Chapter XXXI

The reader may be quite sure that Greenleaf lost no time in presenting himself at Easelmann's studio on the morning after his last interview.

"On hand early, I see," said the elder. "And how fresh you look! The blood comes dancing into your face; you are radiant with expectation."

"You mummy, what do you suppose I am made of, if the thought of meeting Alice should not quicken my blood a little?"

"If it were my case, I think my cheeks would tingle from another cause."

"Now you need not try to frighten me. I will see her first. I don't believe she has forgotten me."

"Nor I; but forgetting is one thing, and forgiving is another. Besides, we haven't seen her yet."

"I haven't, I know; but I'll wager you have."

"Well, my Hotspur, I sha'n't entice her away from you."

"Let us go," said Greenleaf.

"Presently; I must finish this pipe first; it lasts thirty-six minutes, and I have smoked only--let me see--twenty-eight."

"Well, puff away; but you'll burn up my patience with your tobacco, unless you are ready soon."

"Don't hurry. You'll get to your stool of repentance quite soon enough. Have you heard the news? The banks have suspended,--ditto Fletcher, a banker's clerk.

"What do you mean?"

"Plain enough. The banks suspend paying specie because they haven't any to redeem their bills; and Fletcher, because he has neither specie nor bills."

"Fletcher suspended?"

"Yes, _sus. per coll._, as the Newgate records have it,--hung himself with his handkerchief,--an article he might have put to better use."

And Easelmann blew a vigorous blast with his, as he laid down the pipe.

"You understand, choking is disagreeable,--painful, in fact,--and, if indulged in long enough, is apt to produce unpleasant effects. Remember, I once warned you against it."

"This matter of suicide is horrible. Couldn't it have been prevented?"

"Yes, if Fletcher could have got hold of Bullion."

"Coin would have done as well, I suppose."

"Now haven't I been successful in diverting your attention? You have actually punned. Don't you know Mr. Bullion, the capitalist?"

"I have good reason to remember him, though I don't know him myself. My father was once connected with him in business, and not at all to his own advantage."

"I never heard you speak of your father before; in fact, I never knew you had one."

"It was not necessary to speak of him; he has been dead many years."

"And left you nothing to remember him by. Now a man with an estate has a perpetual reminder."

"So has the son of a famous man; and people are continually depreciating him, comparing his little bud of promise with the ripe fruitage of the ancestral tree. I prefer to acquire my own fortune and my own fame. My father did his part by giving me being and educating me.--But come; your pipe is out; you draw like a pump, without puffing even a nebula of smoke."

"I suppose I must yield. First a lavation; this Virginian incense is more agreeable to devout worshippers like you and me than to the uninitiated. There," (wiping the water from his moustaches,) "now I am qualified to meet that queenly rose, Mrs. Sandford, or even that delicate spring violet of yours,--if we should find the nook where she blooms."

"You are the most tantalizing fellow! How provokingly cool you are, to stand dallying as though you were going on the most indifferent errand! And all the while to remind me of what I have lost. Come, you look sufficiently fascinating; your gray moustache has the proper artistic curl; your hair is carelessly-well-arranged."

"So the boy can't wait for due preparation. There, I believe I am ready."

Arrived at the house where Mrs. Sandford boarded, they were ushered into the reception-room; but Easelmann, bidding his friend wait, followed the servant upstairs. Waiting is never an agreeable employment. The courtier in the ante-chamber before the expected audience, the office-seeker at the end of a cue in the Presidential mansion, the beau lounging in the drawing-room while the idol of his soul is in her chamber busy with the thousand little arts that are to complete her charms,--none of these find that time speeds. To Greenleaf the delay was full of torture; he paced the room, looked at the pictures without seeing anything, looked out of the window, turned over the gift-books on the table, counted the squares in the carpet, and finally sat down in utter despair. At length Easelmann returned. Greenleaf started up.

"Where is she? Have you seen her? Why doesn't she come down? And why, in the name of goodness, have you kept me waiting in this outrageous way?"

"I don't know.--I have not--I can't tell you.--And because I couldn't help it.--Never say, after this, I don't answer all your questions."

"Now, what is the use of all this mystery?"

"Softly, my friend; and let us not make a mess of it. Mrs. Sandford advises us to walk out awhile."

"I am obliged to her and to you for your well-meant caution, but I don't intend to go out until I have seen Alice,--if she will see me."

"But consider."

"I have considered, and am determined to see her; I can't endure this suspense."

"But Alice bore it much longer. Be advised; Mrs. Sandford wants to prepare the way for you."

"I thank you; but I don't mean to have any stratagem acted for my benefit. I will trust the decision to her: if she loves me, all will be well; if her just resentment has uprooted her love, the sooner I know it the better."

