THE NEW LOVE.
Waldon still remained at Willow Bend: for, though he was nominally the
guest of young Hyde, half his days were spent at the Noel mansion.
Occasionally Mary observed signs of gloomy depression toning down his
brilliant spirits after Bertha had left, and this threw a shadow over
her own bright life, which he saw and comprehended far better than she
could. As the first ardor of his love for Bertha began to wane, which
was not till she had been some weeks in Virginia, Waldon had made her
friend a study; for his supreme vanity, always on the alert, was forever
craving new devotees, simply for its own gratification. No coquette that
lives ever hungered and thirsted for admiration—adoration, if he could
get it—as this man did; no humming bird ever tore honey more ruthlessly
from a flower, than he wrested love from the heart of a woman.
At first he had no object beyond this craving vanity in attempting to
interest Mr. Noel’s heiress. Bertha was beautiful, tolerably rich, and
had been the supreme belle of a New York season. She loved him
devotedly, and until certain of that, the vivid ardor of his own passion
had been unparalleled in all his changeful life; but once certain of
her, the craving serpent in his bosom crested itself anew, and cast the
glamour of its eyes on this other girl, who was Bertha’s friend, and
whose life the brave girl had saved. Could she be won to love him,
against womanly faith to her friend—against common gratitude to the girl
who had saved her life? She seemed a sweet, conscientious girl, whose
good heart it would be hard to move, thralled in, as it was, by all
these obligations; but if she could be won to forget them, that triumph
would be a crowning one in his life, and Bertha would not love him less
because he had proved irresistible to her friend.
At first these vain, selfish thoughts were all that led Waldon into such
nameless attentions as brought rosy blushes into Mary’s cheeks, which
sometimes deepened to a vivid glow. As a serpent watches the bird it
charms, he loved to see the white lids droop over those soft blue eyes
until something that he said filled them with sudden light. It was
sunshine to the man’s vanity—nothing more at first—but afterward, when
Hyde, his friend and literary satellite, gave indications of an ambition
to win this girl and possess himself of an estate and fortune that was
scarcely less than regal, the intense selfishness of the man blazed out.
At any rate, this presumption should be frustrated. What right had any
man to aspire like that and he present? Neither this fair girl nor her
great wealth should go to another so long as he could lure her to
himself. Bertha might be jealous; but then she must get used to his
little innocent conquests—they were amusements she could not exactly
expect him to throw off with marriage. In fact society would hardly
permit the sacrifice.
Well, Bertha was jealous, and flamed out, in her haughty pride, after an
amazing fashion, that day on Diamond Island, where Waldon strove to
appease her, not being prepared for an outbreak, which might alarm her
friend. Then came the accident, in which the noble girl saved his life,
and, in doing it, humiliated his manhood. After that Mrs. Canfield’s
confession gave him a traitor’s excuse and the means of emancipation, if
he should desire it.
But did he desire it? Could he give Bertha up so readily? Did Mary Noel
really care for him? Fortunately, he was not called upon to decide these
questions at once. Mrs. Canfield had pleaded for six weeks—why he did
not imagine—but the time was quite as important to him as it could be to
her. When it expired, he might be obdurate or relenting, as
circumstances determined—at any rate, he had the secret of that poor
woman as an excuse for breaking his engagement, if that should be
resolved upon. If not, it would make her his slave forever, and rest a
power in his hands by which Bertha’s pride might at any time be brought
down.
“Did Mary Noel love him?”
The snake had charmed, and the bird had fluttered nearer and nearer to
those open jaws. Would he yet have a choice between these two girls—and,
if so, which?
The time was up that that poor lady had implored of him. On the very
next day Waldon could fling off his shackles, if it so pleased him. He
looked abroad, that morning, on the Noel estate. With one sweeping
glance, he could gather in more wealth than Bertha possessed. True, she
was a queenly woman—gifted with rare intellect—wonderfully beautiful—but
the fervor of her haughty spirit might become troublesome; and the
mother—.
This man really hated Mrs. Canfield, as coarse natures will hate those
to whom they have been unjust or cruel. It was not in any degree the
frailty of this woman that disturbed him. At first his dilettantic
tastes revolted at her frailty, and he was really shocked; but her
meekness, her pleading and distress were a homage to his authority, and
in no sense had his principles been disturbed. The fearful agitation and
agony of spirit with which she had flung herself upon his mercy
suggested a means of escape to him; and he used it ruthlessly, still
with infinite caution, giving no sign of the project that grew and
throve in his bosom, each day, as he rode from Hyde’s plantation over
miles and miles of Mr. Noel’s property.
