which he could not

explain, he went to the Vyners. Violet observed the agitation of his

manner, and attributed it to meeting her again, after what had

evidently transpired during her absence. She was, therefore,

considerably surprised when he begged for a few moments' private

conversation with her, at the same time entreating Rose to leave them

alone. She had intended to refuse the request, but Rose had departed

before she could open her lips. Rose too well understood the purport

of that interview, not to be anxious to forward it by her absence.

"Mr. Ashley," said Violet, coldly, "there is no subject upon which I

can hear you alone; you will oblige me, therefore, by suffering me to

follow my sister."

"Violet!"

"Mr. Ashley, by whose authority do you address me in that manner?"

"The authority of my love. Violet, I love you ... you know it ...

but I must tell you so ... I must..."

She moved towards the door; he intercepted her, and put his back

against it. Drawing herself up to her full height, with a haughty

gesture she motioned him to let her pass.

"I did not expect _this_," he said, without moving; "I thought I

should, at least, be heard. Miss Vyner had given me reason to hope

that she would at least suffer me to tell her.... Violet, I cannot

control myself. You _must_ know, you must long have known I loved

you, you must have seen it in every...."

"Mr. Ashley I request to be allowed to leave the room."

"Do you refuse to listen to me?"

"I do."

He stared at her bewildered; there was something so calm and

collected in her manner, yet the manner was so incomprehensible, that

he was speechless for a few moments.

"You cannot ... cannot have mistaken ... for so many months ... do

you mean that you mistook my looks ... my words ... my actions? ...

Did you?"

"I did not."

"Good God! have you then been playing with me?"

"Playing!" she repeated scornfully, yet sadly. "I play!"

"Then what can all this mean? There is some delusion ... a word may

set it right.... You knew I loved you--did you not? You hear it

now. Violet, I love you--love you as man never loved before. Will

you accept that love?"

"Dare you ask me?" she said, fixing her large eyes on his with

searching keenness.

"Violet ... what is it that you doubt?"

"Your purpose."

"My purpose is, to tell you that my heart is yours.... That I live

but in the hope of calling you mine."

Her bosom heaved--her nostrils dilated, and with flashing eyes she

proudly, almost fiercely, exclaimed,--

"Let me pass!"

"What _is_ the meaning of this?"

"Let me pass, sir!"

"Violet! are you mad, or do you think me so? Is my love an insult,

that...."

"It _is_ an insult--a deep insult. Now, sir, will you let me pass?"

"I _will_ know what is at the bottom of all this. You may reject me,

but you _shall_ explain. It is so utterly inconceivable that, after

the encouragement you have given me, you should pretend to regard my

avowal as an insult, that I demand an explanation."

In spite of the rising passion in his breast, he uttered this so

collectedly and so earnestly, that Violet was somewhat perplexed, and

began almost to doubt her own conclusions.

"Mr. Ashley," she said, "a short while ago, such an avowal could only

have been felt by me as an honour; but since that, your own

conscience will tell you why I reject, and reject with deep scorn,

the offer of your hand. Pray let me say no more."

His conscience did tell him, at least it suggested what the cause

most probably was; but wishing to come to an explanation, he said,--

"My conscience tells me that I love you--only you; will you tell me

wherein lies the insult?"

A long struggle ensued in her mind; she could not give him the

explanation he demanded, because unable to bring herself to mention

her stepmother.

"If you persist," she said at last, "I must persist also. I tell you

again, the offer of your love to me--here, in this house, is an

outrage, and scorn is my only answer. Does that suffice? Would you

have me add more bitterness to my refusal?"

"Violet, I cannot quit you without..... Tell me, is there not _that_

in your mind which you shrink from uttering, and which has reference

to _some one_ in this house?"

"You understand me, then?"

"I do."

"Then let me pass at once."

"Not until you have heard me. Will you hear me.... Will you, in

this solemn moment, let me lay before you the whole history of my

heart? You think me a villain, will you listen before you condemn?"

"I know not what plausible excuses..."

"Truth--the simplest truth shall be my defence. If that condemns me,

I will submit in patience. Will you hear me?"

