University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
AARON BURR.

At the period of which we are speaking, no
name in the New Republic was associated with
ideas of more brilliant promise, and invested with
a greater prestige of popularity and success, than
that of Colonel Aaron Burr.

Sprung of a line distinguished for intellectual
ability, the grandson of a man whose genius has
swayed New England from that day to this, the
son of parents eminent in their day for influential
and popular talents, he united in himself the
quickest perceptions and keenest delicacy of fibre
with the most diamond hardness and unflinching
steadiness of purpose; — apt, subtle, adroit, dazzling,
no man in his time ever began life with
fairer chances of success and fame.

His name, as it fell on the ear of our heroine,
carried with it the suggestion of all this; and
when, with his peculiarly engaging smile, he
offered his arm, she felt a little of the flutter natural
to a modest young person unexpectedly honored

with the notice of one of the great ones of
the earth, whom it is seldom the lot of humble
individuals to know, except by distant report.

But, although Mary was a blushing and sensitive
person, she was not what is commonly called
a diffident girl; — her nerves had that healthy,
steady poise which gave her presence of mind in
the most unwonted circumstances.

The first few sentences addressed to her by her
new companion were in a tone and style altogether
different from any in which she had ever
been approached, — different from the dashing frankness
of her sailor lover, and from the rustic gallantry
of her other admirers.

That indescribable mixture of ease and deference,
guided by refined tact, which shows the
practised, high-bred man of the world, made its
impression on her immediately, as a breeze on the
chords of a wind-harp. She felt herself pleasantly
swayed and breathed upon; — it was as if an atmosphere
were around her in which she felt a
perfect ease and freedom, an assurance that her
lightest word might launch forth safely, as a tiny
boat, on the smooth, glassy mirror of her listener's
pleased attention.

“I came to Newport only on a visit of business,”
he said, after a few moments of introductory
conversation. “I was not prepared for its
many attractions.”

“Newport has a great deal of beautiful scenery,”
said Mary.

“I have heard that it was celebrated for the
beauty of its scenery, and of its ladies,” he answered;
“but,” he added, with a quick flash of
his dark eye, “I never realized the fact before.”

The glance of the eye pointed and limited the
compliment, and, at the same time, there was a
wary shrewdness in it; — he was measuring how
deep his shaft had sunk, as he always instinctively
measured the person he talked with.

Mary had been told of her beauty since her
childhood, notwithstanding her mother had essayed
all that transparent, respectable hoaxing by which
discreet mothers endeavor to blind their daughters
to the real facts of such cases; but, in her own
calm, balanced mind, she had accepted what she
was so often told, as a quiet verity; and therefore
she neither fluttered nor blushed on this occasion,
but regarded the speaker with a pleased
attention, as one who was saying obliging things.

“Cool!” he thought to himself, — “hum! — a
little rustic belle, I suppose, — well aware of her
own value; — rather piquant, on my word!”

“Shall we walk in the garden?” he said, —
`the evening is so beautiful.”

They passed out of the door and began promenading
the long walk. At the bottom of the
alley he stopped, and, turning, looked up the vista

of box ending in the brilliantly-lighted rooms,
where gentlemen, with powdered heads, lace ruffles,
and glittering knee-buckles, were handing
ladies in stiff brocades, whose towering heads
were shaded by ostrich-feathers and sparkling with
gems.

“Quite court-like, on my word!” he said. “Tell
me, do you often have such brilliant entertainments
as this?”

“I suppose they do,” said Mary. “I never was
at one before, but I sometimes hear of them.”

“And you do not attend?” said the gentleman,
with an accent which made the inquiry a marked
compliment.

“No, I do not,” said Mary; “these people generally
do not visit us.”

“What a pity,” he said, “that their parties
should want such an ornament! But,” he added,
“this night must make them aware of their oversight;
— if you are not always in society after
this, it will surely not be for want of solicitation.”

