University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

Mr. Barnabas and Beauchampe returned from their
morning ride in excellent spirits; but there was some
anxiety and inquiry in the look of the former as his eye
sought that of his confederate. He gathered little from
this scrutiny, however, unless it were the perfect success
of the latter in the prosecution of his criminal object.
The face and manner of Colonel Sharpe wore all the composure
and placid satisfaction of one equally at peace
with all the world and his own conscience. His headache
had subsided. He seemed to have nothing on his mind
to desire or to regret.

“Lucky dog!” was the mental exclamation of his satellite.
“He never fails in any thing he undertakes. He
does as he pleases equally with men and women.”

Beauchampe had his anxieties also, which were a little
increased as he noted a greater degree of sadness on his
wife's countenance than usual. But his anxiety had no
relation whatever to the real cause of fear—to the real
source of that suffering which appeared in her looks. Not
the slightest suspicion of evil from his friend, Colonel
Sharpe, had ever crossed his mind, even for an instant.

Dinner came off, and Colonel Sharpe was in his happiest
vein. His jests were of the most brilliant order;
but, unless in the case of Mr. Barnabas, his humour was
not contagious. Mrs. Beauchampe scarcely seemed to
hear what was addressed to her; and Beauchampe, beholding
the increasing depth of shade on his wife's countenance,
necessarily felt a corresponding anxiety which
imparted similar shadows to his own.

At dinner, Mr. Barnabas said something across the
table to his companion, in reference to the probable time
of departure.

“What say you,—shall we ride to-morrow?”

“Why, how's your nag?”

“Better—not absolutely well, but able to go, when going
homeward.”

“You may go,” said Sharpe, abruptly; “but I shall
make a week of it with Beauchampe. The country, you
say, is worth seeing, and there may be votes to be won
in showing one's self. I see no reason even for you to
hurry; and I dare say Beauchampe's hospitality will
scarcely complain of our trespass for two days longer.”

The speaker looked to Beauchampe, who, as matter of
course, professed his satisfaction at the prospect of keeping
his friends. The eye of Sharpe glanced to the face
of the lady. A dark red spot was upon her forehead.
She met the glance of her enemy, and requited it with
one of deep signification; then, rising from the table, at
once left the apartment.

The things were removed, and Mr. Barnabas, counselled
by a glance from his companion, proposed to Beauchampe
to explore the farm.

“I can't bear the house when I can leave it—that is,
when I'm in the country. A country-house seems to me
an intolerable bore. Won't you go, Sharpe?”

But the person addressed had already disposed himself
in the rocking-chair, as if for the purpose of taking a nap.
He answered, drowsily—

“No! no! Barnabas,—take yourself off. I would enjoy
my siesta merely. With you I should be apt to sleep
soundly. Take him off, Beauchampe, and suffer me to
make myself at home.”

“Oh! certainly, if you prefer it.”

“I do! I take the world composedly—detest sightseeing,
and believe in Somnus. This habit of mine keeps
me out of mischief into which Barnabas is for ever falling.
Away now, my good boys, and enjoy the world and one
another.”

The roué was alone. Ten minutes had not passed,
when Mrs. Beauchampe entered the apartment. This
was an event which Col. Sharpe had scarcely anticipated.
He had remained simply to be in the way of what he would
esteem some such fortunate chance; hoped for it; and,
believing that the lady was playing only a very natural
feminine game, did not think it improbable that the desired

opportunity would be afforded him. So early a realization
of his wishes was certainly unexpected—not undesired,
however. The surprise was a pleasurable one, and he
startled into instant vivacity on her appearance; rising
from his seat and approaching her with extended hand as
if to conduct her to it.

“Stay, Col. Sharpe—I come but for a moment.”

“Do not say so, Margaret.”

“A moment, sir, will suffice for all that I purpose. You
speak of remaining here till the close of the week? Now,
hear me! Your horses must be saddled after breakfast
to-morrow, You must then depart. I must hear you
express this determination when we meet at the breakfast-table.
If I do not, sir,—on the word of a woman whom
you have made miserable and still keep so, I declare to
Mr. Beauchampe the whole truth.”

“What! expel me from your house, Margaret! No!
no! I as little believe you can do this, as do the other.
This, my dear girl, is the merest perversity!”

He offered to take her hand. She recoiled.