Waldon was not a rich man. He made money rapidly with his pen, and
scattered it, with prodigal haste, for his own sensuous and intellectual
needs; but men sometimes grasp with one hand while they sow gold like
wheat with the other. Those broad acres, stretching so far and so richly
down the James river, would make him potent in his wealth as he was
powerful from his intellect. But then, where would he ever find another
woman like Bertha? Her bright intellect mated his so grandly—her beauty
was so unlike that of any other woman. Even at the last moment there was
a struggle in that man’s selfish bosom as he flung his bridle to a boy,
and walked down to the clump of willows where Bertha had plucked violets
for him.
How different the two girls were! Bertha, graceful in every sweeping
curve of her person, and splendid with rich coloring, sat upon that
violet bank, like an Empress upon her throne, full of sweet womanliness,
but grand, also, in the passionate strength of a being who would, if the
necessity arose, act out her own will. Waldon remembered her vividly,
just then, as a creature of wonderful contrasts, to whom the fair young
girl, on whom the sunshine was glinting through the willows, was a
pleasant child, pretty to look upon, and nice to protect.
The gypsy hat which Mary had on shaded her face, and she was only
conscious of Waldon’s approach when he threw himself on the grass at her
feet. She gave a little cry, and turned scarlet, like a child caught
stealing bonbons, or rooting up some lady’s pet flowers.
“I—I did not think of you being near,” she said, pulling the straw gypsy
down low over her burning forehead. “I heard a step on the grass, but
thought, perhaps, it was Mr. Hyde.”
“Did you expect him—were you waiting out here for Mr. Hyde?”
“Waiting? No; only he mentioned coming, and there was no one else. They
don’t come quite so readily now that Bertha has gone.”
That name stung Waldon like a reproach; for one instant a swarthy
redness swept his face.
“Have you heard from her again?” questioned Mary, giving him a wistful
look from under her hat.
“Yes; but it will be my last letter.”
Mary started, and looking keenly under her hat, he saw the color fade
from her face, leaving it white and changeful.
“Are you going then?” she faltered. “How soon—how—”
Yes, the girl loved him, no doubt of it now. She was delicate and very
pretty, a creature to pet and care for; full of laughter and exquisite
mirth sometimes—such women were sunbeams in a man’s house; not, however,
in that mood, for her lips were quivering, and she pretended to be in
search of something in the grass, that he might not see how thickly the
tears were gathering under her drooping lashes. All at once she threw
back her head, meeting those large, eager eyes with the audacity of a
child determined to conceal some fault.
“I am so lonely without dear old Bertha; besides, when I look at the
water, it reminds me of that night when you and I went down together,
and I can’t help crying a little.”
Waldon put up his hat to hide the smile which quivered around his month.
This childish artifice charmed him.
“When—when are you going to be married?” she asked, in a low voice.
“I shall never be married to Bertha Canfield!”
Mary opened her blue eyes wild and wide; the color shot across her face
like lightning, and away to her heart, thrilling it through and through.
Her lips were parted, but she did not speak.
“I thought you would be surprised—that you would hardly believe me, but
it is so,” said Waldon, impressively.
Mary’s face dropped to her knees, and she burst forth in a passionate
fit of weeping.
“You seem to regret this.”
“She is my friend. She saved my life. I promised to love her forever and
ever! She is an angel—too good for any man! Why—why have you done this?”
She hushed her sobs, and listened for his answer, scarcely drawing a
breath.
“I had two good reasons—one that I cannot give you, but it touched my
honor, and the second was, that I dearly love another person.”
Mary drew a sharp breath and dropped her hands.
“Another person?”
“Yes, Mary; one nearer and dearer than she ever was.”
The word “Mary” was uttered in a voice that thrilled through the girl.
Her pale blue eyes were flooded with light, her lips grew red as
cherries.
“You called me Mary. No one but Bertha and my father does that,” she
uttered at last. “I—I do not like it!”
“Are you angry with me?”
