University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
LOVE AND DOUBT

Marian Waldegrave truly
deserved the epithet of lovely,
as applied not only to her
material form, but to her mind.
She was one of those mild,
sweetly tempered, gentle beings,
that seem sent here as a
sort of connecting link between
earth and heaven—a
thing of earthly mould, earthly
substance, but devoid of
the passions which so often
mar what is otherwise nearly
perfect and most beautiful.
Her right, strictly speaking,
to the latter epithet, beautiful,
many would gainsay; but to
that of lovely, none. She was
about medium in stature, and
what might be termed well-formed,
but not in every respect
symmetrical. Her face
was one of those we ever love
to gaze upon—soft, fair,
radiant with intelligence, and
beaming with affection, and
all the nobler and holier attributes
of our nature. Her features
were fine, regular and
comely, and were pervaded by
an expression of great sweetness,
which even to the ugliest
countenance, always lends a
charm, but which, aided by
nature, as was the case with
her, proves irresistible in its
attraction, and becomes more
potent than beauty the most
perfect when not so adorned
—for beauty, after all, is a
matter of taste, and what one
sets up as a standard another
decries, while all unite in
praise of what is sweet and
lovely. The eyes of Marian
were gray, lustrous and mild
as those of a dove, and were
shaded somewhat, and softened
still more, by long drooping
lashes. Feeling they expressed,
deep and strong; but
it was that feeling of meekness,
of patient endurance, of
reliance on a holy faith, rather
than that which urges one on
to combat opposition, to surmount
a difficulty as it were
by storm. You looked there
in vain for any evidence of
that passion which raves and

rends like a madman, foams
and boils like an angry sea.
You could see through those
orbs of the soul a heart that
might sink under grief; but
one that would so sink, slowly,
calmly, gradually—not crushed
as by a sudden blow—not
uprooted by a whirlwind—but
one that might fade, wither
and die, like a gentle flower
from which the dew and sunlight
have been withdrawn.
Her complexion was light,
clear, and warm in tone; and
her hair was long and fine,
and of the flaxen hue ascribed
to the Saxons. Her nose was
almost Grecian; her mouth
beautiful, with pearly teeth;
and over her countenance generally,
like moonlight upon a
flower, lay the lightest tinge
of melancholy—something like
what we described of her father—and
this gave additional
interest to a face in every
other respect so attractive and
lovely. As she was in outward
semblance, so was she
in inner being. Her mind
was pure, gentle, affectionate
and confiding. In short, the
elder Warren had well
described her, in brief but
homely phrase, when he said
she was “a sweet, good girl,
and one universally beloved
for her many virtues.”

On quitting the presence
of Arthur, Marian hastened
up stairs to a little sleeping
chamber—which had always
been assigned her, when, as
had not unfrequently been
the case, she had spent the
night with the Warrens—and
closing and bolting the door,
she threw herself upon a seat,
and, covering her face, gave
vent to her mingled emotions
in a flood of tears. She wept
for joy at the return of Arthur,
whom she had long loved in
secret; and she wept, too, in
maidenly shame, that she had
betrayed that secret to him.
What would he think of her?
Would he not think her bold,
forward and scheming, and,
in consequence, despise her?
She would have given all she
possessed in the world, to have
met him as of old—to have
concealed in her breast that
she felt toward him other
than as a sister or a friend.
And he had called her Miss
Waldegrave instead of Marian!
Doubtless he was
offended, and had taken this
method to show her, that,
having overstepped the
bounds of true maidenly propriety,
he must henceforth
regard her in the formal light
of a mere acquaintance.
Perhaps he loved another—
in all probability he did, for
he had been years away, and
he was of too warm and
ardent a nature to live long
without some object of attachment.
And even were this
not the case, what could he
see in her to admire above all
others? particularly after having
conducted herself in a
manner so unbecoming? No
he must despise her—or, if

