University of Virginia Library

10. X.
REMONSTRANCES.

IT had been a lovely summer day, with a
tinge of autumnal coolness toward nightfall,
ending in what Aunt Jane called a “quince-jelly
sunset.” Kate and Emilia sat upon the
Blue Rocks, earnestly talking.

“Promise, Emilia!” said Kate.

Emilia said nothing.

“Remember,” continued Kate, “he is Hope's
betrothed. Promise, promise, promise!”

Emilia looked into Kate's face and saw it
flushed with a generous eagerness, that called
forth an answering look in her. She tried to
speak, and the words died into silence. There
was a pause, while each watched the other.

When one soul is grappling with another for
life, such silence may last an instant too long;
and Kate soon felt her grasp slipping. Momentarily
the spell relaxed. Other thoughts
swelled up, and Emilia's eyes began to wander;
delicious memories stole in, of walks through
blossoming paths with Malbone, — of lingering

steps, half-stifled words and sentences left unfinished;
— then, alas! of passionate caresses,
— other blossoming paths that only showed
the way to sin, but had never quite led her
there, she fancied. There was so much to tell,
more than could ever be told to Kate, infinitely
more than could ever be explained or justified.
Moment by moment, farther and farther
strayed the wandering thoughts, and when the
poor child looked in Kate's face again, the mist
between them seemed to have grown wide and
dense, as if neither eyes nor words nor hands
could ever meet again. When she spoke it
was to say something evasive and unimportant,
and her voice was as one from the grave.

In truth, Philip had given Emilia his heart
to play with at Neuchâtel, that he might beguile
her from an attachment they had all
regretted. The device succeeded. The toy
once in her hand, the passionate girl had kept
it, had clung to him with all her might; he
could not shake her off. Nor was this the
worst, for to his dismay he found himself responding
to her love with a self-abandonment
of ardor for which all former loves had been
but a cool preparation. He had not intended
this; it seemed hardly his fault: his intentions

had been good, or at least not bad. This
piquant and wonderful fruit of nature, this
girlish soul, he had merely touched it and it
was his. Its mere fragrance was intoxicating.
Good God! what should he do with it?

No clear answer coming, he had drifted
on with that terrible facility for which years
of self-indulged emotion had prepared him.
Each step, while it was intended to be the last,
only made some other last step needful.

He had begun wrong, for he had concealed
his engagement, fancying that he could secure
a stronger influence over this young girl without
the knowledge. He had come to her
simply as a friend of her Transatlantic kindred;
and she, who was always rather indifferent
to them, asked no questions, nor made the
discovery till too late. Then, indeed, she had
burst upon him with an impetuous despair that
had alarmed him. He feared, not that she
would do herself any violence, for she had a
childish dread of death, but that she would
show some desperate animosity toward Hope,
whenever they should meet. After a long
struggle, he had touched, not her sense of justice,
for she had none, but her love for him;
he had aroused her tenderness and her pride.

Without his actual assurance, she yet believed
that he would release himself in some way
from his betrothal, and love only her.

Malbone had fortunately great control over
Emilia when near her, and could thus keep the
sight of this stormy passion from the pure and
unconscious Hope. But a new distress opened
before him, from the time when he again
touched Hope's hand. The close intercourse
of the voyage had given him for the time
almost a surfeit of the hot-house atmosphere
of Emilia's love. The first contact of Hope's
cool, smooth fingers, the soft light of her clear
eyes, the breezy grace of her motions, the rose-odors
that clung around her, brought back all
his early passion. Apart from this voluptuousness
of the heart into which he had fallen,
Malbone's was a simple and unspoiled nature;
he had no vices, and had always won popularity
too easily to be obliged to stoop for it; so
all that was noblest in him paid allegiance to
Hope. From the moment they again met, his
wayward heart reverted to her. He had been
in a dream, he said to himself; he would conquer
it and be only hers; he would go away
with her into the forests and green fields she
loved, or he would share in the life of usefulness

for which she yearned. But then, what
was he to do with this little waif from the
heart's tropics, — once tampered with, in an
hour of mad dalliance, and now adhering inseparably
to his life? Supposing him ready
to separate from her, could she be detached
from him?

Kate's anxieties, when she at last hinted
them to Malbone, only sent him further into
revery. “How is it,” he asked himself, “that
when I only sought to love and be loved, I
have thus entangled myself in the fate of
others? How is one's heart to be governed?
Is there any such governing? Mlle. Clairon
complained that, so soon as she became seriously
attached to any one, she was sure to
meet somebody else whom she liked better.
Have human hearts,” he said, “or at least, has
my heart, no more stability than this?”

It did not help the matter when Emilia went
to stay awhile with Mrs. Meredith. The event
came about in this way. Hope and Kate had
been to a dinner-party, and were as usual reciting
their experiences to Aunt Jane.

“Was it pleasant?” said that sympathetic
lady.

“It was one of those dreadfully dark dining-rooms,”

said Hope, seating herself at the open
window.

“Why do they make them look so like
tombs?” said Kate.

“Because,” said her aunt, “most Americans
pass from them to the tomb, after eating such
indigestible things. There is a wish for a gentle
transition.”

“Aunt Jane,” said Hope, “Mrs. Meredith
asks to have a little visit from Emilia. Do you
think she had better go?”

“Mrs. Meredith?” asked Aunt Jane. “Is
that woman alive yet?”

“Why, auntie!” said Kate. “We were talking
about her only a week ago.”

“Perhaps so,” conceded Aunt Jane, reluctantly.
“But it seems to me she has great
length of days!”

“How very improperly you are talking,
dear!” said Kate. “She is not more than
forty, and you are —”

“Fifty-four,” interrupted the other.

“Then she has not seen nearly so many days
as you.”

“But they are such long days! That is
what I must have meant. One of her days is
as long as three of mine. She is so tiresome!”

“She does not tire you very often,” said
Kate.

“She comes once a year,” said Aunt Jane.
“And then it is not to see me. She comes
out of respect to the memory of my great-aunt,
with whom Talleyrand fell in love, when he
was in America, before Mrs. Meredith was
born. Yes, Emilia may as well go.”

So Emilia went. To provide her with companionship,
Mrs. Meredith kindly had Blanche
Ingleside to stay there also. Blanche stayed
at different houses a good deal. To do her
justice, she was very good company, when put
upon her best behavior, and beyond the reach
of her demure mamma. She was always in
spirits, often good-natured, and kept everything
in lively motion, you may be sure. She found
it not unpleasant, in rich houses, to escape some
of those little domestic parsimonies which the
world saw not in her own; and to secure this
felicity she could sometimes lay great restraints
upon herself, for as much as twenty-four hours.
She seemed a little out of place, certainly,
amid the precise proprieties of Mrs. Meredith's
establishment. But Blanche and her
mother still held their place in society, and it
was nothing to Mrs. Meredith who came to

her doors, but only from what other doors
they came.

She would have liked to see all “the best
houses” connected by secret galleries or underground
passages, of which she and a few others
should hold the keys. A guest properly presented
could then go the rounds of all unerringly,
leaving his card at each, while improper
acquaintances in vain howled for admission at
the outer wall. For the rest, her ideal of social
happiness was a series of perfectly ordered
entertainments, at each of which there should
be precisely the same guests, the same topics,
the same supper, and the same ennui.