University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
A GRAND CLIMAX.

So soon as she was alone, Beatrice opened
with some curiosity and a little apprehension
the package Mrs. Charlton had left in her
hands. Beneath the closely-sealed envelope
of wrapping-paper appeared a box of ebony,
inlaid with gold, in a rich arabesque pattern.
A little golden key lay upon the top, and Beatrice,
hastily applying it to the lock, raised
the cover, and sat appalled at the sight before
her. Upon a cushion of white satin lay a set
of Oriental turquoise enriched with pearls, a
crescent and band for the hair, a chain of
stars for the neck, and bracelets of the same
device, with golden pendants wrought in various
cabalistic forms.

“Oh! I cannot take them!” exclaimed Beatrice
aloud; and just then perceived a little
folded slip of paper among the jewels. Opening
it, she read:

“Mine, most faithfully,” murmured Beatrice;
“and the man whom I loved so well
that I sacrificed pride, delicacy, resolve to
him, was faithful half a year, and then took
comfort in another woman! I wish I had
loved Reginald Monckton as I did Marston
Brent.”

And then—for such is woman—she examined
the jewels, appreciating their beauty, recognizing
the rare purity of the pearls, the deep
color of the turquoise, and the unique style of
the setting.

Monckton, wily even in his sincerest display
of emotion, had struck the right chord in
the manner of offering his gift. Had it been
laid at her feet as a tribute to her charms, or as
the memorial of as absent and despairing
lover, Beatrice would have refused it without
question or regret; but Monckton bid her accept
and wear the jewels in token that she repented
the involuntary injustice she had done
him, and she frankly complied with his request,
feeling, as he intended, that the obligation
was from her to him.

But when she reached home, Beatrice laid
aside both gift and giver, and sought painfully
and eagerly for her own path of duty in the
matter of Mrs. Charlton's marriage with her
uncle. True, her promise bound her from repeating
the secret she had learned; but could
she allow the marriage to go on without opposition?
Could she see her single-hearted,
generous, confiding uncle blindly walk into
the snare this woman, disappointed in her
love, had laid for him, or rather for his worldly
advantages?

These were questions that Beatrice found
herself unable to answer, and she still sat
pondering there in the early twilight when a
slow step ascended the stairs, and Mr. Chappelleford
appeared at the door of the drawing-room.
Beatrice rose to meet him with some
embarrassment, for in her thoughts she had
unconsciously linked him with his niece, and

felt as if her unfavorable opinion must be
written upon her face.

The cynic was in his least cynical mood;
and the first greetings over, began a conversation
upon the topics of the day, in which, while
affecting to despise them, he always contrived
to be well informed.

But Beatrice, although polite and cordial,
found it impossible to interest herself in what
he was saying—a fact soon perceived by Chappelleford,
who closed his account of a recent
political pageant with the remark:

“You offer poor encouragement, Miss Wansted,
for me to assume cap and bells in your behalf.
You remind me of some story I have read,
where Rowena, or Ermengarde, or Yolande
says to the zany who tries to charm away her
love-sick melancholy: `Go to, fool! Thy jesting
is sadder than a sermon, and I will have
thee whipped for a false fool, who knows not
even folly!”'

“Your mediæval beauty was unreasonable;
but you say she was suffering from a disease
I never yet experienced. Perhaps that was
one of the symptoms,” said Beatrice, a little
vexed at the suggestion.

“What! love-sickness? No, I did not suppose
you were love-sick,” said Mr. Chappelleford
with composure.

“Thank you; I should be very sorry if you
had.”

“No, your complaint is an ocular one,” pursued
the philosopher.

“What do you mean, Mr. Chappelleford?”

“Why, like a young kitten, you are just
getting your eyes open, and the operation is a
painful one.”

“I suppose I must accept the kitten, since
you just compared yourself to a fool,” said Beatrice,
smiling languidly.

“I am sorry for you, but it is what we all
go through, sooner or later; and when it is
once over, you have no idea how comfortable
you will find yourself.”

“Please tell me, without metaphor, exactly
what you mean, and I then will answer you.”