While they were engaged in this mutual expostulation, Alice, all-unconscious of the impending situation in the drama, was busy in her own room,--for Mrs. Sandford had not yet decided how to break the news to her,--and having an errand that led her to the street, she put on her cloak and hat and tripped lightly down-stairs. Naturally she went into the drawing-room, to make sure, by the mirror, that her ribbons were neatly adjusted. As she entered, fastening her cloak, and humming some simple air meanwhile, she started back at the sight of strangers, and was rapidly retreating, when a voice that she had not forgotten exclaimed, "Great Heavens, there she is now! Alice! Alice! stop! I beg of you!"

Greenleaf at the same time bounded to the door, and, seizing her hand, drew her, bewildered, faint, and fluttering, back into the room.

He turned almost fiercely to his companion:--

"This is your policy, is it, to send her off?--or, more probably, to amuse me and not send for her at all?"

"Ask the lady,--ask Mrs. Sandford," replied Easelmann. "I have not sent her off; and you ought to know by this time that I am incapable of playing false to any man."

Alice, erect, but very pale, maintained her composure as well as she could, though the timid lips trembled a little, and blinding clouds rose before her eyes. She withdrew her hand from Greenleaf's grasp, and asked the meaning of this unusual conduct. Greenleaf's good sense came to the rescue seasonably.

"Alice,--Miss Lee,--allow me to introduce my friend Mr. Easelmann. We came here to see you, and were waiting for that purpose; but it seems you were not told of it."

Easelmann bowed, saying, "No, Miss Lee; I saw Mrs. Sandford, who thought it best to speak to you first herself."

"I am happy to meet you, Mr. Easelmann," said Alice. "I was just going out, however, as you see, and I must ask you to excuse me this morning."

Greenleaf saw with a pang how silently, but effectually, he was disposed of; a downright rebuff would not have been so humiliating. But he was not to be deterred from his purpose, and he went on:

"Pardon me, if I seem to overstep the bounds of courtesy; but I cannot let you go in this way, Alice,--for so I must call you. Stay and hear me. Now that I see you, I must speak. God only knows with what anxiety I have sought you for the last month."

She tried to answer, but could not command her speech. Seeing her increasing agitation, Easelmann led her to a seat, and then, in a gentler tone than he often used, said,--

"I will leave the room, if you please, Miss Lee; this is an interview I did not desire to witness."

"No," she exclaimed, "do not go. I have nothing to say that you should not hear; and I hope Mr. Greenleaf will spare me the pain of going over a history which is better forgotten."

"It can never be forgotten," interposed Greenleaf; "and, in spite of your protest, I must say what I can--and that is little enough--to exculpate myself, and then throw myself upon your charity for forgiveness."

Alice remained silent; but it was a silence that gave no encouragement to Greenleaf. He advanced still nearer, looking at her with a tender earnestness, as though his very soul were in the glance. She covered her face with her hands.

"Alice," he said, "you know what that name once meant to me. I cannot speak it now without a feeling beyond utterance."

Easelmann, meanwhile, quietly sidled towards the door, and, saying that he was going back to see Mrs. Sandford, abruptly left the room.

Greenleaf went on,--"I know my conduct was utterly inexcusable; but I declare, by my hope of heaven, I never _loved_ any woman but you. I was fascinated, ensnared, captivated by the senses only; now that illusion is past, and I turn to you."

"My illusion is past also; you turn too late. Can you make me forget those months of neglect?"

The tone was tender, but mournful. How he wished that her answer had been fuller of rebuke! He could hope to overcome her anger far more easily than this settled sorrow.

"I know I can never atone for the wrong; there are injuries that are irreparable, wounds that leave ineffaceable scars. I can never undo what I have done; would to Heaven I could! You may never forget this period of suffering; but that is past now; it is not to be lived over again. Go back rather to the brighter days before it; think of them, and then look down the future;--may I dare say it?--the future, perhaps, will make us both forget my insane wanderings and your undeserved pains."

"But love must have faith to lean upon. While I loved you, I rested on absolute trust. I would have believed you against all the world. I would have been glad to share your lot, even in poverty and obscurity. I did not love you for your art nor your fame. You wavered; you forgot me. I don't know what it was that tempted you, but it was enough; it drew you away from me; and as long as you preferred another, or could be satisfied with any other woman's love, you lost all claim to mine."

Greenleaf could not but feel the force of this direct, womanly logic: in its clear light how pitiful were the excuses he had framed for himself! He felt sure that many, even of the best of men, might have erred in the same way; but this was an argument which would have much more weight with his own sex than with women. Men know their own frailties, and are therefore charitable; women consider inconstancy to be the one unpardonable sin, and are inexorable.

