CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
"Oh, Ella! Ella!—what's the use of your turning your head from me?—Why, I can see you are coloring crimson—as if I had no eyes! Oh! he is charming, is not he?"
"How tiresome you can be, Clementina! I am sure I don't care. No, not.... Besides, he's your flirt, not mine."
"Is he? I wish he were! But I know better. He loves you, Ella; and what's more, you love him. And if you don't know it—which perhaps you don't—I do, and he does."
"He does!—I like that!—he does!—Upon my word! I like him, and he knows it! I do no such thing."
"Take care what you say. Walls have ears."
"Pooh!—nonsense! And if they have, I tell you I don't care."
"You don't?—you are sure you don't? Oh, very well! If that be really so, then I had better keep my message to myself."
"Message!—what message?"
"You know a man does not like to be refused; and so, if you really do not care for him, why, I had better hold my peace. He is young, and he is volatile enough.... And, indeed, I have wondered, Ella, sometimes, how you ever came to take a fancy to him; but I am forgetting. It was my mistake. You never have taken a fancy to him."
"How you do run on!" she said, taking the last rose out of her hair; for she was standing before the glass, undoing her braids; the sisters, having dismissed their attendant, that they might have a comfortable chat together. And then the hair came all tumbling over her shoulders, and upon her white muslin dressing-gown, and she looked most beautiful—half pleasant, half angry—as she turned round; and, trying to frown with her eyes, whilst her lips smiled, said—
"Cle., you are the most intolerable girl in the world."
Cle. smiled, looked down, and said nothing.
"You may as well tell me, though."
"No, I won't, unless you will be a true girl—own what you ought to own—say what you ought to say—that you do not quite hate him. You really may say that—and then we will see about it."
"Hate him! Did I say I hated him?"
"Or, pretended you did. Or, that he was indifferent to you."
"Well, well; I don't hate him, then."
"Then come here, and sit down by me, and I will tell you that Lionel loves you, and adores you—and all that. Very easily said. But far more than that—and with great difficulty said—he wishes to make you his wife!"
"Ah me!"—and again the color flashed into her face, and such an expression was visible in her eyes!
Suddenly she threw her arms around her sister, and embraced her tenderly.
"You dear, dear girl," she whispered—"Oh, I am so—so happy! But tell me—tell me—all, from the beginning. Lionel!—is it possible?"
"You thought we were very busy talking together to-night, at Mrs. White's ball, didn't you?—You were a little jealous, were you not, you silly thing? Ah, my Ella! My proud—proud Ella! To have made such a tumble into love!"
"Nonsense!—how you talk! But tell me all he said. Every single word of it!"
"He said he loved you more than his life, and all that sort of thing; and that I must tell you so to-night; and, if you would give him the least atom of encouragement, I was to take no notice, and he would speak to papa and mamma immediately; but, if you hated him as much as I said I was sure you did...."
"How could you say such a stupid thing?"
"I thought that was what I ought to say."
"How foolish you are, Cle.! Well?"
"Well, in that case, I was to write. Shall I write?"
She did not write.
And from this time the existence of Ella was changed.
She loved, with all the fervor and energy of her nature; and life took at once a new color. True love is of the infinite. None can have deeply loved—when or how in other respects it may have been—but they have entered into the unseen world; have breathed a new breath of life; have tasted of the true existence.
What is often called love, may do nothing of all this—but I am speaking of true love.
Lionel seemed at that time scarcely worthy of the passion he had inspired. Yet he had many excellent qualities. He was warm-hearted, generous to excess, had good parts, a brilliant way of talking, and was a favorite with all the world.
He had not the splendid gifts which nature had bestowed upon Julian Winstanley. By the side of her father, even in the eyes of Ella, the bright halo which surrounded her lover would seem somewhat to pale. The young man even appeared to feel this, in some degree, himself. He always, yet with a certain grace, took the second place, when in her father's presence. Ella loved her father, and seemed to like that it should be so.
"Oh, my sister! oh, my friend! what—what shall we do? Oh, misery! misery! what is to become of us all?"
Clementina's eyes were swimming with tears; but she would not give way. In passive endurance she excelled her sister.
She held her arms clapped closely round her; whilst Ella poured a torrent of tears upon her bosom.
"My father! my beautiful, clever, indulgent father, that I was so proud of—that I loved so—who spared nothing upon either of us—alas! alas! how little, little did I guess whence the money came!"
Clementina trembled and shivered as her sister poured forth these passionate lamentations; but she neither wept nor spoke for some time. At last she said:
"Ella, I have been uneasy about things for some time. We are young, and we have not much experience in the ways of the world; but since our poor mother died, and I have had in some degree to manage the house, I have been every day becoming more uncomfortable."