“You are very kind to think so,” replied Mary;
“but even if it were to be so, I should not see
my way clear to be often in such scenes as this.”

Her companion looked at her with a glance a
little doubtful and amused, and said, “And pray,
why not? if the inquiry be not too presumptuous.”

“Because,” said Mary, “I should be afraid they
would take too much time and thought, and lead
me to forget the great object of life.”

The simple gravity with which this was said,
as if quite assured of the sympathy of her auditor,
appeared to give him a secret amusement.
His bright, dark eyes danced, as if he suppressed
some quick repartee; but, drooping his long lashes
deferentially, he said, in gentle tones, “I should
like to know what so beautiful a young lady considers
the great object of life.”

Mary answered reverentially, in those words then
familiar from infancy to every Puritan child, “To
glorify God, and enjoy Him forever.”

“Really?” he said, looking straight into her
eyes with that penetrating glance with which he
was accustomed to take the gauge of every one
with whom he conversed.

“Is it not?” said Mary, looking back, calm and
firm, into the sparkling, restless depths of his
eyes.

At that moment, two souls, going with the
whole force of their being in opposite directions,
looked out of their windows at each other with a
fixed and earnest recognition.

Burr was practised in every art of gallantry, —
he had made womankind a study, — he never saw
a beautiful face and form without a sort of restless
desire to experiment upon it and try his

power over the interior inhabitant; but, just at
this moment, something streamed into his soul
from those blue, earnest eyes, which brought back
to his mind what pious people had so often told
him of his mother, the beautiful and early-sainted
Esther Burr. He was one of those persons who
systematically managed and played upon himself
and others, as a skilful musician, and on an instrument.
Yet one secret of his fascination was
the naïveté with which, at certain moments, he
would abandon himself to some little impulse of
a nature originally sensitive and tender. Had the
strain of feeling which now awoke in him come
over him elsewhere, he would have shut down
some spring in his mind, and excluded it in a
moment; but, talking with a beautiful creature
whom he wished to please, he gave way at once
to the emotion; — real tears stood in his fine eyes,
and he raised Mary's hand to his lips, and kissed
it, saying, —

“Thank you, my beautiful child, for so good a
thought. It is truly a noble sentiment, though
practicable only to those gifted with angelic natures.”

“Oh, I trust not,” said Mary, earnestly touched
and wrought upon, more than she herself knew,
by the beautiful eyes, the modulated voice, the
charm of manner, which seemed to enfold her
like an Italian summer.

Burr sighed, — a real sigh of his better nature,
but passed out with all the more freedom that he
felt it would interest his fair companion, who, for
the time being, was the one woman of the world
to him.

“Pure and artless souls like yours,” he said,
“cannot measure the temptations of those who are
called to the real battle of life in a world like this.
How many nobler aspirations fall withered in the
fierce heat and struggle of the conflict!”

He was saying then what he really felt, often
bitterly felt, — but using this real feeling advisedly,
and with skilful tact, for the purpose of the hour.

What was this purpose? To win the regard,
the esteem, the tenderness of a religious, exalted
nature shrined in a beautiful form, — to gain and
hold ascendency. It was a life-long habit, — one
of those forms of refined self-indulgence which he
pursued, thoughtless and reckless of consequences.
He had found now the key-note of the character;
it was a beautiful instrument, and he was well
pleased to play on it.

“I think, Sir,” said Mary, modestly, “that you
forget the great provision made for our weakness.”

“How?” he said.

“They that wait on the Lord shall renew their
strength,” she replied, gently.

He looked at her, as she spoke these words,
with a pleased, artistic perception of the contrast

between her worldly attire and the simple, religious
earnestness of her words.

“She is entrancing!” he thought to himself, —
“so altogether fresh and naïve!”