not despise, pity her, which
was equally as humiliating to
her sensitive nature. Yes, he
pitied her, for he was too
noble to despise, and for this
reason he had been so anxious
to introduce her to his friend.
Oh! what would she not have
given, to have known what
she knew now, previous to
that interview, that she might
have met him, not with different
feelings, but with those
feelings hid under a light and
cheerful mask! Yes, she
thought, were she to go
through the same part again,
she would so act, that the
secret of her heart should
never be known to him. She
would talk gaily, she would
laugh, she would be merry,
be frolicsome, no matter how
much it might cost her. But
it was now too late; she had
already exposed herself—had
rendered herself ridiculous to
the one, whom of all others,
she would have think well of
her. But though she might
not blot out the past, she reasoned,
she might in some
degree atone for her foolish,
unmaidenly conduct, by a different
course of action in
future. He should not pity
her,—no, no—he should not
pity her. She would meet
him as an equal, as a friend—
he should see she was a friend
—but nothing more. She
would school her feelings to
play a part in his presence;
and only when no human
eyes were upon her, should
nature have full sway. She
could not hope, she did not in
fact desire, to eradicate the
love she felt for him; but she
would evermore conceal it,
bury it deep in her heart,
even though it should feed on
that heart, like a living thing,
and consign her to an early
grave.

Thus thought, felt, and
resolved Marian Waldegrave,
as alone she wept in that little
chamber. Ah! could she at
that moment have seen the
heart of Arthur Warren, all
tears of regret would have
been banished from her eyes
—all her hard wrought
resolves would have “vanished
into thin air,”—all her
petty griefs would have disappeared
as shadows before
the sunshine. But such is
love—strange in its operations
—inconsistent with itself—
retarding its own advancement
—a thing of light and joy,
yet concealing itself in the
deepest recesses of the heart,
and feeding on melancholy—
shrinking from notice like a
sensitive plant from the touch,
and torturing its possessor
with a thousand alternato
hopes and fears—till haply, it
is discovered by circumstances,
dragged forth from
its hiding place, and made to
take its just position among
the higher and holier passions
of our nature.

It was perhaps an hour, ere
Marian found herself qualified
for the part she had so firmly

resolved to sustain in the presence
of Arthur Warren.
She dried her eyes, and
strove to obliterate all traces
of recent tears: she arranged
her hair with unusual care, in
the little mirror before her;
she stilled the painful throbbings
of her heart, by the
mere force of her will; and
lastly, she called upon her
countenance a look of smiling
contentment, such as nature
had implanted there, ere love
had come to banish it, and
cause it to be replaced by
sheer dissembling.

Thus prepared, she descended
to the parlor; but
the nearer she approached it,
the greater became the
mental struggle, till, having
reached the door, which
would admit her to the
dreaded presence, she was
obliged to pause some moments,
to subdue her agitation,
and force her will to
gain a mastery over her feelings.
At length she entered;
and a single glance assured
her, much to her relief, that
the object alike of her love and
dread was not there. In fact,
but two persons were present
—her mother and Arthur's
friend—and drawing a long
breath of relief, as she turned
somewhat abruptly to close
the door, she felt she was
truly herself once more.

“You are rather tardy in
making your appearance,
Marian,” childed her mother,
a mild, pleasant looking, mid
dle-aged lady. “My daughter,
Mr. Clifford,” she added,
turning to that gentleman.

“Most happy to make your
acquaintance, Miss Waldegrave,”
replied Clifford, rising,
bowing, and advancing to her
with polished ease. “Truly,”
he continued, taking her
hand, and looking earnestly
upon her sweet countenance,
“I feel as though we were
not meeting for the first time
—for I have heard Arthur
speak of you so often, that you
seem to me as an old and
valued friend.”

At the mention of the name
of Arthur, Marian crimsoned
to the very temples, and for a
moment or two appeared
much confused; but she
recovered herself, with an
effort, and answered:

“Yes, Arthur and I were
old playmates, and I am happy
to hear he has not forgotten
the days lang syne.”

“On the contrary, I fear
he has thought more of them
than his studies,” pursued
Clifford, keeping his eyes
fixed steadily upon Marian—
those black, piercing orbs, that
seemed to read her very soul.
“Truly,” he continued, smiling,
“I would have vouched
to his being in love with you,
only that I know love, as the
term is generally understood,
is a something timid and
shrinking, which nestles in
the heart and keeps its own
secret.”