"You have?" said Ella, lifting up her head: "and you never told me!"
"Why should I have told you? why should I have disturbed your dream of happiness, my dear Ella? Besides, I hoped that it concerned me alone—that things might hold on a little while longer—at least, till you were provided for, and safe."
"Safe! and what was to become of you?"
"I did not much think of that. I had a firm friend, I knew, in you, Ella; and then, lately, since mamma's death; since you have been engaged to dear Lionel, and I have been much alone, I have thought of old things—old things that good Matty used to talk about. I have been endeavoring to look beyond myself, and this world; and it has strengthened me."
"You are an excellent creature, Cle.!"
She shook her head.
"But, my father! what is to be done? Can any thing be done?"
"No, my love. I fear nothing can be done."
"He loves me!" said Ella, raising up her head again, her eyes beaming with a new hope. "I will try—I will venture. It is perhaps great presumption in a child; but my father loves me, and I love him...."
Again Clementina shook her head.
"You are so faint-hearted—you are so discouraging. You give up every thing without an attempt to save yourself or others. That is your way!" cried Ella, with her own impetuosity, and some of her old injustice. Then, seeing sorrow and pain working upon her sister's face as she spoke thus, she stopped herself, and cried—"Oh! I am a brute—worse than a brute—to say this. Dear Cle., forgive me; but don't, pray don't discourage me, when I want all my courage. I will go—I will go this moment, and speak to my father...."
Clementina pressed her sister's hand as she started up to go. She feared the effort would be vain,—vain as those she had herself made; yet there was no knowing. Ella was so beautiful, so correct, so eloquent, so prevailing!
She followed her with her eyes, to the door, with feelings of mingled hope and apprehension.
Down the splendid stairs, with their gilded balustrades, and carpets of the richest hue and texture, rushed the impetuous Ella. Through the hall—all marbles and guilding—and her hand was upon the lock of the library door. She was about to turn it, without reflection: but a sudden fear of intruding came over her—she paused and knocked.
"Who is there?" exclaimed an irritated voice from within; "go away—I can see no one just now."
"It is I, papa—Ella; pray let me come in."
And she opened the door.
He was standing in the middle of the lofty and magnificent apartment, which was adorned on every side with pictures in gorgeous frames; with busts, vases, and highly ornamented bookcases fitted with splendidly bound books—seldom, if ever, opened. His pale, wan, haggard face and degraded figure, formed a fearful contrast to the splendid scene around him, showing like a mockery of his misery. A small table, richly inlaid, stood beside him; in one hand he held a delicate cup of fine china; in the other, a small chemist's phial.
He started as she entered, and turned to her an angry and confused countenance, now rapidly suffused with a deep crimson flush; but, as if electrified by a sudden and horrid suspicion, she rushed forward, and impetuously seized his shaking arm.
The cup fell to the floor, and was broken to atoms; but he clenched the phial still faster in his trembling hand, as he angrily uttered the words:
"How dare you come in here?"
"Oh! papa—papa!"—she had lost all other terror before that of horrible suspicion which had seized her—"what are you about? what is that?" stretching out her arms passionately, and endeavouring to wrench the phial from his fingers.
"What are you about? what do you mean?" he cried, endeavouring to extricate his hand. "Let me alone—leave me alone! what are you about? Be quiet, I say, or by...." And with the disengaged hand he tore her fingers from his, and thrust her violently away.
She staggered, and fell, but caught herself upon her knees, and flinging her arms round his, lifted up her earnest imploring face, crying, "Father—father! papa-papa! for my sake—for your sake—for all our sakes; oh, give it me! give it to me!"
"Give you what? what do you mean? what are you thinking about?" endeavouring to escape from her clasping arms. "Have done, and let me alone. Will you have done? will you let me alone?" fiercely, angrily endeavoring again to push her away.
"No! never—never—never! till you give me—"
"What?"
"That!"
"That!" he cried. Then as if recollecting himself, he endeavored, as it seemed, to master his agitation, and said more calmly, "Let me be, Ella! and if it will be any satisfaction to you, I will thrust the bottle into the fire. But, you foolish girl, what do you gain by closing one exit, when there are open ten thousand as good?"
Disengaging himself from her relaxing arms, he walked up to the fire-place, and thrust the phial between the bars. It broke as he did so, and there was a strong smell of bitter almonds. She had risen from her knees. She followed him, and again laid that hand upon his arm—that soft, fair hand, of whose beauty he was wont to be so proud. It trembled violently now; but as if impelled with unwonted courage, and an energy inspired by the occasion, she ventured upon that which it was long since anyone ever had presumed to offer to Julian Winstanley—upon a plain-spoken remonstrance.