“My sweet saint,” he said, “such as you are
the appointed guardians of us coarser beings. The
prayers of souls given up to worldliness and ambition
effect little. You must intercede for us. I
am very orthodox, you see,” he added, with that
subtle smile which sometimes irradiated his features.
“I am fully aware of all that your reverend
doctor tells you of the worthlessness of unregenerate
doings; and so, when I see angels
walking below, I try to secure `a friend at court.'”

He saw that Mary looked embarrassed and
pained at this banter, and therefore added, with a
delicate shading of earnestness, —

“In truth, my fair young friend, I hope you will
sometimes pray for me. I am sure, if I have any
chance of good, it will come in such a way.”

“Indeed I will,” said Mary, fervently, — her little
heart full, tears in her eyes, her breath coming
quick, — and she added, with a deepening color,
“I am sure, Mr. Burr, that there should be a covenant
blessing for you, if for any one, for you are
the son of a holy ancestry.”

“Eh, bien, mon ami, qu'est ce que tu fais ici?”
said a gay voice behind a clump of box; and immediately
there started out, like a French picture

from its frame, a dark-eyed figure, dressed like a
Marquise of Louis XIV.'s time, with powdered
hair, sparkling with diamonds.

“Rien que m'amuser,” he replied, with ready
presence of mind, in the same tone, and then
added, — “Permit me, Madame, to present to you
a charming specimen of our genuine New England
flowers. Miss Scudder, I have the honor to
present you to the acquaintance of Madame de
Frontignac.”

“I am very happy,” said the lady, with that
sweet, lisping accentuation of English which well
became her lovely mouth. “Miss Scudder, I hope,
is very well.”

Mary replied in the affirmative, — her eyes resting
the while with pleased admiration on the
graceful, animated face and diamond-bright eyes
which seemed looking her through.

“Monsieur la trouve bien séduisante apparemment,”
said the stranger, in a low, rapid voice, to
the gentleman, in a manner which showed a mingling
of pique and admiration.

“Petite jalouse! rassure-toi,” he replied, with a
look and manner into which, with that mobile
force which was peculiar to him, he threw the
most tender and passionate devotion. “Ne suis-je
pas à toi tout à fait?” — and as he spoke, he offered
her his other arm. “Allow me to be an
unworthy link between the beauty of France and
America.”

The lady swept a proud curtsy backward, bridled
her beautiful neck, and signed for them to
pass her. “I am waiting here for a friend,” she
said.

“Whatever is your will is mine,” replied Burr,
bowing with proud humility, and passing on with
Mary to the supper-room.

Here the company were fast assembling, in that
high tide of good-humor which generally sets in
at this crisis of the evening.

The scene, in truth, was a specimen of a range
of society which in those times could have been
assembled nowhere else but in Newport. There
stood Dr. Hopkins in the tranquil majesty of his
lordly form, and by his side, the alert, compact
figure of his contemporary and theological opponent,
Dr. Stiles, who, animated by the social spirit
of the hour, was dispensing courtesies to right and
left with the debonair grace of the trained gentleman
of the old school. Near by, and engaging
from time to time in conversation with them,
stood a Jewish Rabbin, whose olive complexion,
keen eye, and flowing beard gave a picturesque
and foreign grace to the scene. Colonel Burr, one
of the most brilliant and distinguished men of the
New Republic, and Colonel de Frontignac, who
had won for himself laurels in the corps of La
Fayette, during the recent revolutionary struggle,
with his brilliant, accomplished wife, were all

unexpected and distinguished additions to the circle.

Burr gently cleared the way for his fair companion,
and, purposely placing her where the full
light of the wax chandeliers set off her beauty to
the best advantage, devoted himself to her with a
subserviency as deferential as if she had been a
goddess.

For all that, he was not unobservant, when, a
few moments after, Madame de Frontignac was
led in, on the arm of a Senator, with whom she
was presently in full flirtation.

