University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
DELILAH.

The singular interview between these two persons had
lasted so long—so many various passions had modified
and changed the aspect of the scene, as it passed through
all its agitated steps—that one might very readily have
supposed that the words uttered by Mr. Incledon would
have sealed up any further discussion, ended all contest;
and left silence in possession of the spot, which had been
visited with all these clashing and discordant passions,
raising each its head, and trying to hiss loudest, or strike
deadliest.

Such, indeed, might have been the event, if Mr. Incledon
only had been consulted. But there was another:
the beautiful woman who had been beaten at every turn,
foiled with far sharper weapons, and overwhelmed by a
last blow as sudden as it was conclusive.

A rapid thought, which now occurred to Miss Incledon,
prolonged the interview: and we shall proceed to show
the result of this thought, as well as what it was.

For an instant Miss Incledon remained overwhelmed
before the announcement of Mr. Incledon that he was
going to dispatch that letter;—then all the consequences
of such a proceeding seemed to flash upon her.

She rose to her feet, and uttered a suppressed moan,
as though an arrow had pierced her side.

“Do—not, write!” she said, almost inaudibly.

“I must, Silvia,” was the reply.

“Do not write—to-day, then.”

“Why not? Oh! Silvia!” he said, with melancholy
earnestness, “do not look at me so coldly, as if I were
some enemy arrayed against you! I am not an enemy!
but a thousand times your friend! Do not imagine that
I triumph in this blow which leads you to thus change
your tone from menance to supplication. Oh, no! heaven
knows, Silvia, I would see your face covered with smiles
of joy and happiness, not full of gloom as it is now. I
am a weak man when a woman looks at me; and in spite
of all your terrible attacks, of all the insult you have
addressed to me, I feel toward you far more of pity than
of hostility.”

She looked strangely at him, as though measuring his
strength, and the probability of moving him: but she said
nothing.

He misunderstood her look, and thought it one of despair
and submission; and his noble nature, losing sight
of all the outrages which this woman had been guilty of,
made him pity her, and commiserate the unhappy position
in which her passion had placed her.

“You doubt my sincerity, perhaps,” said Mr. Incledon,
pausing on the threshold of the door, and gazing at her
with noble kindness—“you cannot believe that I have forgiven
you—you think that I have told you of my intention
to despatch that letter with a sentiment of triumph
at the stroke I played—of joy at having my revenge.
Oh, no, Silvia! that is not so. I do not triumph—you
are not an enemy—you are a woman. I would not see

you suffer, though you have made me suffer much. From
the bottom of my heart, I lament the fatality which
drives me to thus oppose you, but I have my duty to
perform!”

During the utterance of these words, Miss Incledon had
continued to gaze upon her visitor—a thought seeming
slowly and gradually to unfold its mysterious wings in the
depths of her subtle mind. As though dazzled by this
thought; subdued by its very conception, her eyes sank
at last, and the long lashes concealed the tell-tale orbs,
and that expression of a resolution formed, what they
contained.

Mr. Incledon came to the end of his speech, was bowing,
and had nearly turned away, when the young woman
covered her face with her hands, bent down almost to her
knee, and, as if under the impression that her visitor had
departed—burst into a torrent of passionate sobs, which
seemed to be the irrepressible expression of an opposition
broken down and humbled to the dust.

Her dark hair fell in disordered tresses on her cheeks—
her beautiful neck was shaken with sobs as she bent down
to her knee—and taking one hand from her face, she in
vain endeavored to find her handkerchief, which lay at her
feet, but seemed to be concealed from her by her tears.

Mr. Incledon turned;—paused;—advanced a step dubiously,
then paused again; and ended by returning quickly
to the young woman's side, and picking up the handkerchief
she sought.

“Tears, Silvia!” he said—“in tears! what pain you

give me! There is no reason for this weeping—you
exaggerate all this. You must not weep!”

And his softened gaze fell upon the weeping woman—a
gaze, mild, and full of pity and kindness.