Marian again crimsoned to

the temples, and then became
deadly pale. Had Clifford
known her very thoughts, and
been anxious to displace the
image of Arthur, he could not
have chosen a time and words
better calculated to effect his
object. We must do him the
justice to say, however, that
whatever might have been his
wish on this point, the words
he uttered were purely accidental,
as regarded their so
unfortunately chiming in with
her own sentiments and feelings.

Having noted for a moment
the effect of his language,
without knowing the secret
cause of its sinking so deeply
and all-powerfully into the
heart of her he addressed,
Ernest rallied and said,
gaily:

“Come, Miss Waldegrave,
a truce to this. I have not
known you the brief space of
three minutes, and already you
see, I have introduced the subject
of love, which, however
naturally brought about, is, I
perceive, inappropriate and ill-timed.
Besides, I have no
right to make use of the confidence
of my dear friend,
Arthur, whose communications,
I doubt not, were confidential,
though accompanied
with no stipulations. Pray,
let me hand you to a seat, and
change the subject. This is
a delightful valley, Miss Waldegrave,”
he added, placing
his own chair at a decorous
distance from hers.

“To me it is,” replied Marian,
greatly relieved of her
recent embarrassment, and determined
to make herself
cheerful and agreeable, if only
to mask her feelings; “but I
believe one is generally partial
to the place of one's nativity,
Mr. Clifford.”

“Yes, there is no place like
home,” returned the other,
with sentimental languor;
“for however bleak, and barren,
and disagreeable it may
appear to others, to us it must
ever be beautiful for being
home; and thus if I, a
stranger, can justly speak in
praise of this, your native
vale, you, in the same ratio,
may be pardoned for worshiping
it.”

“Nay, not quite that, Mr.
Clifford,” said Marian, with a
smile; “for,” she continued,
solemnly, and with great simplicity,
“we are permitted to
worship none but God.”

Ernest seemed struck with
her words and manner, and
quickly rejoined:

“Nay, you must not take
my language literally, Miss
Waldegrave. I spoke comparatively;
for I agree with you,
that God alone is entitled to
the heart's worship.”

“I like you, Mr. Clifford,
for that sentiment,” chimed
in Mrs. Waldegrave, who,
since introducing Marian to
him, had been busy at one of
the windows, disentangling a
skein of silk, and who, in
consequence, had only overheard

the latter portion of
their conversation, while resuming
her seat. “I love to
hear young persons speak
reverently of the Creator from
whom flow all our manifold
blessings; and setting
aside the sinfulness thereof,
there is nothing, in my opinion,
lower, and more degrading,
than profanity. Are you
a member of any church, Mr.
Clifford?”

“I am not,” replied Ernest,
coloring; “though, I trust in
God, I am not worse at heart
than many who are.”

“A public profession is a
good thing, if only for example,”
replied the matron, peering
at Ernest over her glasses;
“and as you seem religiously
inclined, I hope your influence
in this way, upon your associates
and community, will
not long be delayed.”

Now to suppose Ernest
Clifford religiously inclined,
was to suppose a man in love
with God and Mammon at
the same time; and those who
knew him best, would have
been the very last to accuse
him of such a thing; though
were hypocritical expressions
of piety necessary to advance
his interest, we regret to say
they were not likely to be long
wanting.

The topic of conversation
now became a religious one,
which for several minutes was
carried on between Clifford
and Mrs. Waldegrave, Marian
taking no part, and, judging
by her abstracted air, heeding
nothing that was said. At
length a pause ensued; and
Mrs. Waldegrave, asking to
be excused a few minutes,
quitted the room, leaving Ernest
and Marian tete a tete.

“You seem dejected, Miss
Waldegrave,” said Clifford,
turning to her with a respectful
air, and speaking in a low,
bland, and rather sympathetic
tone.

“Me? I dejected,” answered
Marian, starting and
coloring. “Oh, no, you must
be mistaken—why should I be
dejected?”

“Excuse me! perhaps I
was mistaken,” replied Clifford,
in the same low, bland tone
evidently intending to render
himself agreeable, “But I
noticed you were looking pale,
and methought I heard you
sigh. I wonder where our
mutual friend, Arthur, can
have gone?”

