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[Illustration: frontispiece portrait]
VICTOR'S TRIUMPH
SEQUEL TO
A BEAUTIFUL FIEND
BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH
AUTHOR OF "TRIED FOR HER LIFE," "THE LOST HEIRESS,"
"ALLWORTH ABBEY," ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
* * * * *
MRS. SOUTHWORTH SERIES
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH
Allworth Abbey.
Beautiful Fiend, A.
Bride's Fate, The.
Capitola, the Madcap.
Changed Brides.
Cruel as the Grave.
Curse of Clifton, The.
Deserted Wife.
Discarded Daughter.
Hidden Hand.
India.
Ishmael; or, In the Depths.
Lost Heiress, The.
Miriam, the Avenger.
Missing Bride, The.
Mother-in-Law, The.
Mystery of a Dark Hollow.
Retribution.
Self-Raised; or, From the Depths.
Three Beauties, The.
Tried for Her Life.
Victor's Triumph.
Vivia.
_Price, postpaid, 50c. each, or any three books for $1.25_
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
* * * * *
VICTOR'S TRIUMPH.
CHAPTER I.
SAMSON AND DELILAH.
Thus he grew
Tolerant of what he half disdained. And she,
Perceiving that she was but half disdained,
Began to break her arts with graver fits--
Turn red or pale, and often, when they met,
Sigh deeply, or, all-silent, gaze upon him
With such a fixed devotion, that the old man,
Though doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times
Would flatter his own wish, in age, for love,
And half believe her true.
--TENNYSON.
As soon as the subtle siren was left alone in the drawing-room with the
aged clergyman she began weaving her spells around him as successfully
as did the beautiful enchantress Vivien around the sage Merlin.
Throwing her bewildering dark eyes up to his face she murmured in
hurried tones:
"You _will_ not betray me to this family? Oh, consider! I am so young
and so helpless!"
"And so beautiful," added the old man under his breath, as he gazed with
involuntary admiration upon her fair, false face. Then, aloud, he said:
"I have already told you, wretched child, that I would forbear to expose
you so long as you should conduct yourself with strict propriety here;
but no longer."
"You do not trust me. Ah, you do not see that one false step with its
terrible consequences has been such an awful and enduring lesson to me
that I could not make another! I am safer now from the possibility of
error than is the most innocent and carefully guarded child. Oh, can you
not understand this?" she asked, pathetically.
And her argument was a very specious and plausible one, and it made an
impression.
"I can well believe that the fearful retribution that followed so fast
upon your 'false step,' as you choose to call it, has been and will be
an awful warning to you. But some warnings come too late. What _can_ be
your long future life?" he sadly inquired.
"Alas, what?" she echoed, with a profound sigh. "Even under the most
propitious circumstances--_what?_ If I am permitted to stay here I shall
be buried alive in this country house, without hope of resurrection.
Perhaps fifty years I may have to live here. The old lady will die. Emma
will marry. Her children will grow up and marry. And in all the changes
of future years I shall vegetate here without change, and without hope
except in the better world. And yet, dreary as the prospect is, it is
the best that I can expect, the best that I can even desire, and much
better than I deserve," she added, with a humility that touched the old
man's heart.
"I feel sorry for you, child; very, very sorry for your blighted young
life. Poor child, you can never be happy again; but listen--_you can be
good!_" he said, very gently.
And then he suddenly remembered what her bewildering charms had made him
for a moment forget--that was, that this unworthy girl had been actually
on the point of marriage with an honorable man when Death stepped in and
put an end to a foolish engagement.
So, after a painful pause, he said, slowly:
"My child, I have heard that you were about to be married to Charles
Cavendish, when his sudden death arrested the nuptials. Is that true?"
"It is true," she answered, in a tone of humility and sorrow.
"But how could you venture to dream of marrying him?"
"Ah, me; I knew I was unworthy of him! But he fell in love with me. I
could not help that. Now, could I? _Now, could I?_" she repeated,
earnestly and pathetically, looking at him.
"N-n-no. Perhaps you could not," he admitted.
"And oh, he courted me so hard!--so hard! And I could not prevent him!"
"Could you not have avoided him? Could you not have left the house?"
"Ah, no; I had no place to go to! I had lost my situation in the
school."
"Still you should never have engaged yourself to marry Charles
Cavendish, for you must have been aware that if he had known your true
story he would never have thought of taking you as his wife."
"Oh, I know it! And I knew it then. And I was unhappy enough about it.
But oh, what could I do? I could not prevent his loving me, do what I
would. I could not go away from the house, because I had no place on
earth to go to. And least of all would I go to him and tell him the
terrible story of my life. I would rather have died than have told that!
I should have died of humiliation in the telling--I couldn't tell him!
Now could I? _Could I?_"
"I suppose you had not the courage to do so."
"No, indeed I had not! Yet very often I told him, in a general way, that
I was most unworthy of him. But he never would believe that."