“Yes, I am, for Bertha’s sake. She would think it strange.”
“But I have told you, Miss Noel, that Bertha Canfield is nothing to me—a
friend, perhaps, but nothing more.”
“But what separated you? Not herself—you cannot say that! She never did
it, never!” Her eyes searched his for the answer. “You cannot say that!”
“I can tell you, upon my honor, that it was no fault of mine!” answered
Waldon, seriously. “That much I have a right to say!”
“No fault of yours—then she did—I can’t understand—I could not have
believed it! Bertha break her engagement! Oh, Mr. Waldon, it is beyond
my comprehension!”
“I cannot explain further. Neither Miss Canfield nor myself have acted
dishonorably, but we are not the less separated.”
“But—but—”
“Well—you were about to ask something?”
“No—no; only you spoke of—of some one else.”
“Yes; but when I called the lady by her own sweet name, she was angry
with me.”
Mary shook the tears away from her eyelashes, and taking her parasol
from the grass, opened and shut it again, almost with one motion of the
hand; then she began beating its coral point against the tip of her
boot, now and then pausing to press it with precision in an ornamented
curve of the tinted kid.
“Mary!” Waldon was close to the girl now, and took the parasol from her
hand. “Mary, are you angry with me now?”
The girl turned away her face.
“It was because I loved you, Mary, that the loss of Bertha Canfield does
not grieve me much.”
“But I—what right have I? She was the dearest girl—the most faithful
friend! Sir, I will not permit you to call me Mary! She never gave you
up of her own free will, I am sure. No girl on earth would have done
it!”
The triumph in Waldon’s heart leaped to his face. He did not allow the
girl to see it, but gently took her hand.
“But you seem willing to give me up, Mary.”
“No! no! I could not—that is, if you were mine, or I Bertha, which never
can be!”
Mary finished this broken speech with her arm around Waldon’s neck, and
her head on his shoulder.
An hour after, as Waldon and Mary Noel were sauntering along the river’s
bank, arm-in-arm, forgetful of everything else on earth, a servant boy
from the house came toward them with a letter in his hand.
“Found yer out at last, Mars Waldon,” he said. “Ole mars said you was
under de willor trees, but when I got dar you was done gone. Here am de
letter. Mars Hyde sent his boy over, case der was suthen ’bout haste on
de letter, an he thort somebody might a died. Thar, I’se livered it into
his own han.”
Waldon took the letter with some agitation, for the monogram on the
envelope startled him a little.
“Will you excuse me a moment?” he said. “It may be important.”
Mary smiled an assent. He moved away from her, with his face turned to
the river, broke open the envelope and read the letter which Lydia had
taken from under Mrs. Canfield’s pillow after she was dead.
At first a shock of painful surprise stirred every nerve in his body.
That poor woman was dead, and he—Russell Waldon—was her murderer. This
awful truth came upon him sharp and quick as the flight of an arrow. He
could scarcely see to read. The letters seemed vital with reproaches.
The cry of that woman from her grave summoned his soul to judgment
against itself. From her tomb she called upon him to redeem his pledge.
He had broken it already.
Tears came into this bad man’s eyes; he could scarcely make out the
words, they blinded him so; but it was his imagination that was touched,
not his heart. It was something to have driven a woman to this; the
romance, not the misery, of this self-sacrifice touched him to tears.
Mary Noel stood looking on. What letter was it that took the man’s
attention from her at a moment like that, when the thrill of his first
kiss was on her lips? The sight of his emotion made her jealous. She
went up to Waldon where he stood, and laid her hand softly upon his arm.
“May I read it, and know what is the power beyond mine that makes you
weep?”
Waldon started, snatched the letter from under her imploring touch, and
flung it into the river.
“There is no power on earth beyond yours, sweet one!” he answered. “Some
one is dead, that is all.”
“Some one that you loved, Waldon?”
“No; there was no love between us two. Come, now, let us go up to the
house. I shall not rest till your father has consented.”
They went across the lawn together, loitering by the way, both
apparently forgetful of the letter, which had cost a human soul, and
which drifted down the river till it settled against a boat where an old
man sat fishing. Attracted by the colored monogram which gleamed through
the water, he fished it out and spread it on his seat to dry, while he
droned on, with his line loose and adrift, wondering, lazily, what those
black letters on the paper said.