As he said this, he fixed his
eyes keenly upon Marian's
countenance, though without
appearing to do so, and, being
quick of penetration, he saw
enough to convince him of
what he had before suspected,
namely, that something had
passed between her and Arthur
which she wished to conceal.
Now Ernest was selfish,
and worldly; and though he
called Arthur his friend, yet
friendship in his view was
only a name, and should at all
times be sacrificed to interest,
in the event of the two coming

in collision. He saw that
Marian was lovely, if not
beautiful; and he knew she
was an heiress, which was
more important in his eyes
than either; and it now occurred
to him, that if by any
means he could win and carry
off the prize, it would be a
grand achievement. Perhaps
this selfish and treacherous
consideration did not now occur
to Ernest Clifford for the
first time; some such idea
might have entered his head before
he came to Walde-Warren;
but be that as it may, Ernest
was not the man to let any
opportunity for bettering his
worldly condition pass unimproved.
At college he and
Arthur had been very intimate;
and where Arthur Warren
was intimate, he bestowed
his confidence without reserve,
and laid bare the secret
recesses of his noble soul.
The world had always gone
pleasantly with him—of its
treachery and deceit he knew
little or nothing—and it would
have been almost as difficult
to convince him that one he
called his friend would betray
his confidence and prove his
most bitter enemy, without
other than a merely selfish
cause, as that his faith in Divine
Providence was misplaced.
Ernest had read his
open nature at a glance, and
had made him his friend,
merely because he had thought
he might be useful to him.
And he had used him more
than once—having at different
times borrowed sums of money,
to be paid at some future
day, which day had not yet
arrived. In their association,
Ernest had always been more
ready to listen to Arthur than
to talk himself; and, without
exhibiting any intentional reserve,
had so managed as to
get at all of Arthur's secrets
without revealing any of his
own. He had sometimes
spoken of his family, connections,
and prospects, it is true;
but always in such a way, that,
without making any positive
statement, the inference would
be drawn, that he was a much
more important personage in
the world, than modesty allowed
him to blazon forth.
The truth was, his father was
a man in moderate circumstances,
with a large family,
who had permitted him to acquire
a profession; but had
limited himself to means barely
sufficient to pay his board
and tuition; for the rest he
had managed by borrowing
of such kind friends as were
not likely to be troublesome
about a return, and in this respect
Arthur had proved to
him a perfect god-send.

Let the reader keep in view
these unworthy characteristics
of Ernest Clifford, his
desire for wealth, and the feeble
prospect he had of acquiring
it suddenly by other means
than marriage, together with
the slight incidents recorded
of his brief acquaintance with

Marian, and he will hardly be
surprised that such a personage
should begin to consider
on the possibility of his obtaining
the hand and fortune
of the latter, and, with this
consideration uppermost in his
mind, should begin to scheme
for its accomplishment.

“If,” he mentally soliloquised,
“Arthur does not love
her—and my random words
may have hit the mark—else
why her blushes and confusion?—or
if, again, he does
love her, and they had a
lover's quarrel, I may, by
playing my cards skillfully,
win the game. It is certainly
worth the trial; and if nothing
else come of it, it will serve
to amuse me while I remain
in this dreary country valley.
Should I succeed, it will be a
fortune, and fortunes are not
to be acquired without an effort.
Something has occurred
between her and Arthur, that
is certain; for since meeting
her, he is sober and abstracted,
and she blushes whenever I
mention his name. If he does
love her, I shall make him
jealous; and if they have
quarrelled, I will widen the
breach. I shall offend him
perhaps—but what of that?—
what is his friendship weighed
against her fortune?—a
straw against a bag of gold.
Perhaps she loves him! Well,
then, she is but woman, and I
must make her jealous—not
by any broad statement, but
by the most subtle inuendo.
I will praise Arthur to her,
and praise her to Arthur; and
yet if they love one another, I
will so manage as to estrange
them, and harass the souls
of both, but at the same time
steer clear myself of the shipwreck
I shall make; if they do
not love one another, then the
sea is open, and I shall have
fair sailing.”