“What I mean? Why, that you are a good
deal shocked to find that Juanita Charlton has
decided to sell herself to your uncle, and that
he is idiot enough to pay his hard-won treasure
for so damaged a piece of goods. You are also
shocked at the sudden downfall of the fine
cloud-palace of friendship in which you had
elected to dwell with Mr. Monckton, and you
are a little desolate in losing the stimulus of
his presence. Also, you are dissatisfied with
your own prospects, as a supernumerary in the
houses of Mrs. Israel Barstow and Mrs. Wyman
Bliss. Finally, there is the old grievance of
the faithless lover, whom you believe you no
longer love, but whom you do not forget.
Now, every one of these disappointments and
annoyances would have been foreseen and
prevented had your eyes been open wide
enough to see their approach. I could have
warned you of several of them.”

“Which?” asked Beatrice faintly.

“Why, Mrs. Charlton's designs upon Mr.
Barstow, and the termination of your friendship
with Mr. Monckton.”

“Why did you not warn me?”

“Twenty years ago, I should probably have
done so, and have made enemies of four persons
with whom I do not wish to enter into
such intimate relations as enmity. Now I am
wiser.”

“A selfish wisdom, it seems to me, that prevents
your saving the man for whom you profess
friendship.”

Beatrice paused, perceiving to what discourtesy
her impulsive remark was leading. Mr.
Chappelleford grimly smiled.

“Saving him from my niece, you were
about to add,” said he. “The remark is frank
and youthful. But, in the first place, I profess
friendship for no man; and in the next, I
am by no means certain that it is a bad thing
for Mr. Barstow to marry Mrs. Charlton. He
gives money and a settled position in exchange
for beauty, wit, and a facility in society,
which he mistakes for talent. Nobody
says any thing about love, faith, or sincerity—
the myths upon which your theories of marriage
are based. The parties to the bargain
are content—why should you or I grumble?”

“If the matter is fairly understood by both,
perhaps we should not,” said Beatrice, hesitatingly.
“But I fear that my uncle is deceived.”

“In the matter of Mr. Monckton's communication
from Major Strangford?” asked
Chappelleford coolly; and then, as Beatrice,
coloring scarlet with surprise, sat blankly
looking at him, he added, with a laugh:

“Oh! yes, I know it all. I knew of the affair
from its commencement, and warned Juanita
that I should not permit her to make a family
scandal, even if she chose to throw away the
worldly position, which is the only thing in
the world for which she cares. Then, when

you took her confidences with Monckton to
heart, I compelled her to repeat them to me.
She is always submissive in my hands, because
I neither admire nor love her, and do understand
her thoroughly. She told me the
whole, and had already promised me to set
you right upon the matter when Monckton
returned from his fruitless visit to Milvor, and
she was shrewd enough to make a separate
bargain with him. He used a bribe, and I a
threat, and she was equally open to both.
Neither would have succeeded with you, but
hers is a meaner nature.”

“Is it right that you should tell me what
the bribe and the threat were?” asked Beatrice.

“Why not? I threatened to lay the matter
before both Mr. Barstow and you, and Monckton
gave her a set of jewels. The provident
fellow came home from the heart of India, resolved
to find a wife, and not knowing whether
she would be blonde or brown, brought a
set of turquoise and a set of garnet as his betrothal
present. You disappointed his hopes,
and Juanita failed to secure him, but he gave
you two his two gifts, and has gone away
fancying himself heart-broken. That is the
way the plans men lay are apt to terminate.”

“How do you know every thing?” asked
Beatrice, looking in terror at the cold, impassive
face of this man, who, without emotion,
sympathy, or curiosity, succeeded in reading
the lives of those about him like an open
book.

“How do I? Oh! my eyes were opened a
good many years ago, as yours are opening
to-day. After the process is complete, you
also will see what is about you.”

“I do not wish to, if, like you, I am to find
deceit, selfishness, and folly upon every side,”
said Beatrice sadly. “What do you leave me
to found any confidence upon?”

