University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
A BLOW AND WHAT FOLLOWED.

For more than a week the
life of Arthur Warren was
despaired of; and it was a
couple of weeks after this, ere
he was able to quit the house,
for a short walk.

Meantime Ernest had removed
to the hotel, and continued
to call daily upon Marian
at her father's house,
where he had managed to become
quite a favorite with the
parents of her he sought as a
bride. His heroic conduct,
as it was termed, in saving
the life of Marian, had given
him a strong claim to their favor,
and he was not the person
to let such an opportunity
pass unimproved. And Marian
herself, looking upon
him as the preserver of her
life, and believing that Arthur
cared nothing for her, had
come to regard him in some
sort as a suitor; and though
she might not love him, in the
true sense of the term, she
frankly acknowledged he
stood high in her esteem.

We must premise here that
the true character of Ernest
Clifford was known only to
Arthur Warren; and during
the sickness of the latter, he
had so ingratiated himself
with the villagers, young and
old, that it would have been
no easy matter to convince
them he was other than he
seemed. He had made no
mention of his quarrel with
Arthur; but had given as a
reason for changing his quarters,
that he did not wish to
intrude upon the hospitality
of the Warrens, while his
dear friend lay so ill. This
looked reasonable, and was
believed.

On the second day of his
leaving the house, Arthur rode
down to the village. The
flood had long since subsided,
and a temporary bridge now
spanned the stream. A group
of several persons, among them
Ernest Clifford, stood on the
piazza, of the White Deer as
he drove up. All came forward
to congratulate him on
his recovery, and among the
foremost was Ernest himself.
As the latter held out his
hand to him, Arthur turned
to him, with flashing eyes,
and said, in a severe tone:

“Sir, we must henceforth
be strangers.”

Ernest appeared to be
shocked at this rudeness, and
the by-standers really were.

“Mr. Warren,” said Clifford,
with offended dignity,
“I must ask an explanation

of this singular conduct on
your part!”

“You have it already in
your hypocritical heart,” replied
Arthur, sharply. Then
addressing the others, “This
man,” he said, “whom I once
called friend, I here publicly
denounce as a wolf in sheep's
clothing—as a base and unprincipled
villain, who will
sacrifice friendship to self, and
stoop to any meanness that
will accomplish his purpose.”

Clifford, on hearing this,
appeared to be seized with
violent rage; and springing
to Arthur, ere any one could
interfere, struck him a smart
blow, exclaiming:

“There if you are not a
coward, resent that!”

The by-standers now
rushed between the parties
and prevented any further
collision—otherwise, there is
no telling what might have
been the consequence—for
Arthur was excited to a point
of madness, and, weak as he
was, it took two strong men to
hold him.

“A blow!” he shouted—
“a blow!—the stigma of a
blow can only be effaced by
blood! O, he shall pay dearly
for this!”

It was at least an hour ere
Arthur in any degree became
tranquillized; and his last
words to those who had interfered
between him and Ernest,
as he was on the point
of being driven home, were:

“Gentlemen, you have suc
ceeded in preventing me chastising
a villain now; but we
shall meet again, and then let
him beware!”

On arriving at his father's
house, he immediately repaired
to his own apartment,
and did not leave it again that
day, notwithstanding the earnest
entreaties of his parents
that he would spend an hour
or two with them in the parlor.
He refused to eat, also,
and went to bed fasting—but
not once did his eyes close
in sleep. No! he lay and
thought, struggled with himself,
wrestled manfully with
the demon that had entered
his soul, and prayed earnestly
to be delivered from evil.

Feverish and haggard, he
arose the next morning, before
any one else was astir, and
went out, directing his steps
towards the village. As he
was passing the dwelling of
the Waldegraves, he looked
up, and, as chance or fate
would have it, saw the face
of Marian at one of the upper
windows. She bowed a recognition,
and beckoned to
him at the same time. He
returned her salute, coldly
and haughtily, and seemed
about to pass on; but stopped,
hesitated a moment, and then
turned his steps towards the
mansion. Marian met him
at the door, and seemed much
agitated.