He came still nearer, vainly hoping to see some indication of relenting; but the pale face was as firm as it was sad.

"I said before, Alice, that I do not attempt to defend my faithlessness, hardly to extenuate it; and I do not at all wonder at your altered temper towards me. It was a cruel blow I gave you. But my life shall show you the sincerity of my repentance."

She shook her head as she answered,--

"When you left me, the last spark of love went out. It is hard to kindle anew the dead embers. No,--when I found that you _could_ be untrue, all was over,--past, present, and future."

"But consider," he said, still more earnestly, "what remains for you or me. You will have the memory of this great sorrow, and I the unending remorse. I can never love another woman while you live, and you--may I say it?--will never love again as you have loved. Is it not for your own happiness, as it is most assuredly for mine, that you overlook the fault, receive me again, and trust to the lasting effect of the bitter lesson I have learned? Forgive me, if I seem too bold,--if the desire to atone for the past makes me sue for pardon with unbecoming zeal. If I were less urgent, it would be because I was not sensible of the wrong, and careless about reparation."

She was silent; contending passions strove for mastery. She had not forgotten him, then! He took courage and came yet nearer.

"Will you give me your hand? Alice, will you?"

He reached his own towards her.

"No,--pardon me,--I must not. It is not well to decide by impulse,--to be swayed by a thrill. When my heart tells me to give you my hand, it shall be yours. I don't wish to be charmed out of my calmer judgment. Your presence, your fiery words, and your will, are sufficiently magnetic."

"My dear Alice, I have been guilty of _one_ folly, a serious one, but you don't believe I am incapable of constancy henceforth. Remember you were away; time hung heavily on my hands; my good nature made me accept invitations which brought me into daily contact with a woman who of all others was most dangerous to a man of ardent temperament. The friendship which began without a thought of a nearer relation grew into an intimacy which I was not far-sighted enough to check. In your own words, I was magnetized, thoroughly; and when, at last, in a scene of imminent danger, I rashly said some things that should not have been spoken, I found myself committed irrevocably. It is not too much to say that the lady was looking for the opportunity which fate and my own stupidity gave her. But the spell did not last. Your face was constantly before me like an accusing angel. I waited only until the lady recovered from a dangerous illness to tell her that I did not love her, and that my heart, as well as my faith, was yours. I went at once to see you, and found your father dead, yourself homeless. And from that hour I have done nothing but search for you. Is it in vain?--I can say no more. Perhaps I have said too much. But I implore you, Alice, by the memory of our love as it was once, by all your hope of the future, to forgive me, and not to make my whole life as miserable as the last few months have been to you."

It was the last word; he felt that he had nothing further to urge. He bent over her chair, seized her hand and pressed it passionately to his lips, watching with the intensest eagerness the effect of his appeal.--There was a rustle of silk behind him, an incoming of perfumes, a light footstep. He started, as did Alice, and beheld--Miss Marcia Sandford! She was tastefully dressed, as usual, and she bore herself with superb composure. In coming from the sunlight into the semi-translucent gloom which pervades modern drawing-rooms, people are not easily recognized, and the lady swept majestically across the floor, and took a seat, without a sign of consciousness, near the couple whose conversation she had interrupted.

Not so Greenleaf; it was the most dangerous dilemma in which he had ever been placed, and he was thoroughly at a loss to know how to extricate himself. Would that he could telegraph to Easelmann to come down, so that he could effect a decent retreat, and not leave the field in the sole possession of the enemy. The silence was becoming embarrassing. He was about to make some excuse for departure, when the lioness fixed her eyes upon him,--her glance sparkling with malicious joy. A servant entered to say that Mrs. Sandford was engaged for a few minutes, and that she wished to know the name of her visitor.

"Miss Sandford," she replied, "and please tell her I will wait."

Alice remembered the name, and now shared fully in Greenleaf's embarrassment. She watched him, therefore, keenly, while the lady began,--

"Oh, Mr. Greenleaf, is it you? Why didn't you speak? It is not worth while to keep a memory of the old disappointment. Let bygones be bygones. Besides, I see you know the remedy for heartbreak; if you can't succeed where you would, you must try elsewhere. And you seemed to be getting on very well when I came in."

"Miss Sandford," he retorted, indignantly, "there is as little need of your ironical condolence as of your ungenerous insinuations."

"What an impatient fellow! and so sensitive, too! The wound is not healed, then. Pray introduce me to the Zerlina in our little opera. As I know you so well, I can give her some excellent counsel about managing you.--Ah, you wince! I am indiscreet, I fear; I have betrayed a secret; the Zerlina is perhaps still in her rustic seclusion, and this is only--Well, you must submit to your destiny, I suppose. How many are there since? Let me see,--six weeks,--time for three flirtations of the most intensely crimson hue."