“Here is your handkerchief which you seem to be seeking,”
he said, placing the lace-ornamented cambric in her
hand; “come, Silvia, dry your tears, and do not pain me
by thus yielding to a groundless fear.”

“Don't mind me—I am weak and foolish—you must
despise—me—but—”

And sobbing more than ever, the young woman bent
still lower, and shook from head to foot.

“Despise you, Silvia!” he said—“despise you—Oh,
no, Silvia! You are greatly deceived.”

“You must!” she sobbed.

“Why should I?”

“I have—been so—weak and—silly and—insulting!
I have uttered such insulting words to you—forgive—me
—oh, forgive me!”

“From my heart,” said Mr. Incledon, with noble simplicity.

“I have tried your patience—so—I have been—”

“Forget it, Silvia! we have all quick tempers in our
family, and it is scarcely strange that you should have felt
some irritation at what you were led to consider interference.”

“Oh, it was not—it was—brotherly kindness!”

Mr. Incledon gazed at the young woman in astonishment;
for he could scarcely comprehend the possibility
of so complete an abandonment of her ground. He knew

Silvia well, and was perfectly well acquainted with her
sure determination and persistence in any course she had
adopted—another trait of the Incledons. His astonishment,
thus, was for a moment very great; but his pleasure
was still greater: and taking kindly the hand which hung
down at her side, he pressed it in his friendly grasp, and
said:

“You make me happier than I can express, Silvia, by
thus assuring me that you do not really regard my agency
in this unhappy affair as out of place, or prompted by a
spirit of hostility. Oh, let me confess to you now what
I never could have said before, that your suffering is
mine—that I tremble when you tremble—that my affection
for you is deep and sincere, though wholly unlike
what I once experienced for you. You are my cousin—
my blood flows in your veins—you cannot think your unhappiness
a matter of indifference to me!”

There was so much kindness and simplicity in the
voice which uttered these words, that a for a moment Miss
Incledon's sobs ceased, and she quickly drew away her
hand.

“Mr. Fantish cannot feel for you so pure and brotherly
a kindness,” he added: and to his great astonishment the
hand which she had drawn away was placed again in his,
and her sobs recommenced with greater violence than ever.
If this were not the genuine promptings of a better
nature, the reader will not fail to agree with us, that
subtlety so deep and perfect seldom dwells in a woman's
bosom.

“Yes,” he said, “we can now speak frankly and plainly

about all this—though perhaps it would be better to dismiss
the subject. But do not weep, Silvia.”

“You are so good!” she said.

Again his astonishment was extreme; but it disappeared
as quickly. Great minds have little room in them
for mistrust; and Mr. Incledon's nature was as unsuspecting,
when thrown off its guard, as that of a child.

“My motives are good, Silva,” he said, “but I fear my
manner of acting is very faulty and ill-advised very often.”

“Oh, no—it is noble—like yourself—I do not deserve
all this goodness—Ralph!”

And having uttered his name thus, in a timid and hesitating
voice, she gradually grew calmer, as though she
had thus accomplished the last act of submission.

It is strange how a trifle such as this affects a man.
She had spoken to him throughout the former portions of
their interview, with a cold “sir,” as frequently as she
could drag this exhibition of ill-humor in; and her whole
manner had been shaped in such a way, as to convey to
him the impression, that his very presence was an offence
against her. Now, however, her broken sobs indicated
weakness and submission—her flattering testimony to his
kindness, showed that she repented of her rudeness—lastly,
her use thus of his Christian name, completed the evidence
of her change of feeling, and made him once more the kind
cousin and companion he had been to her in the past.

Her manner and address conveyed all this, and even
more; and Mr. Incledon was not philosopher enough to
steel himself against the change in her tone.

“We were—happy once. Oh, why cannot we be

again!” she said, “how unhappy all these bickerings
are.'

“You are the good, sweet Silvia of the past, now,” said
Mr. Incledon, smiling kindly. “Oh, remain always so.”