“I have much wished to
see you of late, Arthur,” she
said, in a tremulous tone:

“but for some reason you
appear to avoid me. I have
never had one moment's conversation
with you, except in
the presence of others, since
the night you called here, before
the accident of the
bridge: why is this?”

“I did not know you wished
to see me alone,” he replied,
with an air of reserve; “and
you are aware that I have
been much confined to my
bed since then by sickness.”

“Oh, yes, you have been
very, very ill, Arthur; but,
thank God! you are still in
the land of the living. But
you look pale and ill now,
Arthur; I fear you are far
from well; come in and rest
you awhile, and let us talk as
of old.”

“No, Marian, that cannot
be,” returned Arthur, sadly,
allowing himself to be conducted
into the parlor, where
he chose a seat beside a window,
which he opened to catch
the refreshing breath of the
morning.

“And why can it not be,
Arthur?” inquired Marian.
“Oh! if you could but know
what I have suffered, in thinking
you angry with me, methinks
you would not continue
so cruel.”

“I am not angry with you,
Marian,” replied Arthur; “I
am not cruel; but we are
changed; we are no longer
what we were; and therefore,
we cannot meet as in the
days that are past.”

“And why are we changed,
Arthur? it is of that I wish to
speak. I feel toward you the
warm, sincere friendship of a
sister, and I would have you
regard me as such, since—”

She paused, and the color
mounted to her face, for she
felt she was on the point of
venturing an expression that
might be misconstrued.

“Since you are engaged to
another,” said Arthur, a little
tartly, completing the sentence
in a very different manner
than Marian had intended.

“No, Arthur,” she replied,
“that is not true—I am not
engaged to another.”

“Well, about to be, then—
it is all the same.”

“Nay, nor about to be,
Arthur. I suppose you allude
to Mr. Clifford; but—”

“Mention not his name in
my presence,” cried Arthur,
flushing with indignation;
“and let me charge you to beware
of him, Marian! for he
is a dissembling villain, and I
have denounced him as such.”

“Yes, I have heard.”

“Who told you?” demanded
Arthur, quickly.

“Why,” replied Marian,
with some hesitation, and
coloring as she spoke—“he
was here himself last night,
and is very sorry that—”

“No more!” said Arthur,
rising, “I will take my leave:
you cannot entertain him at
night and me in the morning.”

“But stay—one moment—

and let us come to an understanding.
Tell me why you
feel so bitterly toward Mr.
Clifford?—he says he knows
no reason for it, and most
deeply regrets that your intemperate
language led him
to lift his hand against you;
but being blinded by passion,
he knew not at the time what
he was doing.”

“Saving your presence, Marian,”
returned Arthur, frowning
darkly, and setting his
teeth hard, “Ernest Clifford
is a liar, and a villain of the
most unmitigated stamp! He
hates me, now, with all the
malignancy of a fiend; but
he puts on a show of friendship
in the presence of others,
that I may appear the aggressor.
Oh! I could tell you—
but no! why should I?
Enough that if you heed not
my warning, you will live to
repent it! As you have become
so deeply interested in
his fortunes, however, one
thing I will say, and that is,
he already looks upon you as
his.”

“Indeed, Arthur! how
know you this?”

“He as good as told me so.”

“When?”

“The morning after your
escape from drowning, at the
house of Mr. Lynch. Did he
ever mention our interview
there?”

“Yes, and said you parted
from him in the most friendly
manner.”

“And you believed him?”

“I had no reason to doubt
his word.”

“Have you any for doubting
mine?”

“No, Arthur—what a singular
question!” said Marian,
in surprise.

“Were I to flatly deny
what he has said, which
would you believe?”

“You, Arthur—for I never
heard you utter an untruth.”

“Well, then, I take heaven
to witness, that he grossly
insulted me at that interview
—we quarrelled—he challenged
me—I refused to meet
him, but told him to his teeth
that he was a villain—and we
were about to come to blows,
when we were interrupted.”