“Col. Sharpe, your unhappy vanity deceives you.
What do you see in my looks, my conduct, to justify
these doubts of what I say, or this continued presumption
on your part. Do I look the wanton? Do I look the
pliant damsel whose grief looks temporary only, which a
smile of deceit, or a cunning word can dissipate in a
moment. Look at me well, sir,—my peace, and your life
depends upon the wisdom which Heaven at this moment
may vouchsafe you. Oh! sir, be not blind! See, in these
wobegone cheeks and eyes, nothing but the misery, approaching
to despair, which my bosom feels. See, and be
warned! You cannot surely doubt that I am in earnest.
For the equal sake of your body and soul, I implore you
to believe me.”

Cassandra never looked more terribly true to her utterance—to
the awful predictions which her lips poured forth
—but like Cassandra, Margaret Cooper was fated not to
be believed. The unhappy man, blinded by that flattering
self-esteem which blinds so many, was insensible to her
expostulations—to the intense wo, expressing itself in
looks of the most severe majesty of her highly expressive
countenance! The effect of her intensity of feeling was
to elevate the style of her beauty, and this was something

against the success of her entreay. Vain and dishonourable
as he was, Sharpe gazed on her with a sincere
admiration. Unhappily, he was not one to venerate.
That refining agent of moral worship was wanting to his
heart; and in its place a selfish lust after the pleasures of
the moment was the only divinity which he had set up.
It would be idle to repeat his answer to the imploring
prayer of the half-distracted woman. He had as little
generosity as veneration. He could not forbear. His
mind had become inflexible, from the too frequent contemplation
of its lusts, and what he said was simply what
might have been said by any callous, clever man, who, in
the prosecution of a selfish purpose, regards nothing but
the end in view. He answered, with pleasantry, that wo,
which was so much more expressively shown in her looks
than in her utterance. Pleasantry at such a moment!
Pleasantry addressed to that painfully excited imagination
whose now familiar images were of death, and despair,
and blood! She answered him by clasping her hands
together.

“We are doomed!” she exclaimed, while a groan forced
its way at the close of her sentence, as if from the very
bottom of her heart.

“Doomed, indeed, Margaret! How very idle unless
you doom us!”

“And I do! You are doomed, and doomed by me,
Alfred Stevens, unless you leave this house to-morrow.”

“Be sure I shall do no such thing!”

“Your blood be upon your own head. I have warned
you, counselled you, implored you—I can do no more!”

“Yes, Margaret, you can persuade me—beguile me,
subdue me, make me your captive, slave, worshipper,—
every thing—as you have done before, by only loving me
as you did then. Be not foolish and perverse—come to
me—let us renew those happy hours that we knew in
Charlemont, when you had none of these gloomy notions
to affright others and to vex yourself with!”

“Fool! fool! Blind and vain! With sense neither
to see nor to hear!—Alfred Stevens—there is yet time!
But the hours are numbered. God be merciful, so that
they be not yours. We meet at the table to-morrow morning
for the last time.”

“Stay, Margaret!”—he exclaimed seeing her about to
leave the room.

“To-morrow morning for the last time!” she repeated,
as she disappeared from sight.

“Devilish strange! But they are all so!—perverse as
the devil himself! There is nothing to be done here by
assault. We must have time, and make our approaches
with more caution. My desertion sticks in her gorge. I
must mollify her on that score. Work slowly, but surely.
I have been too bold—too confident. I did not make sufficient
allowances for her pride, which is diabolically strong.
I must ply her with the sedatives first; but one would
have thought that she had sufficient experience, to have
taken the thing more coolly. As for her blabbing to Beauchampe,
that's all in my eye. No, no! you cannot terrify
me by such a threat. I am too old a stager for that;—
nay, indeed, how much of your wish to drive me off arises
from your dread that I shall blab! Ha! ha! ha! but you
too shall be safe from that. My policy is `mum,' like
your own. To be frightened off by such a threat would
prove a man as sorry a fool as coward. We shan't go tomorrow,
fair Mistress Margaret, doom or no doom!”

Such were the muttered meditations of Col. Sharpe
after Mrs. Beauchampe had left him. Perhaps, they were
such as would be natural to most men of the same character.
His estimate of the woman, also, was no doubt a
very just estimate of the ordinary woman of the world,
placed in similar circumstances, after having committed
the same monstrous and scarcely remediable lapse from
virtue and place. But we have shown that Margaret
Cooper was no ordinary woman! He knew that, himself,
but he did not believe her equal to the course which she
threatened, nor did he believe her when she informed him
of the magnanimous course which she had already pursued
in relation to Beauchampe. Could he have believed
that, indeed! But it was not meant that he should believe.
The destiny that shapes our ends, was not to be diverted
in his case. As his victim had declared, with solemn
emphasis on leaving him,—he was, indeed, doomed!
doomed! doomed!