Alice rose to her feet, with a glow of resentment on her hitherto pale face. And Greenleaf, feeling that courtesy was now wholly unnecessary, exclaimed,--

"Miss Sandford, you have said quite as much as was proper for a young girl to hear: your own cheeks, I presume, are proof against any indelicate surprise. Let me ask you to stop, before"--

"Before what, Sir? And what is this high-and-mighty innocence about? To be sure, one does not like to be exposed,--that is, the wolf doesn't,--though the lamb shouldn't be angry. A pretty lamb it is, too."

Alice gradually drew away from Greenleaf's side, turning her glances from one to the other of the combatants. She had never seen such confidence, such readiness of invective, joined with such apparent sincerity and ease of manner; and the evident effect of the attack upon Greenleaf puzzled her not a little; in this brief colloquy there were opened new fields for dark conjecture. The woman's words had been barbed arrows in her ears.

Greenleaf's perplexity increased momently. He dared not go away now; and he knew not how, in Miss Sandford's presence, to counteract the impression she might make. If he could get rid of her or shut her wickedly-beautiful mouth, he might answer all she had so artfully thrown out. But as Alice had not given any token of returning affection, he could not presume upon his good standing with her and remain silent. Growing desperate, he ventured once more.

"Miss Sandford, I know very well the depth of your hate towards me, as well as your capacity for misrepresentation. If you desire to have the history of our intimacy dragged to the light, I, for my part, am willing. But don't think your sex will screen you, if you continue the calumnies you have begun.--You, Alice, must judge between us. And in almost every point, Mrs. Sandford, your friend and her sister-in-law, will be able to support my statements."

The servant returned to say that "Mrs. Sandford must be excused."

Greenleaf turned upon the adversary with a triumphant glance.

"A palpable trick," she exclaimed. "You gave the servant a signal: you were unwilling to have us confronted. You have filled her ears with scandal about me."

"Not a word; she can hear a plenty about you in any circle where you are known, without coming to me. And so far from giving any signal, I should be rejoiced to show Alice how easily an honest woman's testimony will put your monstrous effrontery to shame."

Alice here interposed,--her resolute spirit manifest in spite of her trembling voice,--

"I have heard this too long already; I don't wish to be the subject of this lady's jests, and I don't desire her advice. Your quarrel does not concern me,--at least, not so deeply that I wish to have it repeated in my presence. Mr. Greenleaf, let me bid you good-morning."

She moved away with a simple dignity, bowing with marked coolness to the former rival.

"Stay, Alice," said Greenleaf. "Let me not be thrust aside in this way. Miss Sandford, now that she has done what mischief she can, will go away and enjoy the triumph. I beg of you, stay and let me set myself right."

Miss Sandford laughed heartily,--a laugh that made Greenleaf shiver.

"Not to-day, Mr. Greenleaf," she answered. "I have need of rest and reflection. I am not used to scenes like this, and my brain is in a whirl."

The first flush of excitement was over, and it was with difficulty that she found her way through the hall. Easelmann was coming down, and saw her hesitating step and her tremulous grasp upon the rail; he sprang down four steps at a time, caught her before she fell, and carried her in his arms like a child up to Mrs. Sandford's room.

Greenleaf was so completely absorbed by the danger of losing the last hold upon Alice, that he forgot his most excusable anger against the vindictive woman who still lingered, enjoying her victory. He sank into a chair, buried his face in his hands, and for some time neither looked up nor replied to her taunts.

"Come, now," said she, "don't take it so hard. Is my handsome sister-in-law obdurate? Never mind; don't be desolate; other women will be kind,--for you are just the man to attract sentimental damsels. Cheer up! you will find a new affinity before night, I haven't a doubt."

Roused at length, Greenleaf stood up before the mocking fiend, so radiant in her evil smiles, and said,--

"You enemy of all that is good, what brought you here? Keep in your own sphere, if there is one for you in this world."

"I came to see my sister, as you know. It was a most unexpected pleasure to meet you. I came to tell her that brother Henry has either run away or killed himself, it doesn't matter which."

"Pray, follow him. I assure you we shall mourn your absence as bitterly as you do his."

"Well, good-bye," she said, still laughing in the same terrible tone. "Better luck next time."

The door closed upon her, and Greenleaf drew a long breath--with a sense of infinite relief.

"Come," said Easelmann, entering a moment later,--"come, let us go. We have done quite enough for one day. You wouldn't take my advice, and a pretty mess you have made of it."