He observed, with a quiet, furtive smile, that,
while she rattled and fanned herself, and listened
with apparent attention to the flatteries addressed
to her, she darted every now and then a glance,
keen as a steel blade towards him and his companion.
He was perfectly adroit in playing off
one woman against another, and it struck him
with a pleasant sense of oddity, how perfectly unconscious
his sweet and saintly neighbor was of
the position in which she was supposed to stand
by her rival; and poor Mary, all this while, in her
simplicity, really thought that she had seen traces
of what she would have called the “strivings of
the spirit” in his soul. Alas! that a phrase
weighed down with such mysterious truth and
meaning should ever come to fall on the ear as
mere empty cant!

With Mary it was a living form, — as were all
her words; for in nothing was the Puritan education
more marked than in the earnest reality and
truthfulness which it gave to language; and even
now, as she stands by his side, her large blue eye
is occasionally fixed in dreamy reverie as she
thinks what a triumph of Divine grace it would
be, if these inward movings of her companion's
mind should lead him, as all the pious of New
England hoped, to follow in the footsteps of President
Edwards, and forms wishes that she could
see him some time when she could talk to him
undisturbed.

She was too humble and too modest fully to
accept the delicious flattery which he had breathed,
in implying that her hand had had power to
unseal the fountains of good in his soul; but still
it thrilled through all the sensitive strings of her
nature a tremulous flutter of suggestion.

She had read instances of striking and wonderful
conversions from words dropped by children
and women, — and suppose some such thing should
happen to her! and that this so charming and distinguished
and powerful being should be called
into the fold of Christ's Church by her means!
No it was too much to be hoped, — but the very
possibility was thrilling.

When, after supper, Mrs. Scudder and the Doctor
made their adieus, Burr's devotion was still

unabated. With an enchanting mixture of reverence
and fatherly protection, he waited on her to
the last, — shawled her with delicate care, and
handed her into the small, one-horse wagon, — as
if it had been the coach of a duchess.

“I have pleasant recollections connected with
this kind of establishment,” he said, as, after looking
carefully at the harness, he passed the reins
into Mrs. Scudder's hands. “It reminds me of
school-days and old times. I hope your horse is
quite safe, Madam.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Scudder, “I perfectly understand
him.”

“Pardon the suggestion,” he replied; — “what is
there that a New England matron does not understand?
Doctor, I must call by-and-by, and have a
little talk with you, — my theology, you know,
needs a little straightening.”

“We should all be happy to see you, Colonel
Burr,” said Mrs. Scudder; “we live in a very
plain way, it is true,” —

“But can always find place for a friend, — that,
I trust, is what you meant to say,” he replied,
bowing, with his own peculiar grace, as the carriage
drove off.

“Really, a most charming person is this Colonel
Burr,” said Mrs. Scudder.

“He seems a very frank, ingenuous young person,”
said the Doctor; “one cannot but mourn

that the son of such gracious parents should be
left to wander into infidelity.”

“Oh, he is not an infidel,” said Mary; “he is
far from it, though I think his mind is a little
darkened on some points.”

“Ah,” said the Doctor, “have you had any special
religious conversation with him?”

“A little,” said Mary blushing; “and it seems
to me that his mind is perplexed somewhat in regard
to the doings of the unregenerate, — I fear that
it has rather proved a stumbling-block in his way;
but he showed so much feeling! — I could really
see the tears in his eyes!”

“His mother was a most godly woman, Mary,”
said the Doctor. “She was called from her youth,
and her beautiful person became a temple for the
indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Aaron Burr is a
child of many prayers, and therefore there is hope
that he may yet be effectually called. He studied
awhile with Bellamy,” he added, musingly, “and I
have often doubted whether Bellamy took just the
right course with him.”

“I hope he will call and talk with you,” said
Mary, earnestly; “what a blessing to the world,
if such talents as his could become wholly consecrated!”