“I will try,” she said, “but how—how can you—pardon
me for—not giving up Mr. Fantish!”

And she sobbed again.

“You will forget him, Silvia,” was the reply; “this
is merely a passing fancy. Do not think I have any idea
of renewing my pretensions to your hand—I speak as an
elder brother; and I assure you this unhappy affair will
never cloud your young life—never.”

“Oh—I—I—how can I acknowledge it?”

And she covered her face with her hands, as though
overwhelmed with confusion; and ashamed to meet his
eyes.

“You love him?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“You deceive yourself, Silvia,” he said, calmly; “you
do not know your feelings. You think that the pleasing
impression Mr. Fantish has produced upon you is genuine
love—but you are mistaken.”

“Oh—can I be?”

“Easily. This man cannot fill the capacity of your
heart—he is different from what your fancy has painted
him. He is shallow, and selfish, and depraved. There
is the simple truth—I know it wounds you and offends
you—but I think it best to speak to you with the plainest
frankness.”

“Oh, no, I am not offended.”

“He would never make you happy.”

“Do you think not?”

“Never.”

Miss Incledon sighed as though she were beginning to
be convinced by her companion's reasoning.

“But I ought to give him a trial—I ought to be more
guarded than I have been in my manner. I ought to act
carefully—ought I not to—Ralph?”

And she raised her beautiful eyes, still moist with
tears, to his face timidly, then lowered them again.

“Act carefully, Silvia? Assuredly you should,” he
said.

“I should see him again.”

“I see no objection to your receiving him before you
go.”

She colored, but suppressed this emotion instantly.

“Ralph,” she said, softly, and turning her face up
toward him with a winning smile: “do you know that
your goodness made me for a moment think that you
would yield to a request I thought of making you?”

“A request, Silvia?” he said, with an admiration of
her beauty, which he could not prevent his eyes from
revealing.

“Yes, Ralph, a simple favor.”

“What is it?”

“You will not be angry?”

“Certainly not, Silvia.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Whatever it may be?”

“I do not think you could make me angry by requesting
me to do you a `simple favour,”' he said, smiling.

“Don't you?”

And her beautiful eyes dwelt softly on his face.

“Indeed, no, Silvia.”

“I have offended you so much already,” she murmured,
with an air of self-reproach. “I am so weak and passionate,
and bad.”

“No, no, Silvia! you do not make allowance for
quickness and impulse. You must not slander yourself.”

“Ah!” she sighed, gently.

“I will take your part against yourself,” he said,
smiling kindly.

“Then I shall have a very noble knight.”

And again her look stole softly and admiringly to his
face, and she was silent.

“But your request?” he said: and if Miss Incledon's
intention in this eye-manoeuvring was to throw her visitor
off his guard, the fact of his thus returning to the subject
was a proof of her success; “you wished to request
something of me, Silvia.”

“Yes.”

And she sighed.

“I listen.”

“Again, you will not be angry?”

“No, indeed.

“Nor think it strange?”

“Why, how can I tell that? But I suppose not.”

“And you'll—grant it—Ralph?” she said, more softly
than she had yet spoken: indeed, very tenderly—flooding

him with her softest, saddest, fondest, and most winning
smile; “you'll grant it—Ralph?”

For a moment it seemed to Mr. Incledon that he had
heard a voice more than human in its wondrous music;
and he listened still to its metallic vibration when she had
done speaking. His admiration was quite plain to her,
and she laid her warm hand upon his own, and pressed
his fingers in a cousinly way, and said again:

“You'll grant my little favor, won't you, Ralph?”

“What is it?” Mr. Incledon said, smiling.

“Say you'll grant it.”

“No, indeed, Silvia, that would not be honest: for I
certainly will not if it is anything dreadful and terrible.”

He smiled again as he spoke, and gazed at the beautiful
face admiringly.

“Well,” she said, concealing her disappointment and
displeasure at the ill-success of all her pleading; “well,
Ralph, it is not so terrible or dreadful—and I'm sure you
will not think it wrong in me to ask you—not to—write
that letter!”

