University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.

The source of Mr. Brande's revery was an astonished
admiration for Mr. Carfield, which Chloe's revelation
had excited. The boldness, resolution, and satanic
ingenuity of his plan, which Mr. Brande decided
was a meditated one, and that Sarah had merely
acted up to her instructions, gave him a pang of envy,
for he felt that in the capacity for such conduct
there must be also the capacity for a bold, free, profound,
conscienceless enjoyment,—the very kind of
enjoyment he could best appreciate, and was too cowardly
to attain. He thought that if he had been
present then he should have turned Mr. Carfield out
of dcors, but he had no impulse to do so now, even
with the tones of his forcible voice in hearing. As
for the story, it must be explained at the right moment.
So far as Kent was concerned, it should be
put down in some high-handed way; he would throw
it in the teeth of the society which he represented, or
ride over their necks with it. With Virginia two
ways were open; one was to consider her irretrievably
committed, the other was to break the engagement
publicly, which had never existed except between
himself and Mr. Carfield. In the latter case a
hundred thousand dollars would vanish from his
grasp, and a certain exposure take place, as mysteriously
brought about as this miserable business had

been. Tempe's gay laugh rose again over his cogitations.
Well, he would wait a little; he was quite
used to waiting in an uncertain, threatening atmosphere.
An inexplicable thought, reason, or sensation
sent him creeping up stairs to stand before Virginia's
door, and examine the panels and the lock like a detective;
he even laid his hand on the knob, but hearing
a movement within he turned away and went
back into the dining-room again. He found Martha
there, who had come to tell him that Sarah had gone,
leaving word that it was for good. He replied with
his usual suavity, that her behavior carried its punishment,
and gave instructions concerning another
servant whom Martha had in the kitchen. He said
that he should consider himself indebted to her if
she could arrange domestic affairs, so that no change
should be apparent. Martha was overcome by his
confidential condescension, and promised to do her
best.

“It will all blow over,” she commented, bustling
back to her work; “it's stuff and nonsense to make
a rumpus about a mess of talk. Why, come murder,
arson even, we have to get three meals a day for
them that does it, and them that doesn't.”

All the long evening, and they sat up late, as if
some secret bond held them together, Mr. Brande
was divided in his mental scrutiny. He tried to
guess the state of Virginia's mind,—whether she remembered
the insult continually, either in sorrow, or
anger; whether it had broken the barriers of conventionality
between her and Mr. Carfield, for hate, or

love and forgiveness. He watched Tempe's careless
flirtation with Mr. Carfield, and speculated upon her
probable conduct under the same circumstances with
—himself. His head reeled at this thought. What
possessed him?

“Virginia,” he called, putting down a book he had
not read, “would it not be pleasant for you to drive
about town to-morrow, with Mrs. Drake in the new
barouche?”

She looked up from her inseparable knitting, and
met his eye. He frowned involuntarily in the direction
of Mr. Carfield; an emotion of regret and sympathy
suddenly flitted into his face, and she understood
that he knew all about it; and how like her
calm, reasonable father it was—to remain so quietly
in the room with that wretch!

Her face was sad and fatigued; its expression made
him resolve vaguely to look over his accounts the
next day, and think about kicking Carfield out.

“Why not?” cried Mr. Carfield; “I should like
to go, too.”

“To-morrow I must go home,” Tempe interposed.

“To-morrow Tempe must go home,” echoed Virginia.

“But,” said Tempe, “I do not wish to go. I like
this house immensely; it is delightful. For two
days I have ceased to think there is an ugly, decayed
old town a couple of miles distant.”

Mr. Brande felt hot about the heart; he started,
and went over to Tempe, seating himself beside her,
and looked at her with a goat-like fondness.

“I thought so,” said Mr. Carfield mischievously.
“I feel flattered for my portion in your good opinion.”

Mr. Brande leaned towards Tempe, and said in a
low tone, “Won't you stay another day,—even at the
risk of flattering me,—and perhaps spoiling me for a
man of business?”

Virginia felt painfully confused, and held her head
down.

“Yes,” continued Mr. Carfield gaily, “this is a
pleasant home, Mrs. Drake; I intend to remain here
forever.”

How Mr. Brande desired to make an answer that
would be a lesson, an intimation, and explanation,
which would include them all! Lacking subtlety,
however, he could only avail himself of the commonplace.

