IT had been a lovely summer day, with a tinge of autumnal coolness
toward nightfall, ending in what Aunt Jane called a “quince-jelly
sunset.” Kate and Emilia sat upon the Blue Rocks, earnestly talking.
“Promise, Emilia!” said Kate.
Emilia said nothing.
“Remember,” continued Kate, “he is Hope’s betrothed. Promise, promise,
promise!”
Emilia looked into Kate’s face and saw it flushed with a generous
eagerness, that called forth an answering look in her. She tried to
speak, and the words died into silence. There was a pause, while each
watched the other.
When one soul is grappling with another for life, such silence may last
an instant too long; and Kate soon felt her grasp slipping. Momentarily
the spell relaxed. Other thoughts swelled up, and Emilia’s eyes began to
wander; delicious memories stole in, of walks through blossoming paths
with Malbone,--of lingering steps, half-stifled words and sentences left
unfinished;--then, alas! of passionate caresses,--other blossoming paths
that only showed the way to sin, but had never quite led her there, she
fancied. There was so much to tell, more than could ever be explained or
justified. Moment by moment, farther and farther strayed the wandering
thoughts, and when the poor child looked in Kate’s face again, the mist
between them seemed to have grown wide and dense, as if neither eyes
nor words nor hands could ever meet again. When she spoke it was to say
something evasive and unimportant, and her voice was as one from the
grave.
In truth, Philip had given Emilia his heart to play with at Neuchatel,
that he might beguile her from an attachment they had all regretted. The
device succeeded. The toy once in her hand, the passionate girl had kept
it, had clung to him with all her might; he could not shake her off. Nor
was this the worst, for to his dismay he found himself responding to
her love with a self-abandonment of ardor for which all former loves had
been but a cool preparation. He had not intended this; it seemed hardly
his fault: his intentions had been good, or at least not bad. This
piquant and wonderful fruit of nature, this girlish soul, he had merely
touched it and it was his. Its mere fragrance was intoxicating. Good
God! what should he do with it?
No clear answer coming, he had drifted on with that terrible facility
for which years of self-indulged emotion had prepared him. Each step,
while it was intended to be the last, only made some other last step
needful.
He had begun wrong, for he had concealed his engagement, fancying that
he could secure a stronger influence over this young girl without the
knowledge. He had come to her simply as a friend of her Transatlantic
kindred; and she, who was always rather indifferent to them, asked no
questions, nor made the discovery till too late. Then, indeed, she
had burst upon him with an impetuous despair that had alarmed him.
He feared, not that she would do herself any violence, for she had
a childish dread of death, but that she would show some desperate
animosity toward Hope, whenever they should meet. After a long struggle,
he had touched, not her sense of justice, for she had none, but her love
for him; he had aroused her tenderness and her pride.
Without his actual assurance, she yet believed that he would release
himself in some way from his betrothal, and love only her.
Malbone had fortunately great control over Emilia when near her, and
could thus keep the sight of this stormy passion from the pure and
unconscious Hope. But a new distress opened before him, from the time
when he again touched Hope’s hand. The close intercourse of the voyage
had given him for the time almost a surfeit of the hot-house atmosphere
of Emilia’s love. The first contact of Hope’s cool, smooth fingers,
the soft light of her clear eyes, the breezy grace of her motions, the
rose-odors that clung around her, brought back all his early passion.
Apart from this voluptuousness of the heart into which he had fallen,
Malbone’s was a simple and unspoiled nature; he had no vices, and had
always won popularity too easily to be obliged to stoop for it; so all
that was noblest in him paid allegiance to Hope. From the moment they
again met, his wayward heart reverted to her. He had been in a dream, he
said to himself; he would conquer it and be only hers; he would go away
with her into the forests and green fields she loved, or he would share
in the life of usefulness for which she yearned. But then, what was he
to do with this little waif from the heart’s tropics,--once tampered
with, in an hour of mad dalliance, and now adhering in-separably to his
life? Supposing him ready to separate from her, could she be detached
from him?
Kate’s anxieties, when she at last hinted them to Malbone, only sent him
further into revery. “How is it,” he asked himself, “that when I only
sought to love and be loved, I have thus entangled myself in the fate of
others? How is one’s heart to be governed? Is there any such governing?
Mlle. Clairon complained that, so soon as she became seriously attached
to any one, she was sure to meet somebody else whom she liked better.
Have human hearts,” he said, “or at least, has my heart, no more
stability than this?”
It did not help the matter when Emilia went to stay awhile with Mrs.
Meredith. The event came about in this way. Hope and Kate had been to a
dinner-party, and were as usual reciting their experiences to Aunt Jane.
“Was it pleasant?” said that sympathetic lady.
“It was one of those dreadfully dark dining-rooms,” said Hope, seating
herself at the open window.
“Why do they make them look so like tombs?” said Kate.
“Because,” said her aunt, “most Americans pass from them to the tomb,
after eating such indigestible things. There is a wish for a gentle
transition.”
“Aunt Jane,” said Hope, “Mrs. Meredith asks to have a little visit from
Emilia. Do you think she had better go?”
“Mrs. Meredith?” asked Aunt Jane. “Is that woman alive yet?”
“Why, auntie!” said Kate. “We were talking about her only a week ago.”
“Perhaps so,” conceded Aunt Jane, reluctantly. “But it seems to me she
has great length of days!”
“How very improperly you are talking, dear!” said Kate. “She is not more
than forty, and you are--”
“Fifty-four,” interrupted the other.
“Then she has not seen nearly so many days as you.”
“But they are such long days! That is what I must have meant. One of her
days is as long as three of mine. She is so tiresome!”
“She does not tire you very often,” said Kate.
“She comes once a year,” said Aunt Jane. “And then it is not to see
me. She comes out of respect to the memory of my great-aunt, with whom
Talleyrand fell in love, when he was in America, before Mrs. Meredith
was born. Yes, Emilia may as well go.”
So Emilia went. To provide her with companionship, Mrs. Meredith kindly
had Blanche Ingleside to stay there also. Blanche stayed at different
houses a good deal. To do her justice, she was very good company, when
put upon her best behavior, and beyond the reach of her demure mamma.
She was always in spirits, often good-natured, and kept everything in
lively motion, you may be sure. She found it not unpleasant, in rich
houses, to escape some of those little domestic parsimonies which
the world saw not in her own; and to secure this felicity she could
sometimes lay great restraints upon herself, for as much as twenty-four
hours. She seemed a little out of place, certainly, amid the precise
proprieties of Mrs. Meredith’s establishment. But Blanche and her mother
still held their place in society, and it was nothing to Mrs. Meredith
who came to her doors, but only from what other doors they came.
She would have liked to see all “the best houses” connected by secret
galleries or underground passages, of which she and a few others should
hold the keys. A guest properly presented could then go the rounds of
all unerringly, leaving his card at each, while improper acquaintances
in vain howled for admission at the outer wall. For the rest, her ideal
of social happiness was a series of perfectly ordered entertainments,
at each of which there should be precisely the same guests, the same
topics, the same supper, and the same ennui.