“Not many wise, not many mighty, not many
noble are called,” said the Doctor; “yet if it would
please the Lord to employ my instrumentality and

prayers, how much should I rejoice! I was struck,”
he added, “to-night, when I saw those Jews present,
with the thought that it was, as it were, a
type of that last ingathering, when both Jew and
Gentile shall sit down lovingly together to the
gospel feast. It is only by passing over and forgetting
these present years, when so few are called
and the gospel makes such slow progress, and
looking unto that glorious time, that I find comfort.
If the Lord but use me as a dumb stepping-stone
to that heavenly Jerusalem, I shall be content.”

Thus they talked while the wagon jogged soberly
homeward, and the frogs and the turtles and the
distant ripple of the sea made a drowsy, mingling
concert in the summer-evening air.

Meanwhile Colonel Burr had returned to the
lighted rooms, and it was not long before his quick
eye espied Madame de Frontignac standing pensively
in a window-recess, half hid by the curtain.
He stole softly up behind her and whispered something
in her ear.

In a moment she turned on him a face glowing
with anger, and drew back haughtily; but Burr
remarked the glitter of tears, not quite dried even
by the angry flush of her eyes.

“In what have I had the misfortune to offend?”
he said, crossing his arms upon his breast. “I
stand at the bar, and plead, Not guilty.”

He spoke in French, and she replied in the
same smooth accents, —

“It was not for her to dispute Monsieur's right
to amuse himself.”

Burr drew nearer, and spoke in those persuasive,
pleading tones which he had ever at command,
and in that language whose very structure in its
delicate tutoiement gives such opportunity for gliding
on through shade after shade of intimacy and
tenderness, till gradually the haughty fire of the
eyes was quenched in tears, and, in the sudden
revulsion of a strong, impulsive nature, she said
what she called words of friendship, but which
carried with them all the warmth of that sacred
fire which is given to woman to light and warm
the temple of home, and which sears and scars
when kindled for any other shrine.

And yet this woman was the wife of his friend
and associate!

Colonel de Frontignac was a grave and dignified
man of forty-five. Virginie de Frontignac had
been given him to wife when but eighteen, —
a beautiful, generous, impulsive, wilful girl. She
had accepted him gladly, for very substantial reasons.
First, that she might come out of the convent
where she was kept for the very purpose of
educating her in ignorance of the world she was
to live in. Second, that she might wear velvet,
lace, cashmere, and jewels. Third, that she might

be a Madame, free to go and come, ride, walk,
and talk, without surveillance. Fourth, — and consequent
upon this, — that she might go into company
and have admirers and adorers.

She supposed, of course, that she loved her husband;
— whom else should she love? He was the
only man, except her father and brothers, that she
had ever seen; and in the fortnight that preceded
their marriage did he not send her the most splendid
bon-bons every day, with bouquets of every
pattern that ever taxed the brain of a Parisian artiste?
— was not the corbeille de mariage a wonder
and an envy to all her acquaintance? — and after
marriage had she not found him always a steady,
indulgent friend, easy to be coaxed as any grave
papa?

On his part, Monsieur de Frontignac cherished
his young wife as a beautiful, though somewhat
absurd little pet, and amused himself with her
frolics and gambols, as the gravest person often
will with those of a kitten.

It was not until she knew Aaron Burr that
poor Virginie de Frontignac came to that great
awakening of her being which teaches woman
what she is, and transforms her from a careless
child to a deep-hearted, thinking, suffering human
being.

For the first time, in his society she became
aware of the charm of a polished and cultivated

mind, able with exquisite tact to adapt itself to
hers, to draw forth her inquiries, to excite her
tastes, to stimulate her observation. A new world
awoke around her, — the world of literature and
taste, of art and of sentiment; she felt somehow
as if she had gained the growth of years in a
few months. She felt within herself the stirring
of dim aspiration, the uprising of a new power of
self-devotion and self-sacrifice, a trance of hero-worship,
a cloud of high ideal images, — the lighting
up, in short, of all that God has laid, ready
to be enkindled, in a woman's nature, when the
time comes to sanctify her as the pure priestess
of a domestic temple. But, alas! it was kindled
by one who did it only for an experiment, because
he felt an artistic pleasure in the beautiful light
and heat, and cared not, though it burned a soul
away.