“Mrs. Drake knows that I should be proud to
have her good opinion of anything in my possession.
I think, however, another charm might be added to
this spot.”

“If anything agreeable could be added,—when
Mr. Carfield is here,” she said, looking at Virginia.
“How came you to have so grand and stately a
daughter, Mr. Brande?”

“Don't you like the grand and stately?”

The accent of his voice made her look round at
him; her eyes opened wildly at the declaration in
his.

“Don't you, my dear?”—he whispered, growing
violently red, his blood tingling like needles all over
him.

She was struck dumb, and remained so motionless
with her fixed eyes, that he concluded she was
purely receptive. He must own this little pet,
sooner or later, and he would indulge her as no wife
had ever been indulged; but she must—However, this
was not the moment, or the place to make arrangements;
he would wait.

“You are fond of reading, I think?” he asked,
taking up a book and fluttering the leaves. She
sighed with sheer surprise, and looking round to rouse
herself, saw Mr. Carfield at the back of Virginia's
chair, but did not hear what he was saying. She set
her face towards Mr. Brande again, and said abruptly,
“I am fond of nothing.”

He ventured to pinch her cheek with his cold
pointed fingers, and the touch of the velvet flesh gave
him a terrible shock; but he managed to offer a
superior smile, and whisper, “I knew you would
say all those petulant things, but I like them.”

“Virginia,” said Mr. Carfield, “do you see what
an ass your father is making himself with that imp?”

Her head fell still lower over her work, but she
made no reply.

“Do you hear me? This weak nonsense must be
stopped before she utterly bewitches him. It is a
frightful joke, isn't it?”

She raised her hunted, despairing eyes, and said,
“Have you not yet learned that he always gains his
wishes? Why are you still here?”

“Stuff.”

“If he decides to, he will marry her. The brilliant,

flame-loving, foolish little moth, will yield to
the temptations of the position I despise, and cannot
escape from.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and bent still nearer;
she felt his breath against her face. Her hands shook
so that the stitches dropped from her needles; drops
of sweat burst out of her forehead, her lips parted,
her teeth were set together, and she was ghastly
white.

“I am afraid,” was her mental cry, “there is no
God. I hate my life.”

Mr. Carfield watched her closely.

Suddenly she rose, and stood for an instant in a
listening attitude.

“Yes there is!” she cried in a loud voice.

They heard a murmur outside in the hall; the
outer door was closed with a crash, the inner door
flew open, and Sebastian Ford came in.

“I have found what I missed in the pines,” he
said significantly, addressing Virginia, and touching
his waistband. It was impossible for her to reply;
a slight hysterical noise came through her lips, and
she could not advance towards him a step. Her
arms were like leaden weights to her; only by fixing
her steadfast gaze upon his face could she keep her
footing. There was that in his bearing which prevented
ordinary salutation. Upon his entrance Mr.
Brande and Tempe rose involuntarily, and the former
would perhaps have come to his fatuous speech,
if Tempe had not laid a silence-compelling pressure
upon his arm. Mr. Carfield turned his hardest,
haughtiest face towards him.

“We have been favored, Mr. Ford, with no specimen
of the Spanish melo-drama till now. It is
much of an exotic; still we thank you for this fine
tableau,—a la brigand—”

“It suits the occasion, and our necessity. I have
been down in Kent to-day, hearing in the most public
places, among the most common men, of your
vile intrusion, at midnight, into the room of Miss
Brande—who is about to become the wife of my
friend, Argus Gates. Sir, you must now make an
explanation with your pen, which I shall in these
places, and among these men, make public. Sir,
will you do so?”

“Your threat is—what, a pistol?”

“I will kill you—but not here.”

“The principal declines, does he,—and his second
offers to do the work?”

Sebastian smiled in so ugly a manner that Tempe
clasped her hands and said, “Oh!” and Mr. Brande
let his book fall.

“Argus is one with his race here. I have killed a
man. Moreover, he is ignorant of my wish, and of
my intention.”

“Sebastian,” murmured Virginia, in a faint, delicious,
cooing voice, a heavenly smile softening her
anguished face.

At its sound Mr. Carfield grew savage.

“She is to be my wife,” he said.