There was something so solemn and so touching in his tone, that

Violet was deeply affected by it; the sad earnestness of his voice

pleaded eloquently in his favour.

He approached, and took her hand; she withdrew it hastily, and moved

towards the mantelpiece, against which she leaned in an attitude of

exquisite dignity, turning her face towards him, prepared to listen.

After gazing stedfastly at her for a few seconds, while he collected

his thoughts, he thus spoke,--

"Violet, I am about to make a most painful avowal; one that will

startle you; one that will seem wholly inexplicable. When but a boy,

I loved--loved as boys love, unreasoningly and ardently. I have

tropical blood in my veins, Violet, and all passions become intense

with me. The girl I loved returned my affection. We were to have

been married. I was called away from England. I returned to my

father in Brazil. My father gave his consent to our marriage. I

wrote to inform her of it: she was overjoyed. Her letters were as

ardent as even I could wish. Suddenly they ceased. My father died.

I was settling his affairs, and preparing to quit Brazil for England,

when I learned from a newspaper that my affianced wife had married

another."

He paused: a choking sensation in his throat impeded utterance.

Violet had listened eagerly, and still kept her eyes fixed upon him.

"I cannot tell you," he resumed, "what I suffered on awakening from

the sort of stupor in which this intelligence threw me. You have

never known--may God preserve you from ever knowing it!--what that

desolation is, when those we love are found unworthy of our love!

The anguish and despair which then tore my soul to pieces, I shudder

to look back upon. It was not that my love had been destroyed--it

was not that which made the pang; it was the horrible, heartless

cruelty with which I had been deceived. I had been sacrificed to

wealth. That I might have forgiven; but it was done so cruelly!

Until she had accepted her husband, her letters were as affectionate

and hopeful as ever. The blow was unbroken in its fall--no wonder

that it nearly crushed me!"

He paused again; and saw tears glisten in the earnest eyes of his

listener. She, too, had known what it was to suffer from hopeless

love!

"Violet, I am fierce and brutal in my instincts, and my education had

been but indifferent--on one point especially it had been

deficient;--in the Christian spirit of forgiveness. Vengeance--the

justice of the savage--was what I had never learned to disown.

Writhing under the torture which had been inflicted, I took comfort

solely in the hope of vengeance. I came to England with that one

absorbing object. Now comes the painful part of iny disclosure--if

indeed you have not already guessed it--the girl who had ... in a

word, it was Mrs. Vyner!"

He expected to see her vehemently startled, but she only whispered,

in a hoarse and broken voice,--

"I knew it."

"You knew it! Then have you understood me?"

"Not quite."

"I must explain, then, my conduct further. I was here in England,

resolved on reparation of the wrong I had suffered. I knew not what

shape my vengeance would take, but I was resolved to have it in some

shape or other. I saw you. To know you, was to love you--and I

loved. In my love, I forgot my misery, and ceased to think of

revenge. You were sometimes cold and haughty to me, Violet;

sometimes kind and encouraging. Do you remember when we rode to the

sands that afternoon, and sat upon the rock together listening to the

sea? I could have told you then how much I loved you, had not your

coldness chilled me. Well, on that very day, while I was suffering

from your indifference; _she_, jealous of you, chose to recall me

back again to my schemes, by pretending that her marriage had been an

act of jealous despair; she roused the demon in me by her infernal

arts, and once more I resolved to wreak upon her the vengeance you

had made me forget. From that moment I have pursued a scheme which

involved her ruin. Many times have I been vacillating, many times

has a kind word or look from you brought me back again to a purer

atmosphere; but _the devil would have it!_ and a haughty gesture from

you has thrown me back again. Hurried onwards by the irresistible

course of events, I was nearly losing myself for ever, when last

night I had my eyes opened. I saw that the only vengeance worthy of

a man was _contempt_. At once, I resolved to cease feigning love for

the miserable being whom I had marked as my victim; resolved to break

away from the net in which I was entangled, by quitting England.

