University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER FIFTH.
LADY MARION'S TEAR.

It was the bower of a beautiful woman.

Three windows, curtained with folds of pale crimson silk,
mirrors between each window, reaching from the ceiling to the
floor, so that the lovely woman who occupied it, might see a
lovely woman like herself whichever way she turned; a luxurious
sofa, cushioned with velvet, and an arm-chair whose capacious
back her head might rest upon as a pillow—it was the
very Temple in which a proud and haughty woman might retire
to worship her own beauty.

And yet strange to say, the small lamp which hung from the
dome-like ceiling, did not reveal the form of a lovely woman.

No! Beside a small writing-desk, scattered all over with
papers, stood an uncouth figure, broad in the shoulders, attired
in a rugged dress, with heavy boots, and a mask of faded crape
over his face.

It was the Outcast who had attacked Lady Marion in the
woods; the robber who had despoiled her bosom of its chain and
jewel; the assassin who had prepared for his work of force by
tampering with the hunter's rifle.

Wo! to the proud woman, if in her most secret retreat she
encounters this outcast, with crape upon his face and pistols in
his belt!

He bent over the table, reading with a low chuckle of delight
a letter which the hand of Lady Marion had traced. Looking
over his shoulder, we may discover words like these:

“Ha, ha! draft of a letter to be sent in cypher—” muttered
the Outcast—“The good lady anticipates—she may fail—”

“She cannot fail,” said a deep voice, and Lady Marion stands
beside him.

Does the Outcast dart upon her, with the upraised knife, and
menace her beauty with the violence, the outrage of a bravo
and ruffian?

No! He stands for a moment, as if contemplating the singular
beauty of her face, the eloquence of her eye, the passion of her
swelling bust, her majestic form. Then tearing the cap from
his brow, the crape from his face, the rough costume from his
form, he stands before us, a young gentleman, slender in figure,
clad in a gay British uniform, with light curls of golden hair
waving about his florid face!

“Tolerably well done: that robber scene! Eh—sis?” he exclaimed,
with that air of quiet composure—some call it impudence—which
alike distinguishes the fine city gentleman and
the supremely fine city blackguard—“The poor devil did not
imagine that we got up that little piece of tragedy for his benefit!
I've quite a good opinion of myself in private theatricals!”

He flung his delicate form upon the sofa, and turned towards
the light a face marked by the cold, dead eyes of satiety, the
unmeaning lip and vacant stare of dissolute indulgence.

“All is safe,” his sister exclaimed, pacing the room—“Confusion
in the camp of the Rebels—Reginald Landsdowne in my
power—”

“Sis, do you really love that man?”—you can see the sneer
upon the face of that finished man of the world—“Beyond your

ambitious schemes—your title and your promised power, do
you care for him? pale-faced, melancholy Don Quixotte that
he is?”

The brother was frightened by his sister's look.

“Do I care for him? Why have I deserted the glare and
splendor of the British Court, for this dark path of treachery and
intrigue? Why coined my soul into desperate deeds, in order
to combine men of various interests into one great enterprise?
Why all this mystery, this craft, yes, I will say it, this crime?
Do I love him? One year ago, I beheld that pale, melancholy
face, standing out from among the shallow-visaged courtiers; I
felt the light of those deep, earnest eyes, and from that hour
loved Reginald Landsdowne! Yes, all my schemes shall—must
end, in placing a coronet upon his brow, the title of Earl before
his name! Love him? 'Tis of such men, kings are made!”

Pacing over the carpet, she clenched her hands upon her
bosom, while her eyes flashed that singular and peculiar light,
which made her look like a beautiful Demon.

“But you forget my part of the bargain, sis—” cried the
brother, assuming an easier position on the sofa—“I forged those
papers, bearing the signatures of Jefferson and the other rebels.
I aided your schemes. I have made myself shockingly disgusting
to look upon, for your sake. Now comes my reward. The
Rose of Wissahikon yesterday was but a poor peasant maid.
Now, she is the heiress of some sweet lands, and delicious stores
of gold. Your dear brother is in want of lands and gold, and is
willing to take a wife into the bargain. What need of a long
courtship, when—”

“Pshaw! Need you make me the partner of your schemes?”
—she paused before him, her eyes flashing scorn—“go! if you
have your plan arranged, go and execute it! Tell not to me
your schemes—for with all my ambition, Gerald—with all the
feverish thirst of power—I am a woman!”

For once she blushed. Yes, blushed, over the neck and
cheeks and brow, while her head fell slowly on her bosom.—
The youthful gentleman, whose dead eyes and colorless lips and
florid cheeks, betrayed a premature old age, surveyed his magnificent
sister with a glance of surprise. All that Heaven had
bestowed of the Man, upon this darling of vice, had long ago
dribbled out from his veins, leaving his heart as cold as his leaden
eye. He could not comprehend the remorse of his sister.

“Go!” she cried, as that pure impulse of her woman's nature
again bathed her cheek and brow with crimson. “The anguish
of the father, to-morrow, when he learns his daughter's fate—the
curse of Reginald when he learns her shame—these will be hard
to bear, aye more dangerous than the knife or rifle of old Michael,
the hunter.”

“I will arrange this little matter,” said Gerald Moynton, as
he pushed negligently aside his golden curls—“excuse me, sis,
for a young lady is anxiously waiting to `see her lost brother!' ”

He lounged languidly from the room, leaving Lady Marion
alone, her arms clasped across her bosom, her head bowed low.
In vain that pressure of the clasped hands; it could not still the
volcano of contending passions, raging within the breast. In
vain that drooping of the head; it could not hide the shadow of
the face, the quivering of the lip, the eye gleaming with one,
only one drop of pity.

Blessed be Heaven for that solitary tear.