There it was at last: and if Mr. Incledon had taken
the trouble to cast his memory back over the last ten
minutes, he would have been struck with wonder by the
admirable adroitness with which the request was gently
edged out, so to speak, from the lady's lips.

“Not write that letter, Silvia!” he said; “but really
I must.”

“Oh, no, you will not, I am sure.”

“Indeed, I will.”

“You do not care anything for me!”

And the beautiful face turned away with an expression
of ill-humor and displeasure which was far from being
affected.

Mr. Incledon looked at her in silence for some time, and
then sighing, said:

“It seems our fate, Silvia, always to have opposing
wishes and opinions. You ask me not to write this letter—but
think what it is. It is very simple. You are
placed under my charge by your father—you are persecuted
by Mr. Fantish—you think Mr. Fantish a better
man than I consider him; and there is, upon the point
of his conduct toward you, the most serious difference of
opinion between you and myself. In this state of things
I prefer yielding up a charge which places me in a position
hostile to the wishes of a lady, who is my cousin—I
wish to say to your father, and my uncle, `here, sir, is
what you delivered to me—my responsibility—take it
back!'—I wish, in a word, Silvia, to end what you even
now consider a very singular sort of guardianship, and go
back to my studies. I am too young to judge of the
species of match suitable for you—I have not scrupled to
declare that Mr. Fantish is the last man I would see
approach you, spite of the fact that you prefer him to all
others: and so you have the reasons, fully expressed, why
I must, as an act of justice to myself, write to your father,
and demand his presence.”

The young lady listened in silence to these calmly-uttered
words, and, as the speaker concluded, gazed keenly
at his countenance to see if there was any hope of shaking

his resolution. The scrutiny drew from her a sigh of ill-humor,
amounting almost to anger, and she turned away.

Then came to her eyes again that strange expression,
which seemed to denote the conception of some hazardous
scheme; and slowly her face grew calm and smiling again,
and her eyes soft.

“Well, Ralph, she said, “I cannot dispute the propriety
of your resolution, and I know you will always act
nobly. I always knew that.”

“Did you?”

“Yes—you smile!—but do not think too harshly of
my bad, rude words.”

“Do not speak again of them, Silvia. I have forgotten
them.”

“You are so kind!—and this gives me courage to ask
of you, as a favor, Ralph, that—but you will refuse me.
You are in the mood for refusing everything.”

“Indeed, no, Silvia!”

“Not even me?”

“You less than any one, almost—for you deserve to
have this granted, as your other was denied.”

“Then, Ralph, I wished to ask,” she said, with her
softest and most fascinating smile, and in the gentlest
voice, “I wished to ask if you would please delay writing
for three days—until I have an interview with Mr. Fantish,
to determine whether I should ever see him again.
I would not like, you know, to think every moment that
my father would walk in, and—and surprise me. Does
that seem ill-advised to you?—I hope it does not—
Ralph.”

He was silent for a moment, and in that time turned
the young woman's request over, viewing it in every
light—why, he could scarcely have explained.

“I see not the least objection, Silvia, to granting your
request,” he said, “and I will not write until Thursday
morning.”

“Thank you, Ralph—thank you—I am eternally obliged
to you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes—how can I thank you?”

“I do not know; I hope in no possible way, however,
for I have some business to attend to, and have been here
all the morning. Yes, Silvia, I willingly accede to your
request—and on Thursday morning I will see you again.
The shorter your interview with Mr. Fantish the better, I
think. For heaven's sake forget him, Silvia—as you love
your parents, home, your name, and all that is pure and
honorable; he is not your peer—and now, good bye.”

She pressed his hand warmly—looked at him with a
smile of triumph, which she could not conceal, and as he
disappeared, closing the door, shook her hand at him, and
rubbing in disgust the spot upon it which his own had
touched, muttered triumphantly:

“Fool! shallow fool!—tricked after all your boasting,
by a woman you dared to offend!”

These were the events of a morning.