All this floated through the
scheming brain of Ernest
Clifford, as it were in a moment
of time; and to Marian's
reply, that Arthur might have
stepped out to visit his father's
negroes, as was his custom
immediately on coming home,
and that doubtless he would
soon return, he rejoined:

“Speaking of Arthur, I
have been picturing to myself
the delight you must
have experienced in meeting
after so long a separation. It
is nearly five years, he tells
me, since you have been
much together; and for this
reason, doubtless, he always
seems to speak of you as a
child, his little playmate Marian,
his charming little
friend, rather than as one
grown to your estate. Ah,
Miss Waldegrave, you would
have laughed to have heard
the rapturous encomiums he
ever bestowed upon you;
really, he could not have
shown a warmer, more ardent
affection for you, had you
been his sister.”

Had these words of Clifford
been daggers, pressed

slowly home to some vital
part, the torturing anguish of
Marian had scarcely been
greater than it now was.
But she concealed her emotions
wonderfully, considering
she was such a novice in the
art of dissimulation; and one
less observing and penetrating
than Clifford, would never
have suspected how much she
mentally suffered; but those
dark, keen eyes of his were
upon her, and he saw with a
feeling of triumph, that already
he had planted a thorn
in her breast. She replied,
however, with a look of animation,
and in a cheerful
tone:

“So Arthur was in raptures
about his little Marian, as he
termed me, eh? Ah, Mr. Clifford,
could you have seen us
romping together while children,
you would not have
been surprised at it.”

“I am not surprised as it
is,” returned Ernest with a
meaning look; “for since I
have seen you, I must frankly
acknowledge he had more
reason for his transports than
I gave him credit for at the
time. But this is a changing
world, Miss Waldegrave,” he
continued, altering his tone to
one better suited to grave moralizing;
“a changing world;
and it always makes me sad
when I take a retrospective
view, and see how time pulls
down and destroys the airy
fabrics of youthful creation—
consigning to the grave all
those gay, buoyant spirits that
made childhood so delightful
and happy — or immersing
them in the business, the
cares, and anxieties, which
grow upon us with our growth,
and attend us ever after, till
death drops the curtain before
the scene of mortal strife. It
has often with me been a
matter of curious speculation,
too, that so few of those who
set out in life together, and
seem by nature peculiarly
adapted to each other, ever
unite their fortunes, both as
regards co-partnership and
marriage. The stranger to
the stranger is a rule that has
but few exceptions.”

“Alas! yes, it is too true,”
sighed Marian, completely
thrown off her guard.

At this moment the door
opened and Arthur Warren
entered. He seemed surprised
to find Ernest and Marian
tete-a-tete; but was more surprised
still, when the latter
spoke up quickly, in a gay
tone, smiling through the color
that mounted to her temples:

“So, truant, you have come
at last, have you? We were
just speaking of you—do
your ears burn?”

Arthur, remembering the
brief interview he had had
with Marian, her abashed and
confused manner, so entirely
different from the one she now
assumed, could scarcely credit
his senses; but he rallied himself,
and replied in the same
vein:

“Speaking of me, were

you? no good I'll be bound.
I wish you joy of your subject
though. But come! am
I to know what you have been
saying?”

“Aha! methought I could
raise your curiosity,” answered
Marian. “You gentlemen
always pretend to have
no curiosity, and ascribe that
failing to us of the weaker
sex, citing mother Eve as a
proof—but we catch you occasionally.
Shall I tell him
what was said, Mr. Clifford?”

“If you like, since it concerns
you as much as himself,
and is not calculated to make
him vain.”

“Nor to pull down his
pride either. But since, as
you say, it concerns me too,
why, I will leave you to be
informer, while I make my
exit;” and Marian rose and
turned to quit the apartment.

“Surely, you are not going
to make us miserable by so
abrupt a departure?” said
Ernest.

“O, no, not going to make
you miserable, but going to
make my exit nevertheless,”
replied Marian, with a laugh,
as she bounded gaily out of
the room. Arthur looked
after her, with an expression
in which doubt and astonishment
strangely blended.

“She is a lovely creature,
and I do not wonder you used
to be so in raptures about
her,” said Clifford. “By my
faith, Arthur, if you had not
warned me not to fall in love
with her, I fear I should by
this time have been your rival
—she is so pretty, so intelligent,
so agreeable, so entertaining.”

“Why, one would think
you were in love with her as
it is,” answered Arthur, turning
quickly upon his friend,
but forcing a laugh to conceal
the vexation he felt at the
other's language.

“And should I admit that
I am, I hope it will give no
offence, my dear Arthur,”
replied the other, half jestingly,
half earnestly.

“Offence!” repeated Arthur,
thrown into some confusion:
“Offence! O, no, of
course not.”

“I knew you were too
warm a friend, and of too
noble and manly a spirit, to
mind a matter so trifling.
Not that I wish you to understand,
my dear fellow, that I
am actually and bona fide
in love with her—O, no—
though I will say, frankly,
that I have never before seen
one of her sex that pleased
and interested me so much on
so short an acquaintance.
And even if I did love her,
my dear friend, and I knew
that she returned my attachment,
I would sooner cut off
my hand than stand in your
way—so I will try and forget
her.”

“Nay, you need not forget
her on my account; I have
no more claim on her than
you—perhaps not so much,”

replied Arthur, quickly and
tartly, nettled and vexed at
the language of the other.

“Say you so, my dear
Arthur?” cried Ernest, seizing
his hand, and appearing
not to notice there was any
thing wrong. “Ah, you are
a noble fellow!” “But then,”
he added, in an altered tone,
letting his countenance lose
its exultant animation, “you
have often said it was the
wish of your parents and hers,
that in you two both families
and fortunes should be united.”

“True, such is their wish
still,” answered Arthur, coldly;
“but I believe they would
sooner see us both in our
graves than united with
hearts estranged. One thing
is certain. I will never wed
one who loves another, though
I loved that one never so
well. If Marian likes you
better than me, as your words
seem to imply, why, marry
her, in heaven's name, and
peace go with you!”

As he said this, in a cold,
severe tone, Arthur wheeled
on his heel, with the intention
of quitting the room abruptly;
but Clifford, who was playing
a deep game, with the skill of
an adept, caught him by the
arm, and exclaimed, with well
feigned emotion:

“Stay, Arthur, my dear
friend, and let me explain!
Oh! I have offended you, I
see—offended my best friend
—and all unintentionally. But
you have mistaken me entirely;
I only spoke of my own
feelings; I did not even hint
at Marian's. She like me on
so short an acquaintance?
Poh! she neither likes nor
dislikes, I'll be bound. We
spoke of love, it is true—but
with reference to you, Arthur,
not to myself. Now do not be
offended, I pray you! I know
Marian likes you, dearly—she
said as much—and only say
the word, and you shall have
it all your own way—I will
not interfere.”

“Indeed you are very kind,”
said Arthur, with a proud curl
of his lip.

“There, I have offended
again. Forgive me! Pray
tell me what I shall do to get
once more into your favor!”

“I am wrong to get angry,”
replied Arthur, bethinking
himself. “There is my hand,
Ernest—forget all my hasty
words.”

“With all my heart,” returned
the other, seizing and
shaking the proffered hand
warmly, and with a show of
considerable emotion. “I see
now, my dear friend, you love
the girl, and I have made you
a little jealous with my ill-timed
remarks. But forget
them, my dear fellow—forget
them! I know Marian thinks
much of you, already—ay,
were you even her brother, she
could scarcely think more of
you. Nay, you need not start,
and look so astonished! I
pledge you my reputation for

discernment it is true; and
therefore you have only to
press your suit in that quarter,
to be successful.”

Ere Arthur, vexed, confused,
and half bewildered,
could frame a reply, Mr. Warren
entered the parlor, to bid
his guest and son to dinner.
Perhaps Arthur was not sorry
for this interruption; for turning
quickly away from Clifford,
he said:

“Father, I give Ernest into
your charge. Conduct him
to dinner, and I will join you
presently;” and without waiting
a reply, he opened the
door, and passed into the
room where he had first met
Marian.

“Bravely done!” said Clifford
to himself, as he accompanied
the elder Warren to
the dinner table—“bravely
done! The game opens beautifully;
and with the cards all
in my own hands, I am a fool
if I do not win!”