Burr was one of those men willing to play with
any charming woman the game of those navigators
who give to simple natives glass beads
and feathers in return for gold and diamonds, —
to accept from a woman her heart's blood in return
for such odds and ends and clippings as he
can afford her from the serious ambition of life

Look in with us one moment, now that the party
is over, and the busy hum of voices and blaze of
lights has died down to midnight silence and darkness;
we make you clairvoyant, and you may look

through the walls of this stately old mansion, still
known as that where Rochambeau held his headquarters,
into this room, where two wax candles are
burning on a toilette table, before an old-fashioned
mirror. The slumberous folds of the curtains are
drawn with stately gloom around a high bed, where
Colonel de Frontignac has been for many hours
quietly asleep; but opposite, resting with one elbow
on the toilette table, her long black hair hanging
down over her night-dress, and the brush lying listlessly
in her hand, sits Virginie, looking fixedly into
the dreamy depths of the mirror.

Scarcely twenty yet, all unwarned of the world
of power and passion that lay slumbering in her
girl's heart, led in the meshes of custom and society
to utter vows and take responsibilities of whose nature
she was no more apprised than is a slumbering
babe, and now at last fully awake, feeling the whole
power of that mysterious and awful force which we
call love, yet shuddering to call it by its name, but
by its light beginning to understand all she is capable
of, and all that marriage should have been to
her! She struggles feebly and confusedly with her
fate, still clinging to the name of duty, and baptizing
as friendship this strange new feeling which makes
her tremble through all her being. How can she
dream of danger in such a feeling, when it seems
to her the awakening of all that is highest and noblest
within her? She remembers when she thought

of nothing beyond an opera-ticket or a new dress
and now she feels that there might be to her a
friend for whose sake she would try to be noble
and great and good, — for whom all self-denial, all
high endeavor, all difficult virtue would become
possible, — who would be to her life, inspiration,
order, beauty.

She sees him as woman always sees the man she
loves, — noble, great, and good; — for when did a
loving woman ever believe a man otherwise? — too
noble, too great, too high, too good, she thinks, for
her, — poor, trivial, ignorant coquette, — poor, childish,
trifling Virginie! Has he not commanded armies?
she thinks, — is he not eloquent in the senate?
and yet what interest he has taken in her, a
poor, unformed, ignorant creature! — she never tried
to improve herself till since she knew him. And he
is so considerate, too, — so respectful, so thoughtful
and kind, so manly and honorable, and has such a
tender friendship for her, such a brotherly and fatherly
solicitude! and yet, if she is haughty or imperious
or severe, how humbled and grieved he looks!
How strange that she could have power over such
a man!

It is one of the saddest truths of this sad mystery
of life, that woman is, often, never so much an angel
as just the moment before she falls into an unsounded
depth of predition. And what shall we say of the
man who leads her on as an experiment, — who

amuses himself with taking woman after woman
up these dazzling, delusive heights, knowing, as he
certainly must, where they lead?

We have been told, in extenuation of the course
of Aaron Burr, that he was not a man of gross
passions or of coarse indulgence, but, in the most
consummate and refined sense, a man of gallantry.
This, then, is the descriptive name which polite
society has invented for the man who does this
thing!

Of old, it was thought that one who administered
poison in the sacramental bread and wine had
touched the very height of impious sacrilege; but
this crime is white, by the side of his who poisons
God's eternal sacrament of love and destroys a
woman's soul through her noblest and purest affections.

We have given you the after-view of most of
the actors of our little scene to-night, and therefore
it is but fair that you should have a peep
over the Colonel's shoulder, as he sums up the
evening in a letter to a friend.