"No; I suppose he believed you to be everything that is pure, good and
heavenly. What a terrible reproach his exalted opinion of you must have
been!"
"Oh, it was--it was!" she answered, hypocritically. "It was such a
severe reproach that, having in a moment of weakness yielded to his
earnest prayer and consented to become his wife, I soon cast about for
some excuse for breaking the engagement; for I felt if it were a great
wrong to make such an engagement it would be a still greater wrong to
keep it. Don't you agree with me?"
"Yes, most certainly."
"Well, while I was seeking some excuse to break off the marriage Death
stepped in and put an end to it. Perhaps then I ought to have left the
house, but--I had no money to go with and, as I said before, no place to
go to. And besides Emma Cavendish was overwhelmed with grief and could
not bear to be left alone; and she begged me to come down here with her.
So, driven by my own necessities and drawn by hers, I came down. Do you
blame me? _Do_ you blame me?" she coaxed, pathetically.
"No, I do not blame you for that. But," said the old man, gravely and
sadly, shaking his head, "why, when you got here, did you turn
eavesdropper and spy?"
"Oh, me!--oh, dear me!" sobbed the siren. "It was the sin of
helplessness and cowardice. I dreaded discovery so much! Every
circumstance alarmed me. Your arrival and your long mysterious
conversation with madam alarmed me. I thought exposure imminent. I
feared to lose this home, which, lonely, dreary, hopeless as it is to
me, is yet the only refuge I have left on earth. I am penniless and
helpless; and but for this kind family I should be homeless and
friendless. Think if I had been cast out upon the world what must have
been my fate!"
"What, indeed!" echoed the old man.
"Therefore, I dreaded to be cast out. I dreaded discovery. Your visit
filled me with uneasiness, that, as the day wore away, reached intense
anxiety, and finally arose to insupportable anguish and suspense. Then I
went to listen at the door, only to hear whether your conversation
concerned me--whether I was still to be left in peace or to be cast out
upon the bitter cold world. Ah, do not blame me too much! Just think how
I suffered!" she said, pathetically, clasping her hands.
"'Oh, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive!'"
murmured the old man to himself. Then, aloud, he said:
"Poor girl, you were snared in the web of your own contriving! Yet
still, when I caught you in that net, why did you deny your identity and
try to make me believe that you were somebody else?"
"Oh, the same sin of helplessness and cowardice; the same fear of
discovery and exposure; the same horror of being cast forth from this
pure, safe, peaceful home into the bitter, cold, foul, perilous world
outside! I feared, if you found out who I was, you would expose me, and
I should be cast adrift. And then it all came so suddenly I had no time
for reflection. The instinct of self-preservation made me deny my
identity before I considered what a falsehood I uttered. Ah, have you no
pity for me, in considering the straits to which I was reduced?" she
pleaded, clasping her hands before him and raising her eyes to his face.
"'The way of the transgressor is hard,'" murmured the minister to
himself. Then he answered her:
"Yes, I do pity you very much. I pity you for your sins and sufferings.
But more than all I pity you for the moral and spiritual blindness of
which you do not even seem to be suspicious, far less conscious."
"I do not understand you," murmured Mary Grey, in a low, frightened
tone.
"No, you do not understand me. Well, I will try to explain. You have
pleaded your youth as an excuse for your first 'false step,' as you call
it. But I tell you that a girl who is old enough to sin is old enough to
know better than to sin. And if you were not morally and spiritually
blind you would see this. Secondly, you have pleaded your
necessities--that is, your interests--as a just cause and excuse for
your matrimonial engagement with Governor Cavendish, and for your
eavesdropping in this house, and also for your false statements to me.
But I tell you if you had been as truly penitent as you professed to be
you would have felt no necessity so pressing as the necessity for true
repentance, forgiveness and amendment. And if you had not been morally
and spiritually blind you would have seen this also. I sometimes think
that it may be my duty to discover you to this family. Yet I will be
candid with you. I fear that if you should be turned adrift here you
might, and probably would, fall into deeper sin. Therefore I will not
expose you--for the present, and upon conditions. You are safe from me
so long as you remain true, honest and faithful to this household. But
upon the slightest indication of any sort of duplicity or double dealing
I shall unmask you to Madam Cavendish. And now you had better retire.
Good-night."
And with these words the old man walked to a side-table, took a bed-room
candle in his hand and gave it to the widow.
Mary Grey snatched and kissed his hand, courtesied and withdrew.
When she got to her own room she threw herself into a chair and laughed
softly, murmuring:
"The old Pharisee! He is more than half in love with me now. I know it,
and I feel it. Yet, to save his own credit with himself, he pretends to
lecture me and tries to persuade himself that he means it. But he is
half in love with me. Before I have done with him he shall be wholly in
love with me. And won't it be fun to have his gray head at my feet,
proposing marriage to me! And that is what I mean to bring him to before
a month is over his venerable skeleton!"
And, with this characteristic resolution, Mary Grey went to bed.