"Papa," she said, "promise me that you will never—never—never again——"
"Do what?"
"Make an attempt upon your life—if I must speak out," she said, with a spirit that astonished him.
"Attempt my life? What should I attempt my life for?" said he, and he glanced round the scene of luxury which surrounded him. He was continuing, in a tone of irony—but it would not do. He sank upon a sofa, and covering his face with his hands, groaned—"Yes—yes, Ella! all you say is true. I am a wretch who is unworthy to—and more—who will not live." He burst forth at last with a loud voice; and his hands falling from his face, displayed a countenance dark with a sort of resolute despair. "No—no—no!—death, death!—annihilation—and forgetfulness! Why did you come in to interrupt me, girl?" he added, roughly seizing her by the arm.
"Because—I know not—something—Oh! it was the good God, surely, who impelled me," she cried, bursting into tears. "Oh, papa! papa! Do not! do not! Think of us all—your girls—Cle. and I. You used to love us, papa——"
"Do you know what has happened?"
"Yes—no. I believe you have lost a great deal of money at cards."
"Cards—was it? Let it be. It may as well be cards. Yes, child, I have lost a large sum of money at cards—and more," he added, setting his teeth, and speaking in a sort of hissing whisper—"more than I can exactly pay."
"Oh, papa! don't say so. Consider—only look round you. Surely you have the means to pay! We can sell—we can make any sacrifice—any sacrifice on earth to pay. Only think, there are all these things. There is all the plate—my mother's diamonds—there is——"
He let her run on a little while; then, in a cool, almost mocking tone, he said—
"I have given a bill of sale for all that, long ago."
"A bill of sale! What is a bill of sale?"
"Well! It's a thing which passes one man's property into the hands of another man, to make what he can of it. And the poor dupe who took my bill of sale, took it for twice as much as the things would really bring; but the rascal thought he had no alternative. I was a fool to give it to him, for the dice were loaded. If it were the last word I had to speak, I would say it—the dice were loaded——"
"But—but——"
"What! you want to hear all about it, do you? Well it's a bad business. I thought I had a right to a run of luck—after all my ill fortune. I calculated the chances; they were overwhelmingly in my favor. I staked my zero against another man's thousands—never mind how many—and I lost, and have only my zero to offer in payment. That is to say, my note of hand; and how much do you think that is worth, my girl? I would rather—I would rather," he added, passionately, changing his tone of levity for one of the bitterest despair—"I would rather be dead—dead, dead—than——"
"Oh, papa! papa! say it not! say it not! It is real. Such things are not mere words. They are real, father, father!—Die! You must not die."
"I have little cause to wish to die," he said, relapsing again into a sort of gloomy carelessness; "so that I could see any other way out of it. To be sure, one might run—one might play the part of a cowardly, dishonorable rascal, and run for it, Ella, if you like that better. Between suicide and the escapade of a defaulter, there is not much to choose; but I will do as you like."
"I would not willingly choose your dishonor," said she, shuddering; "but between the dishonor of the one course or the other, there seems little to choose. Only—only—if you lived, in time you might be able to pay. Men have lived, and labored, until they have paid all."
"Live and labor—very like me! Live, and labor, until I have paid all—extremely like me! Lower a mountain by spadefuls."
"Even spadefuls," she said; her understanding and her heart seemed both suddenly ripened in this fearful extremity—"even spadefuls at a time have done something—have lowered mountains, where there was determination and perseverance.
"But suppose there was neither. Suppose there was neither courage, nor goodness, nor determination, nor perseverance. Suppose the man had lived a life of indolent self-indulgence, until, squeeze him as you would, there was not one drop of virtue left in him. Crush him, as fate is crushing me at this moment; and I tell you, you will get nothing out of him. Nothing—nothing. He is more worthless than the most degraded beast. Better to die as a beast, and go where the beasts go."
She turned ghastly pale at this terrible speech—but, "No," she faltered out—"no—no!"
"You will not have me die, then?" he said, pursuing the same heartless tone; but it was forced, if that were any excuse for him. "Then you prefer the other scheme? I thought, he went on, "to have supped with Pluto to-night; but you prefer that it should be on board an American steamer."
"I do," she gasped, rather than uttered.
"You do—you are sure you do?" said he, suddenly assuming a tone of greater seriousness. "You wish, Ella, to preserve this worthless life? Have you considered at what expense?"
"Expense! How! Who could think of that?" she answered.