"Before I left England, I had only to learn my fate: if you refused

me, I should carry my despair into distant lands; if you accepted the

offer of a heart, I thought you would not refuse to quit England with

me. You have now heard all. I have told you of my crime: if

repentance will not clear me from the stain...."

The door was thrown violently open before he could conclude the

sentence, and Mrs. Vyner stood before them.

They started as at an apparition.

Fearful indeed was the aspect of the little fury, as with bloodshot

eyes, quivering lips, and spasm-contracted face, she trembled before

them. All that was diabolical in her nature seemed roused, and

looking from her eyes: passion made her hideous.

"Your little history is incomplete," she said in a hissing tone; her

voice lowered by the intensity of her feeling; "there is a chapter to

be added, which you will allow me to add. Miss Vyner is so excellent

a listener that she will not refuse to hear it."

Violet looked haughtily down upon her, and said,--

"I desire to hear no more."

"But you must hear this; it concerns you. You cannot be indifferent

to anything which relates to your honourable lover; you cannot be

unwilling to know that he who offers you his hand is vain fool enough

to be the dupe of any woman, as he has been _mine_. He has told you,

and how prettily he told it! what pathos! what romance! he told you

how I played with him. That is true. He was such a vain silly

creature that no one could resist the temptation. Not only did I

make a fool of him as a girl. I have done so as a married woman. I

persuaded him that even respect for my husband, respect for the world

could not withstand the all-conquering beauty of his lumpish person,

and he believed it! believed that his face was a charm no woman could

resist. This besotted vanity brought him to my feet; yes, even at

the time you were sighing for him, he was at my feet, ardent,

submissive, a plaything for my caprice!"

She saw Violet writhing, and her savage heart exulted in the pain she

was inflicting; she saw Marmaduke's calm contempt, and her

exasperation deepened at the unavailingness of her sarcasms to wound

him.

Turning from her, as from one unworthy of notice, he said to Violet,--

"I repeat, my fate is in your hands. I love you, love you as I never

loved before--with my whole soul: love you with deep reverence for

all that is so great and noble in you, and to that generous and

exalted mind I leave my errors to be judged."

The sarcasm implied in this avowal almost maddened Mrs. Vyner.

"Accept him, Miss Vyner," she said with a short, hollow, and

hysterical laugh; "pray put him out of his misery; accept the

offering of his deep reverence, for that offering is _my leavings_!"

Marmaduke and Violet both started as this poisoned sarcasm, issued

from her lips, and their faces told her plainly she had struck deep.

"A reformed rake, you know, makes the best husband," she pursued; "so

that one so inflammable as _he_ is, will be sure to make a constant

and adoring husband. You will be so happy with him! Whenever

conversation grows dull, he can amuse you with narrating little

episodes of his love for me, and my _cruelty_ that will be so

pleasant! you will never tire of that! Accept him: you will be sure

never to repent it!"

Marmaduke could have strangled her.

Violet, seeing clearly the purpose of these horrible phrases, cut

them short by saying,--

"Mr. Ashley, on some better occasion we will speak again of this; do

not let the present ignoble scene continue."

She held out her hand to him. He pressed it to his lips. Mrs. Vyner

nearly shrieked with mad jealousy; but suppressed the explosion of

her agony; while Violet swept out of the room, disdaining to give

even a passing glance at her.

Mrs. Vyner sank exhausted into a chair. Her brain was as if on fire,

and her whole frame shook violently with the unutterable rage,

jealousy, and hate which stormed within her heart.

Marmaduke could not in his fiercest moments have desired a more

terrible retribution than that which now had fallen on the miserable

woman; and he gazed upon her with a pity which astonished himself.

To this he had brought her; unwittingly it is true, but he felt it

was he who had moved the stone which had fallen and crushed her; and

now that she lay there suffering before him, his anger had gone, and

pity filled its place.

She expected him to speak; she saw his fixed gaze and endeavoured to

interpret it; but he spoke not. Before she was aware of his

intention, he had left the room.

Five minutes afterwards, Meredith Vyner found her apparently lifeless

on the floor: she had swooned.

END OF VOL. II.

London: Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey.