University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE BREACH WIDENS.

A week passed away, and
found Ernest Clifford still a
guest of the Warrens; but
between him and Arthur had
grown up a certain degree of
coldness, consequent upon the
prosecution of his base purpose,
which purpose has already
been made known to
the reader. There had as yet
been no open rupture, no public
quarrel, between Arthur
and his guest, though matters
were gradually tending to
such an event. The storm
was brewing and advancing
none the less surely, that its
pent up lightnings had not yet
been sent on their fiery mission—that
its crashing thunders
had not yet shook the
heavens.

Arthur had never forgotten
the warning of the stranger;
and the more closely he studied
Ernest, the more reason had
he for thinking the man was
right. The selfishness which
formed a prominent characteristic
of Clifford, he could
not now perceive, because it

suited the purpose of the latter
to lift the mask a little at
times, though too much an
adept to throw it off altogether,
and stand revealed in all his
native blackness.

But Arthur had not seen
this change in one heretofore
considered his dearest friend,
without deep regret,—without
experiencing all those soul
harrowing feelings which attend
upon the dawning conviction
that the world and
mankind are not as we in the
simplicity and singleness of
our mind have believed. The
awakening from the dream of
innocence, to the bitter realities
of an evil world, is always
attended with the keenest anguish
of soul—with melancholy—with
a sad depression
of spirits; it is, in fact, the
quitting of all the delights and
beauties of Paradise, to wander
in a cold, sterile, unknown region.
And against this awakening
conviction did Arthur
struggle, and struggle manfully;
he would fain have
shut his eyes and dreamed on
still; but, alas! the rosy sleep
of early life was over, perchance
to return no more; the
silver veil had fallen from the
Mokanna of his heart's worship;
the doom of Scotland's
bloody king seemed ringing in
his ear,

But still Arthur performed
the duties of the host, if not
with the same pleasure he had
anticipated, at least, so far,
without insult to his guest.
He had taken Ernest around
the village, and introduced
him to his friends as his friend;
they had hunted, fished, and
rode together; and such had
been their outward seeming,
that no one suspected their
lips and hearts spoke not in
unison.

All might have gone well
still, had the scheming Clifford
so willed it; but it was
his deliberate intention to
break with Arthur when it
should best suit his design;
and he prepared himself, and
arranged matters accordingly.
His first step, as shown in a
preceding chapter, had been
to try and estrange Arthur
and Marian; and a week had
enabled him to succeed just so
much as he wished to succeed
in a week. It was no part of
his scheme to separate them
abruptly, by a hot quarrel—
for then they might as abruptly
come together again, and
mar all his projects. No, he
wished to separate them gradually—to
cause a feeling of
restraint and coldness to grow
up between them; to make the
pride of one wound the pride
of the other; to make both so
far jealous as to be cynical and
sarcastic, and each think the
other indifferent and heartless.
This Ernest never could have
accomplished in any degree,
had he not been aided by
Marian's first great error in
regard to Arthur; and even

as it was, it was an undertaking
in which any one less
cunning and smooth tongued
than he would have failed.
But he worked with the skill
of a master, and so played
upon the feelings of each, as to
make them play upon each
other to his advantage.

During the week in question,
he had several times
called upon Marian in company
with Arthur—but had
so managed as to engross the
conversation of the former,
and leave the latter to the unpleasant
reflection that he
played a second part. He had
contrived, too, to see Marian
more than once alone; and
then he had spoken of Arthur
in the highest terms, and said
how happy must be the woman
of his choice; but had
adroitly hinted, at the same
time, that that choice was
made; which so chimed in
with Marian's belief or fear,
considered with Arthur's
manner toward her, that the
lying insinuation swelled in
her mind to a mighty truth.

So matters stood, when Arthur,
Ernest, and Marian received
an invitation to a party
at the house of Mr. Lynch,
the merchant, who lived in
the village, on the opposite
side of the bridge. Notwithstanding
a certain degree of
coldness had grown up between
him and Marian, Arthur
now resolved to forget
all, and ask her to accompany
him—intending, also, to learn,
if possible, why she had so
changed toward him of late;
for since their first meeting, on
the day of his return, he had
never seen her, to converse
with her alone—having, whenever
he visited her, taken Ernest
along, at the particular
request of the latter.

On the evening of the day
on which he received the invitation,
therefore, he managed
to get Ernest and his father
engaged in a friendly discussion,
and slip away without
being perceived. He repaired
to Waldegrave's, and, as
chance would have it, found
Marian entirely alone, in the
parlor, her father and mother
having gone out to spend the
evening. She greeted him in
a polite and friendly manner,
but seemed not a little embarrassed,
and her features wore a
heightened color.

“Where is your friend, Mr.
Clifford?” was her first question,
when the usual common
places of meeting had passed
between them.

Arthur felt his own face
crimson, as he replied with
some severity:

“Am I only welcome, Miss
Waldegrave, when I bring
another to usurp the conversation?
If so, say the word,
and I will instantly go and
bring my friend—or, perhaps,
I should rather, say yours.”

“Arthur—or Mr. Warren,
rather, since you see proper
to deal in formalities—this is
cruel, unkind of you,” answered

Marian, only by a
great effort restraining herself
from bursting into tears. “I
inquired after Mr. Clifford, as
was natural I should, seeing
you have not thought proper
of late to honor my poor
presence without him.”

“For the very reason that
I deemed his presence necessary
to make mine acceptable.”

“Oh, Arthur!” exclaimed
Marian; and no longer able
to hold in check her emotions,
she hid her face in her handkerchief
and wept.

“Oh, Marian, I have
wounded your feelings—forgive
me!” cried Arthur, forgetting
every thing but that
he had spoken harshly to the
weeping girl before him, and
thinking only how he might
repair his error. “Forgive
me, Marian, for speaking so
rudely, so unkindly!—and to
you, my old friend and playmate,—forgive
me, or I will
never forgive myself!”

But Marian only wept the
more. The founts of her
soul had burst through their
bright gates, and the torrent
would not be stayed.

“Oh, Marian, Marian,”
pursued Arthur, “you make
me wretched, for my unguarded
words—how could I
have been so heartless, so unfeeling
as to utter them?
Come, Marian, come—(taking
her hand, and gently drawing
her to him—) look up, my
sweet friend, and forget that
I have spoken! Oh, say that
you forgive me!”

“I do, I do, with all my
heart,” murmured the other;
and carried away by her feelings,
she for the moment
leaned her head upon his
manly breast, and wept anew.

“There, now, we are friends
again, sweet Marian—friends
as of old—are we not, Marian?
—are we not?”

“Yes, Arthur—yes—as of
old—at least I hope so,” replied
the other, starting up
rather hurriedly, wiping her
eyes hastily, and appearing a
good deal confused and agitated.

“There has been coldness
between us of late,” continued
Arthur, still retaining her
hand, which she now seemed
inclined to withdraw—“but
why, I know not—unless,”
he added, seemingly struck
with a new idea—“unless my
friend, or some one else, has
abused me to you.”

“Oh, wrong not your
friend with such a suspicion!”
returned Marian, quickly—
“for he is honor's self, and
always speaks of you in the
highest terms.”

“Then tell me whence this
coldness?”

“I know no more than
you, Arthur.”

“Then you really have no
ill-feeling toward me, Marian?”

“Toward you, Arthur? ill-feeling

toward you?” cried
Marian. “Oh, how can you
ask the question?”

“Bless you, fair girl! there
speaks the friend of old. Ah!
did you know how miserable
I have been, thinking you
were offended, Marian!”

“And I, Arthur, for the
same cause.”

“Why, then we have both
been unhappy without a
cause! Well, thank heaven!
we understand each other
now, and I trust there may be
no misunderstanding hereafter.”

“Heaven send it!”

“But of Ernest —does he
indeed speak of me in such
high terms?”

“He does, Arthur, and
seems never weary of the subject;
he is the truest of true
friends.”

“Then have I wronged him
most shamefully.”

“How, Arthur?” inquired
Marian, in surprise.

“In thought. Do you
know, Marian, I have been
jealous of his attentions to
you, and often fancied he was
playing me false—that he was
seeking, by sly means and
base, to estrange us.”

“Oh, then, Arthur, you
have indeed wronged him—
for never heard I friend extol
friend, as Ernest Clifford
extols Arthur Warren. Oh,
I sometimes felt I could love
him for the words he uttered.”

“Love him, Marian?” repeated
Arthur, a little coldly,
forgetting that the cause of
that love was praise of him
self, and that consequently he
must be the foremost object in
the heart of her he addressed.
“Did you say love
him, Marian?”

“I used the term, but perhaps
wrongly,” replied Marian,
blushing: “esteem, it may
be, had been the better word.”

“Esteem, in such cases,
easily ripens into love,” returned
Arthur; “better to use
the expressive verb at once.”

“You mistake me, Arthur,”
cried Marian, hastily, with
considerable confusion.

“Well, no matter—let it
pass—we will not quarrel on
mere terms.”

“We will not quarrel on
any terms, Arthur,” rejoined
Marian, quickly.

“Ay, true—so be it with
all my heart. So you feel
much esteem for Ernest, eh?”

“As your friend, Arthur,
yes.”

“Nay, put not the responsibility
on my shoulders!—do
you not esteem him for himself?
since you prefer that
word to love.”

“Arthur, Arthur, what
mean these questions, asked
in such a way, and in such a
tone?” exclaimed Marian uneasily.

“O, you do not wish to
answer them, I suppose—no
matter.”

“Now Arthur, you grow
unkind again—as if I would
refuse to answer whatever you

may ask. Yes, I do esteem
Mr. Clifford, for himself—I
look upon him as a kind, benevolent,
high-minded, noble-hearted
gentleman.”

“Rare qualities—but I hope
he has them, and that you
may never be deceived.”

“What mean you, Arthur?”

“O, nothing—nothing.”

“Nay, Arthur, there is a
hidden meaning in your
words.”

“Is there, faith?—then if
you are sure of so much, perhaps
you know what it is. I
wish you joy beforehand.”

“Wish me joy of what?”

“Of every thing you wish.”

“I do not understand you.”

“No? Well then let it
pass, till the time comes you
do.”

“Do you refer to Mr. Cllfford?”

“Ha! you take my meaning
wonderfully well, for one
that does not take at all.”

“Arthur how strange you
talk!” cried Marian, becoming
a good deal agitated.

“And yet talk what will
not be strange ere long. Ernest,
I believe, is rich.”

“Well?”

“And you are an heiress.”

“Well?”

“That is all—I only spoke
to show equality.”

“I understand you now,”
said Marian, who would have
wept in vexation of spirit, but
that pride came to her aid.

“O, I knew you would
understand me with a little
reflection,” returned the other,
drily. “One easily understands
in such cases, when
one feels inclined.”

But Marian did not understand
Arthur aright—that is
to say, if she guessed at his
allusions, she put a wrong
construction upon them; for
believing him engaged to
another—or at least in love
with another, as Clifford had
vaguely hinted he was—she
fancied he spoke thus to show
her there was no hope he
would ever be other to her
than now; and with this idea
uppermost in her mind, she
rejoined, in a tone a little
tremulous with emotion:

“Well, let what will happen,
Arthur, I trust we shall
ever be friends!”

“O, certainly, friends! O,
yes, certainly!” he answered,
affecting to laugh indifferently.

“Now, by your manner,
you mean not what you say.”

“Now, by my faith, I do.”

“You seem offended already.”

“Pshaw! you mistake me.
Come, I will convince you of
my sincerity. Here is a plain
gold ring, (producing one from
his pocket (which was made
to fit your finger. If you
look inside, you will see engraved,
`From A. W. to M.
W.;' will you accept this as a
friendship token?”

“Yes! yes!” cried Marian,
eagerly.

“And wear it as such?”

“Yes—it shall never leave
my finger.”

“Let me place it on. Why,
how your hand trembles!
There, now, so long as I see
that ring there, I will call you
by the sweet title of friend—
since it seems decreed I may
never call you by a dearer
term;” and in spite of himself
the voice of Arthur faltered,
and he turned aside his
face to conceal his emotion,
while Marian actually wept.

O, how blind is love
at times—wilfully, jealously
blind! Here were two persons
now, formed for each
other, mutually loving, but
contriving through the very
excess of that love to establish
something like formal friendship.
Had Arthur but spoken
the dearest wish of his soul,
the heart of Marian would
have responded, and these two
beings, now so miserable,
would both have been happy.
When Arthur first met Marian
after his return, he was
struck with the conviction
that she loved him; but her
subsequent manner had led
him to doubt, and finally to
think himself mistaken; and
this very interview, instead
of setting both parties right,
only tended to make matters
still worse, as will be seen by
what immediately follows.

“Now that I have accomplished
one object of my visit
to-night,” said Arthur, at
length—“that is to say,
brought you and I, Marian, to
a friendly understanding—I
may as well make known the
second. I suppose you intend
going to the party at Mr.
Lynch's?”

“I had thought of doing
so,” replied Marian, coloring.

“Well, shall I do myself
the pleasure to call for you?”

At this question Marian
seemed not a little embarrassed,
and answered hesitatingly,
in a tremulous tone, as
if afraid of giving offence:

“Why, Arthur—I—had I
known—I—but—”

“Well, speak out, Marian!”

“Why — I — am —already
engaged, Arthur.”

“Indeed!” rejoined the
other, starting and flushing.
“May I know to whom?”

“Mr. Clifford.”

“I might have known as
much,” returned Arthur, rising
with a cold, offended air.
“I understand it all now. So,
so—well, well;” and he began
to hum a tune, and button his
coat, preparatory to taking
his leave.

“Surely, you are not going,
Arthur!” cried Marian, looking
greatly troubled.

“Yes, they may be inquiring
for me at home, for I stole
away unknown to any.”

“But say you are not offended!”

“O, no, Marian—no—I
wish you well—indeed I do!
But now I think of it, may I
inquire when you made your
engagement with Ernest? for

it was only to-day I received
my invitation.”

“He called this afternoon.”

“Ha! yes—I see:” and
again Arthur thought of the
words of the stranger—“If
he can, he'll sting thee in thy
dearest interest;” for he remembered
Ernest had made
some trifling excuse for separating
from him, for an hour or
so—and now he could see
why, and where he had been.

This reflection did not tend
to put him in any better humor;
and when Marian timidly
inquired if he would not
come with Mr. Clifford, he
answered “No,” so sharply,
that she turned pale and
trembled.

“I am sorry I made the engagement,”
she rejoined.

“Look to it, that you make
no other you will regret
more!” he said, chillingly.
“Meantime, allow me to wish
you a very good night;” and
he strode to the door.

“But stay, Arthur—one
moment—do not go thus!”
cried Marian.

“Well?” he said, almost
savagely, turning full upon
her, with the air of one who
did not wish to be detained.

He saw that she was pale
and trembling; but if the sight
in the least touched or softened
his feelings, he did not
show it; his look was stern
and cold.

“I thought we were to part
friends,” faltered Marian.

“And do we not?” was the
response.

“I hope so—I pray so,
Arthur!”

“Any further commands?”

“No,” answered Marian,
faintly.

“Then good night!” and
Arthur almost rushed out of
the house.

He did not go home for an
hour, but strolled about in no
enviable mood. He was ill-at-ease
with himself, and felt
bitterly toward all mankind,
and particularly toward Ernest.
Had the two met then,
there would in all probability
have been a quarrel.

That night was a very
restless and unhappy one
to Arthur, and Marian wept
herself to a troubled sleep