CHAPTER XX.
AS A LAST RESORT.
In the meantime Marian's heart was weighed down by a new cause of sorrow and anxiety. Thurston never approached her now, either in person or by letter. She never saw him, except at the church, the lecture-room, or in mixed companies, where he kept himself aloof from her and devoted himself to the beautiful and accomplished heiress Angelica Le Roy, to whom rumor gave him as an accepted suitor.
So free was Marian's pure heart from jealousy or suspicion that these attentions bestowed by Thurston, and these rumors circulated in the neighborhood, gave her no uneasiness. For though she had, for herself, discovered him to be passionate and impetuous, she believed him to be sound in principle. But when again and again she saw them together, at church, at lecture, at dinner parties, at evening dances; when at all the Christmas and New Year festivities she saw her escorted by him; when she saw him ever at her side with a devotion as earnest and ardent as it was perfectly respectful; when she saw him bend and whisper to the witching girl and hang delighted on her "low replies," her own confidence was shaken. What could he mean? Was it possible that instead of being merely impulsive and erring, he was deliberately wicked? No, no, never! Yet, what could be his intentions? Did he really wish to win Angelica's heart? Alas! whether he wished so or not, it was but too evident to all that he had gained her preference. In her blushing cheek and downcast eyes, and tremulous voice and embarrassed manner, when he was present, in her abstracted mind, and restless air of wandering glances when he was absent, the truth was but too clear.
Marian was far too practical to speculate when she should act. It was clearly her duty to speak to Thurston on the subject, and, repugnant as the task was, she resolved to perform it. It was some time before she had the opportunity.
But at last, one afternoon in February, she chanced to meet Thurston on the sea beach. After greeting him, she candidly opened the subject. She spoke gently and delicately, but firmly and plainly—more so, perhaps, than another woman in the same position would have done, for Marian was eminently frank and fearless, especially where conscience was concerned.
And Thurston met her arguments with a graceful nonchalance, as seemingly polite and good-humored as it was really ironical and insulting.
Marian gave him time—she was patient as firm—and firm as sorrowful.
And until every argument and persuasion had failed, she said:
"As a last resort, it may be necessary for me to warn Miss Le Roy—not for my own sake. Were I alone involved, you know how much I would endure rather than grieve you. But this young lady must not suffer wrong."
"You will write her an anonymous letter, possibly?"
"No—I never take an indirect road to an object."
"What, then, can you do, fair saint?"
"See Miss Le Roy, personally."
"Ha! ha! ha! What apology could you possibly make for such an unwarrantable interference?"
"The Lord knoweth! I do not now. But I trust to be able to save her without—revealing you."
"Do you imagine that vague warnings would have any effect upon her?"
"Coming from me they would."
"Heavens! What a self-worshiper! But selfishness is your normal state, Marian! Self-love is your only affection—self-adulation your only enthusiasm—self-worship your only religion! You do not desire to be loved—you wish only to be honored! The love I offered you, you trampled underfoot! You have no heart, you have only a brain! You cannot love, you only think! Nor have you any need of love, but only of power! Applause is your vital breath, your native air! To hear your name and praise on every tongue—that is your highest ambition! Such a woman should be a gorgon of ugliness that men might not waste their hearts' wealth upon her!" exclaimed Thurston, bitterly, gazing with murky eyes, that smoldered with suppressed passion, upon the beautiful girl before him.
Marian was standing with her eyes fixed abstractedly upon a distant sail. Now the tears swelled under the large white eyelids and hung glittering on the level lashes, and her lip quivered and her voice faltered slightly as she answered:
"You see me through a false medium, dear Thurston, but the time will come when you will know me as I am."
"I fancy the time has come. It has also come for me to enlighten you a little. And in the first place, fair queen of minds, if not of hearts, let me assure you that there is a limit even to your almost universal influence. And that limit may be found in Miss Le Roy. You, who know the power of thought only, cannot weigh nor measure the power of love. Upon Miss Le Roy your warnings would have no effect whatever. I tell you that in the face of them (were I so disposed), I might lead that girl to the altar to-morrow."
Marian was silent, not deeming an answer called for.
"And now, I ask you, how you could prevent it?"
"I shall not be required to prevent such an act, Thurston, as such a one never can take place. You speak so only to try your Marian's faith or temper—both are proof against jests, I think. Hitherto you have trifled with the young lady's affections for mere ennui and thoughtlessness, I do believe! but, now that some of the evil consequences have been suggested to your mind, you will abandon such perilous pastime. You are going to France soon—that will be a favorable opportunity of breaking off the acquaintance."
"And breaking her heart—who knows? But suppose now that I should prefer to marry her and take her with me?"
"Nay, of course, I cannot for an instant suppose such a thing."
"But in spite of all your warnings, were such an event about to take place?"
"In such an exigency I should divulge our marriage."
"You would?"
"Assuredly! How can you possibly doubt it? Such an event would abrogate my obligations to silence, and would impose upon me the opposite duty of speaking."
"I judged you would reason so," he said, bitterly.
"But, dear Thurston, of what are you talking? Of the event of your doing an unprincipled act! Impossible, dear Thurston! and forever impossible!"
"And equally impossible, fair saint, that you should divulge our marriage with any chance of proving it. Marian, the minister that married us has sailed as a missionary to Farther India. And I only have the certificate of our marriage. You cannot prove it."
"I shall not need to prove it, Thurston. Now that I have awakened your thoughts, I know that you will not further risk the peace of that confiding girl. Come! take my hand and let us return. We must hasten, too, for there is rain in that cloud."
Thurston—piqued that he could not trouble her more—for under her calm and unruffled face he could not see the bleeding heart—arose sullenly, drew her hand within his arm and led her forth.
And as they went the wind arose, and the storm clouds drove over the sky and lowered and darkened around them.
Marian urged him to walk fast on account of the approaching tempest, and the anxiety the family at the cottage would feel upon her account.
They hurried onward, but just as they reached the neighborhood of Old
Fields a terrible storm of hail and snow burst upon the earth.
It was as much as they could do to make any progress forward, or even to keep themselves upon their feet. While struggling and plunging blindly through the storm, amid the rushing of the wind and the rattling of the hail, and the crackling and creaking of the dry trees in the forest, and the rush of waters, and all the din of the tempest, Marian's ear caught the sound of a child wailing and sobbing. A pang shot through her heart. She listened breathlessly—and then in the pauses of the storm she heard a child crying, "Marian, Marian! Oh! where are you, Marian?"
It was Miriam's voice! It was Miriam wandering in night and storm in search of her beloved nurse.
Marian dropped Thurston's arm and plunged blindly forward through the snow, in the direction of the voice, crying, "Here I am, my darling, my treasure—here I am. What brought my baby out this bitter night?" she asked, as she found the child half perishing with cold and wet, and caught and strained her to her bosom.
"Oh, the hail and snow came down so fast, and the wind shook the house so hard, and I could not sleep in the warm bed while you were out in the storm. So I stole softly down to find you. Don't go again, Marian. I love you so—oh! I love you so!"
At this moment the child caught sight of Thurston standing with his face half muffled in his cloak. A figure to be strangely recognized under similar circumstances in after years. Then she did not know him, but inquired:
"Who is that, Marian?"
"A friend, dear, who came home with me. Good-night, sir."
And so dismissing Thurston, he walked rapidly away. She hurried with
Miriam to the house.