“You amaze me, Arthur?”

“You do not know him,
Marian, or this would not
amaze you in the least.”

“Were it not that he is my
preserver, that I owe my life
to his heroic conduct—I would
never see him more,” rejoined
Marian; “but—”

“O, I understand,” interrupted
Arthur: “you need
be at no further pains to find
a reason for the impropriety
of bidding him stay away.
But I hear others stirring;
and as I am not in a mood for
meeting either of your parents,
I will take my leave.”

“But, Arthur, we are to be
friends!” said Marian, in a
tremulous tone, holding out
her soft, white hand.

“Certainly, Marian—certainly—I
will not again part

from you in anger,” replied
Arthur, clasping her hand
cordially. “God bless you,
Marian, and guard you ever!”
he pursued, with deep feeling.
“I shall ever remember you;
and whatever may be my
fate, know that to the last
you have a warm, unselfish
friend in me.”

Marian was much affected,
and tears came to her eyes.

“You speak,” she said, “as
if you were going away.”

“I am, Marian; this is no
longer a place for me; I have
been publicly disgraced; and
as soon as I have settled this
affair with Mr. Clifford, I
shall bid adieu to Walde-Warren.”

“Oh! this is sorrowful
news,” sighed Marian, still
weeping.

“I am happy to know you
will regret my absence.”

“Could you doubt it, Arthur?”

“When a man's most cherished
companion—his bosom
friend — his confidant — suddenly
becomes an open, bitter
enemy, one is led to doubt
almost any thing,” replied the
other.

Marian scarcely knew what
to say, and her tears still
flowed freely.

“I shall see you again ere
you leave?” she murmured,
in a faltering tone.

“Perhaps so; I will not
promise, as I may leave suddenly.”

“Oh, yes, Arthur, I must
see you again! this is surely
not a final parting! And oh!
if Mr. Clifford is the man you
represent him, I pray you
avoid him!”

“No, he would misconstrue
my motive; he would publicly
proclaim me a coward.”

“Well, see him, but do not
quarrel with him!”

“I will promise nothing,
but that I shall see him as
early to-day as possible. I am
now on my way to the inn
for this purpose.”

“Arthur, do not see him!”
cried Marian, suddenly, with
unusual energy.

“Why not?”

“Because I somehow fear
the result of this meeting. I
have a presentiment of something
dreadful!”

“I regret you take so deep
an interest in him, Marian—
but see him I must!” said
Arthur in a decided tone.

“Now, for my sake, Arthur!”

“Nay, Marian, it is useless
to plead—I am resolved—and
so farewell. Whatever may
happen, I trust that you will
always regard me as a brother;
and in remembrance of the
past, forever wear the ring I
gave you as a sacred pledge
of friendship.”

On hearing these words,
Marian turned as pale as
death, and then flushed to a
deep crimson.

“What means this emotion?”
inquired Arthur, not a
little surprised. And then,

a sudden thought flashing
across his mind: “Let me
see your hand!” he exclaimed.
“Nay, the other one! Ha!
the ring is not there—how is
this, Miss Waldegrave? That
ring, by your own solemn
promise, was never to leave
your hand: how is this?”

“Hear me!” gasped, rather
than said, Marian, sinking
upon a seat, greatly agitated.

“Well, speak!” cried Arthur,
sternly.

“Why—There, now, do
not be angry, Arthur! Oh
say you will not be angry?”

“Speak!” reiterated Arthur,
even more sternly than
before, compressing his lips.

“Why, the truth is—that—
I—I should say—that—Mr.
Clifford—”

“Ha! I see!” cried Arthur,
interrupting her. “No more!
—there is no excuse, no palliation
for this! Miss Waldegrave,
farewell;” and without
waiting to hear another word,
he rushed from the house, in
a state of mind bordering on
frenzy, and bent his course
for the White Deer Inn.