55. CHAPTER LV.
THE PENSIVE ROLE.
Mrs. Smith's last remark was not intended to
be complimentary to herself or to Joseph Fox.
The state of matrimony had no especial charms
for her, nor did she cherish an especial admiration
for the young gentleman she had employed
her arts to ensnare.
But the “old life”—whatever that might mean
—spread its deadly waste before her. She had
gained many admirers in the last few months,
during which time she had mingled in good
society; but, with one exception, these admirers
were not sound upan the important question
of marriage.
Joseph Fox had experienced for her that infatuation
that experienced women of mature
years often inspire the other sex with in those
years when the passions of the man exist uncontrolled
by the judgment. She had presented
herself to him in the character of a persecuted
woman. No Magdalen, seeking to rise from
her shame, but a lovely woman, with a warm,
impulsive heart, which his sex had attacked
with intent to ruin. She had represented herself
as thrown upon the world at a tender age,
compelled to marry one she could not love,
forced by ill-treatment to fly from her husband,
and living ever after in the shadow of the disgrace
incurred by that act.
Probably Joseph Fox was not too virtuous to have
essayed the role of which others of his sex were
charged; but her address had erected barriers around
herself which he had not the courage to overleap. She
placed him at once on the familiar footing of a dear
and trusted friend, and a single glance was enough to
check his feeble attempts to exercise the prerogatives
of his sex.
It is the nature of a woman to despise a man when
she can hold him in a restraint based upon fear. They
will forgive audacity arising from love, or appreciate
forbearance inspired by principle, but a rake at heart,
who does not be a rake in deed, is the object upon
which they bestow a contempt more profound than
their vocabulary of words can express.
But Mrs. Smith was not in a position to consuit her
own inclinations. She was penniless and in debt. Her
lawyer had thrown up the case upon which she had
based her claim to the forbearance of her creditors.
Her old associates were as destitute as herself. It was
marriage—or that life of shameful vicissitude of
which, in her youth, she had had more than enough.
After Mr. Gray left her she sat herself down, as she
said, to think. With bitter self-reproach her thoughts
went back to those wasted years when, prodigal of her
youth, she had lived for the pleasure of the passing
moment. Disdaining the even and quiet paths in
which women less gifted with beauty than herself were
content to walk, and which led to the peace of a cherished
home, she had crowded every hour with unhallowed
joys; and now, a little past thirty, when a well-spent
life is just blossoming into maturity, she was
old, faded, neglected, and despised.
The hour approached when Joseph Fox had been
accustomed to make his daily visit. The profound
disquiet of her mind did not render her oblivious of
the requirements of the toilet. On the contray, she
dressed with even more careful study than usual, and,
thanks to the aids the genius of man has supplied, she
recovered again, in appearance at least, the lost youth
she so deeply regretted.
Joseph Fox came at the usual hour. Tall, lank, ungainly,
with an aspect of rashness in form and face, he
approached with a confidence in his power to please
which the patience of the trained intriguante could
hardly endure.
Mrs. Smith had resolved on this day to play the pensive
role. Sometimes she would dazzle him with her
wit and vivacity, but to-day she was not equal to the
effort. Having so often excited his admiration, a little
play upon his sympathy might not be less effective.
“Dear friend,” she said, “I never was so glad to
see you. Do you know I began to think you would not
come.”
“You told me not to come till two,” was the commonplace
answer, and the youth pulled out his watch
to show that he was punctual.
“Perhaps I did; but it seems so long since you were
here. I'm afraid I am growing to think too much of
your visits.”
In the shaded light she looked young and exceedingly
beautiful. Her drooping eyelids disclosed the soft
glow of eyes into which an expression of sweet sadness
had come, and they glanced at him as coyly and
shyly as the eyes of a maiden when love first dawns in
her heart.
“You can't think too much of my visits,” he replied.
“I'd stay here all the time, if I could.”
“Would you, indeed?”
“You know I would.”
He had taken her hand; and now, emboldened by
her complaisance, he passed his arm round her waist.
She sat still a moment, and then, with seeming effort,
put his arm away.
“Forgive me, Joseph, I dare not permit caresses
that my heart hungers for. You must be good, and
I'll try to be.”
Joseph was being led along at a rapid pace. He
colored crimson, and his eyes assumed an expression
of ravenous fondness.
“I know,” she continued, “you are a young man of
high principles. However naughty you may have
been in certain circles, you would not deceive a trusting
heart.”
“No,” replied Joseph, delighted at the reputation
for gallantry he had obtained in her mind; “I could
not do that; it isn't in me.”
“I am glad to believe so, Joseph. I know you are
high-minded and honorable. You have been more
than kind to me, and I thank you for it, though I
may be compelled to—to—”
“What?” asked Joseph, as she seemed unequal to
the task of finishing the sentence.
“Ask you not to come here any more. It breaks my
heart; but you know why.”
The handsome face was averted, but the young man
could see the convulsive movement of her bosom.
“I don't know of any reason,” he said, again taking
her hand.
“People will talk,” was the low response.
“Let them talk,” he answered, bravely.
“That will do for you. You are a man, and a little
scandal attached to a young man's name does not
hurt him much. But I—I must preserve my good
name.”
If Joseph had been a little more world-wise he
might have thought that she was rather late in undertaking
the task that she had set herself; but being
still in the transition stage, he could only admit the
abstract justice of her position.
“You will soon forget me,” she murmured. “The
world is before you. Other women will claim—”
Her lip trembled, and her bosom heaved more convulsively
than before.
“I don't care for other women,” he responded; “I
only care for you.”
“I believe you like me. I like you. But you know
we cannot continue this boy and girl liking. If we
could, the world would not let us.”
“What is the world to us?” he asked—unconsciously,
perhaps, quoting from the last novel he had read.
“If you like me—”
“I do like you, Joseph; but I love my good name
even better. You are too young to marry, and if you
were not—”
“I'm not so very young; I'm twenty-one.”
“But twenty-one is very young for a man to marry.
It is true you have a manly look, and have seen
the world.”
“Yes,” said Joseph, “I have seen the world; but,”
he added, with what he thought a happy inspiration'
“I've never seen a woman I loved until I met you.”
“Do you really love me? It seems so very strange;
so many women must love you. Do you really wish to
make me your wife?”
The young man had entered that room without any
thought of speedy marriage. He was not aware he
had proposed until he found himself more than half
accepted. With those soft, pleading eyes looking into
his, he could not retreat. He utterred the fatal “I do,”
received into his arms her palpitating form, and
heared her low, sweet voice murmur: “There; I am
yours.”
Mrs. Smith did not play the yielding role too long.
Before the youth was ready for a change of tactics,
she was discussing the practical bearings of the contract
and arranging the details of the final ceremony.
Two weeks afterward the ceremony took place.
Mrs. Smith, with her most gracious air, presented herself
to Dr. Fox as his daughter-in-law, much to that
gentleman's astonishment.