Mr. Brande was foolish enough to give a slight nod
at Sebastian, for which Tempe struck his mouth with
the back of her hand; he made no further demonstration,

though Mr. Carfield immediately appealed
to him to say whether the length of the engagement
which Virginia had tactily permitted, did not warrant
the sacredness of his claim.

“You must lose her, sir,” said Sebastian.

“A duel, of course, will lose her to me. And are
you so blind to our customs as to think that my refusing
to fight you, will brand me as cowardly?”
asked Mr. Carfield.

“You are not a coward, except with women; but
if you will not fight me, I will assassinate you. My
life is at the service of my friend. Come, sir, I will
wait no longer. This parlor is no duelling ground,
but murder may be committed anywhere.”

His coolness, his assurance was terrible; the menace
in his voice, the deadly expression in his eye,
left Mr. Carfield in no doubt. But how was it possible
to yield Virginia to the demand of this devil?
Absolutely speaking, he was not afraid of Sebastian,
excepting that he was sure there was a pistol concealed
about him, and he did not desire to be shot.
To shoot him in a fair fight was impossible; fists
were not to be mentioned; but the thought of being
dogged by that implacable, sentimental boy was both
possible, and carefully to be considered.

“I'll reflect a moment, Mr. Ford,” he said.

There was a dead silence in the room while he
walked up and down. He stopped presently before
Tempe, and deliberately scanned her: she did her
best to banish all vestige of expression from her face,
and succeeded tolerably well. Mr. Brande looked
upon him with anger.

“I am looking at you,” said Mr. Carfield, “to
learn what my taste and fancy may do for me with a
different type of woman from the one I have lost so
much time with, and—Brande, excuse me,—so much
money.”

He crossed the room, and came face to face with
Virginia, and it startled him to see in her face an expression
as determined and as fatal as Sebastian's.
The support she required had come.

“Well,” he said, “how the matter came out I cannot
say; circumstances have proved stronger than the
mad impulse that sent me to you that night. By the
God that made me, Virginia, I would only have forestalled
the clergyman's benediction. The benediction
your good father demanded, and which your
pious soul would have entreated for afterwards.”

Sebastian shuddered; an awful echo went through
his spirit.

“Mr. Ford, what do you demand?” he asked
wheeling round.

“Write for me the words you have just spoken.”

Virginia pointed to a little moroco case on a stand,
and Mr. Carfield drew out some paper, upon which he
wrote a clear and concise explanation, sparing himself
nowhere; for he thought there must be a settlement
with Brande, and the plainer his apology, the
clearer the public would see that a business separation
must take place, and he might get his money
again.

“Now,” he said, handing the paper to Sebastian,
“can the curtain drop on this little farce? At another

time, to-morrow, perhaps, if the same audience
comes together, we may enact the same, with spectacular
improvements. Allow me, sir, to see you to
the door.”

Sebastian, tucking the note in his waistband,
smiled again.

“Receive my thanks for the honor you have done
me. Accept my excuses for the duty thrust upon
me.”

They both bowed.

Sebastian looked with an expression of entreaty at
Virginia, which she comprehended.

“It is very late, Mr. Ford. May I ask you to
spend the remainder of the night with us?”

He turned to Mr. Brande, who, not possessing any
taste for the dramatic, was unequal to the occasion,
and merely mumbled a word or two, seconding her
invitation. Mr. Carfield left the room.

“A moment,” begged Sebastian, darting out, and
opening the outer door.

“Mat,” he whispered, “here it is. Take the paper
to the Captain. I won't trust the hound here to-night.”

“Ay, ay, sir. Has he come to the scratch?”

“I think so,” replied Sebastian; “but he is not
scratched, I assure you.”

Mat laughed, dashed into the darkness, and ran all
the way to Temple House.

Argus was still up, and read the note in astonishment.

“It was all a contrived plan between him and me,”

said Mat triumphantly. “Blarsted if Mr. Ford ain't
as good an earthquake and a priest put together.”

“Damn him,” said Argus sharply, “he has paid
his debt to me.”

“Now you will be married?”

“Now I shall be married,” Argus replied rather
dreamily.

“Now we shall be able to carry on Temple
House?” added Mat, with an anxious accent.

“Now,” Argus answered, with an utterly abstracted
voice, “we shall carry on Temple House.”