“Not men, certainly, nor yet women,” replied
the cynic. “Put them out of the question
once for all, and turn your mind to more
important matters. Read Hugh Miller, and
found your confidence upon the `Old Red
Sandstone;' read Ruskin, and expand your
imaginative powers in following out his theories;
read Hegel, and strengthen your thinking
powers by trying to follow his; and then
go to Nature, and you will find sympathy and
healing in her manifold forms of beauty. The
trees will not deceive you; the sky and water
profess no constancy; the stars ask not your
secrets, nor reveal their own. These are the
only safe friends, and to these you yet will
turn for comfort.”

He spoke with an earnestness that carried
conviction, and Beatrice raised her melancholy
eyes appealingly to his.

“These are your friends, I see it,” said she.
“Bring me to them, teach me how to know
them. It is so desolute to set forth all alone
upon a new path. O Mr. Chappelleford! if
you would say that you were my friend, I
would believe you.”

“Foolish child! Have I not this moment
finished telling you that human friendship is
naught, and less than naught? and for answer
you beg me to help you cheat yourself yet
once more. Have you not just tried the experiment
with this man Monckton, and failed most
signally? There is no such thing as friendship
between man and woman—either it is
companionship founded on mutual interests,
or it is mere acquaintanceship, or it is a Jesuitical
love—sure, sooner or later, to throw off the
mask and claim its reward. Monckton's was
of this nature, and I knew it from the first.
No, Miss Wansted, I will not pretend to be
your friend, for it would be a pretence without
rational foundation; but I will, if you wish
it, be your tutor, your adviser, your companion.
I will introduce you to those friends of mine
of whom I spoke but now, and teach you how
to know them. I will give you fruit of the
tree of knowledge, instead of the husks upon
which you so far have fed, and I will help you
climb the heights of thought and reason,
where alone peace dwells serene. Shall I do
this?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Beatrice, with feverish
eagerness. “All that I thought to find in life
has failed me: love, friendship, the world—
they are all alike hollow and deceitful. Give
me knowledge, teach me philosophy, lead me
to those cold heights where you find peace—
all else I leave behind.”

“Come, then, poor, ruffled, storm-beat bird—
poor, lost child, come and be my pupil, my
charges and at least I will never deceive you,”
said Chappelleford, with a most unwonted
tenderness shining in his eyes, ordinarily so
sad and so severe. “But, Beatrice, to make
this companionship practicable, you must become
my wife. I shall not continue to visit
familiarly in this house after my niece becomes
its mistress, nor could I see you elsewhere.
You must come to me in the only

manner in which man and woman are allowed
to live together.”

“Marry you, Mr. Chappelleford!” exclaimed
Beatrice in dismay. “But I do not love you
—I cannot!”

“Have I asked you to love me? Have I
professed to love you? Have I ever alluded
to any such weak and stupid delusion upon
either side? Is not the very foundation of the
education I propose for you an emancipation
from all such romantic credulity as you now
evince? What I wish is to make a rational
being out of a woman; and, to do this, the
woman must be directly and constantly under
my influence, and this can only be effected by
making her my wife. This is my motive, and
yours is immunity from deception, increased
knowledge, and a content—or at least a calm
—infinitely superior to what you call happiness.
You see I do not deceive you. What
is your answer?”

“I will marry you, Mr. Chappelleford, just
as, under other circumstances, I would enter a
convent.”

“Yes, either course is the refuge of a sick
heart—the one dictated by reason, the other
by superstition,” said Mr. Chappelleford.

Beatrice made no reply; and so, in the
deepening twilight sat the betrothed pair—
she, her head bent upon her breast, her hands
idly folded in her lap, gazing drearily into the
glowing coals—he, shading his eyes with his
hand as he leaned upon the chimney-piece,
and steadfastly regarded her.

So passed a half hour, and then Mr. Barstow
entered, to whom spoke Vezey Chappelleford
half kindly, half in disdain of himself
and all men:

“Mr. Barstow, I have given you my niece in
marriage, and now compensate myself by taking
yours. Miss Wansted kindly promises to
become my wife.”

“Why, why, Trix! this isn't true, surely!
Have you promised to marry Chappelleford,
Trix?”

“Yes, uncle, and shall keep the promise,”
said Miss Wansted in a voice of icy calm; and
rising, she left the room before another word
was spoken.