"Oh! not the expense of money, child—at the expense of the little thing called 'honor.' Listen to me, Ella,"—and again he took her arm, and turned her poor distracted face, to his. "You see I am ready to die—at least, was ready to die—but I have no wish to die. Worthless as this wretched life of mine it, it has its excitements, and its enjoyments, to me. When I made up my mind to end it, I assure you, child, I did the one only generous thing I ever was guilty of in my life; for I did it for you girls' sakes, as much or more than for my own. Suicide, some think a wicked thing—I don't. How I got my life, I don't know; the power of getting rid of it is mine, and I hold myself at liberty to make use of it or not, at my own good pleasure. As for my ever living to pay my debt, it's folly to talk of it. I have not, and never shall acquire, the means. I have neither the virtue nor the industry. I tell you, I am utterly good for nothing. I am a rascal—a scoundrel, and a despicable knave. I played for a large sum—meaning to take it if I won it—and not being able to pay, I lost it—and that, I have still sense of honor enough left to call a rascally proceeding. Now there is one way, and one way only, of cancelling all this in the eye of the world. When a man destroys himself, the world is sorry for him—half inclined to forgive him—to say the least of it, absolves his family. But—if he turn tail—and sneak away to America, and has so little sense"—he went on, passionately and earnestly—"of all that is noble, and faithful, and honorable, that he can bear to drag on a disgraced, contemptible existence, like a mean, pitiful, cowardly, selfish wretch, as he is—why, then—then—he is utterly blasted, and blackened over with infamy! Nobody feels for him, nobody pities him—the world speaks out, and curses the rascal as heartily as he deserves—and all his family perish with him. Now, Ella, choose which you will."
"I choose America," she said with firmness.
"And how am I to got to America? and how am I to live there when I am there? To be sure, there are your mother's diamonds," he added.
"Those are included in the bill of sale. Did you not say so?" she asked.
"Well, perhaps I did. But if a man is to live, he must have something to live upon. If he is to take flight, he must have wings to fly with."
"I will provide both."
"You will?"
"I am of age. What I have—which was not your gift—is at least my own. Lionel has been generous; I have the means to pay your passage."
"Aye, aye—Lionel! But afterwards, how am I to live? He will not like—no man would like—to have to maintain a wife's father, and that man a defaulter too. You should think of that, Ella."
"I do! I will never ask him."
"Then who is to maintain me? I tell you, I shall never manage to do it myself."
"I will."
"My poor child!" he cried—one short touch of nature had reached him at last—"what are you talking of?"
"I hope, and believe, that I shall be able to do it."
"I stood with my household gods shattered around me," is the energetic expression of that erring man, who had brought the fell catastrophe upon himself.
And so stood Ella now—in the centre of her own sitting-room, like some noble figure of ruin and despair; yet with a light, the light divine, kindling in an eye cast upward.
Yes! all her household gods—all the idols she had too dearly loved and cherished, were shattered around her, and she felt that she stood alone, to confront the dreadful fate which had involved all she loved.
What a spectacle presented itself to her imagination, as drearily she looked round! On one side, defaced and disfigured, soiled, degraded, was the once beautiful and animated figure of her father,—the man so brilliant, and to her so splendid a specimen of what human nature, in the full affluence of nature's finest gifts, might be. Upon another side her lover!—her husband! who was to have been her heart's best treasure! who never was to be hers now. No! upon that her high spirit had at once resolved; never. Impoverished and degraded, as she felt herself to be, never would she be Lionel's wife. The name which would, in a few hours' time, be blackened by irremediable dishonor, should never be linked to his. One swell of tender feeling, and it was over! All that is wrong, and all that is right, in woman's pride, had risen in arms at once against this.
The last figure that presented itself, was that of her delicate and gentle sister. But here there was comfort. Clementina was of a most frail and susceptible temperament, and eminently formed to suffer severely from adverse external circumstances; but she had a true and faithful heart; and if to Ella she would be obliged to cling for support, she would give consolation in return.
Ella looked upward—she looked up to God!
That holy name was not a stranger to her lips. It had been once, until the child of charity had taught the rich man's daughter some little knowledge of it. But such ideas had never been thoroughly realized by her mind; and now, when in the extremity of her destitution, she looked up—when, "out of the depths she cried unto Him,"—alas! He seemed so far, far off, and her distresses were so terribly near!
Yet even then, imperfect as all was, a beginning was made. The thick darkness of her soul seemed a little broken,—communion with the better and higher world was at least begun. There was a light—dim and shadowy—but still a light. There was a strength, vacillating and uncertain, but still a strength, coming over her soul.