“...cannot stay here much longer. If he does not appear soon ... it might come to the knowledge of my husband, and....”
Here the fragmentary sentences ceased altogether to be distinguishable, Marion having apparently removed to another part of her box. But Perdita had heard enough to convince her that something out of the common was going on. Marion had come secretly to Vauxhall, taking advantage of her husband’s absence, in order to meet some gentleman who had not yet made his appearance. So much was evident, and it was enough to place Marion in a light which, to say the best of it, was ambiguous. Perdita knew not what to make of it. Though not prone to be over-charitable in her judgments on her own sex, the Marquise was too keen a reader of character ever to have supposed that Marion was capable of an immoral intrigue. Yet here was certainly an intrigue, and it was difficult to see how it could be an altogether innocent one. Perdita, in fact, made no special effort in this direction; what puzzled her was that a woman of Marion’s intelligence should have chosen Vauxhall, of all places in the world, to meet a lover in. True, there is a certain kind of safety in a crowd; and there might be particular circumstances rendering Vauxhall a desirable trysting-place in this instance: and, in short, there is never any accounting for affairs of this kind on logical grounds: they are controlled by too many unknown and unknowable conditions. A more interesting matter of speculation regarded the identity of the man whom Marion had favored with her preference. He could not well be handsomer than Philip, Perdita thought, or cleverer, or, in a general way, more attractive. But, of course, Marion must be of a different opinion. Who, then, was to her mind the superior person? The Marquise rapidly reviewed the names and characters of the various gentlemen with whom Marion was likely to be on confidential terms; but one seemed about as likely as another, and none of them, to say the truth, seemed likely at all. In the midst of her perplexity, Marion and her attendant were heard to rise, and a minute later they came out of their box and walked away slowly, looking about them. It was Marion, beyond a doubt, and the attendant was a middle-aged woman in whom Perdita fancied she recognized Mrs. Lancaster’s private maid, who had been formerly a servant of Mrs. Lockhart.
For a moment, Perdita had an impulse to issue forth and follow them, and see the end of the adventure. But a regard for her own dignity, as well as a sentiment of respect for another woman’s secret, combined to restrain her. It was enough to know that Marion had a mystery of this kind to conceal; and possibly (such is the waywardness of the moral sense) the revelation of that fact raised, rather than lowered, Marion in Perdita’s esteem. That a woman of Marion’s apparently passionate candor and simplicity should all the time be hiding so hazardous a secret, evinced a force and depth of character that Perdita had not been prepared for. She was a woman to be reckoned with: and the Marquise admitted to herself with a curious smile that, with all her own keenness and knowledge of the world, she had been totally mistaken in her judgment of her.
And yet, after all, might not the mistake be in supposing herself to have been mistaken? Might not Marion be the innocent victim of appearances? Could her presence there be merely the result of a thoughtless frolic, as was the case with Perdita herself? But against this view was to be set the conclusive testimony of the passages of conversation she had overheard. She had not overheard much, to be sure; but much or little, it had been conclusive so far as it went; it had proved that Marion came to Vauxhall to meet some man. What man? Was there any man whom she could meet innocently? Perdita could think of none—stay! Might it not be Merton Fillmore?
It was to the last degree improbable, and contrary to reason: but it might nevertheless be Fillmore, and if so, the occasion of their meeting must be business and not love: for Perdita was tolerably convinced that she knew where Merton Fillmore’s heart was. But what business, that could not be better discussed in Fillmore’s office, or in Marion’s house, could there be between them? or what likelihood was there that a man like Fillmore would go to Vauxhall on any consideration? There was no likelihood of it. It could not be Fillmore, and yet it must be Fillmore: Perdita wished it to be Fillmore: though whether she wished it because of Fillmore, or because of Marion, or because of herself, she could not perhaps have told.
This episode, be the significance and upshot of it what they might, had loomed so large as to obscure whatever other grotesque entertainment Vauxhall may have contained for the Marquise Desmoines; and, moreover, the sight of Marion’s rashness had impelled her seriously to reflect upon her own. She resolved to go home without delay; and having tied her veil more closely about her face, and roused Madame Cabot, who had dropped asleep in her corner of the box, with her snuff-box open on her lap, she took that lady’s bony arm, and they went forth into the assemblage.
Their progress was not so rapid as they could have wished. The rack-punch and other drinkables had made the crowd more noisy and boisterous, while the numbers had certainly not diminished. Perdita had need of all her wits and courage to avoid getting into trouble, while Madame Cabot was thoroughly frightened, and gave frequent vent to dismal little shrieks and moans, which had the effect of attracting the attention which Perdita was so anxious to avoid. All at once, in the midst of the general turmoil, some loud cries were heard, and there was a rush in the direction whence they proceeded. “A fight! a fight!” cried one gentleman, pressing forward enthusiastically. “A fight?—’tis a murder!” returned another. “ ’Tis naught but a fellow in a fit,” said a third, who had mounted on a lamp-post. “He’s drunk! put him out, stifle me!” exclaimed another, with the righteous indignation of inebriety. “Come along, Jack—’tis no business of ours,” remarked a gorgeously-attired female, seizing her companion by the arm. Meanwhile Perdita and Madame Cabot were taking advantage of the rush of the crowd in one direction to push their way in the other, which was comparatively deserted. By a roundabout route they were approaching the entrance, and had just passed a guardian of the peace, who was thoughtfully proceeding in a direction at right angles to the scene of the disturbance, when Perdita suddenly stopped short, much to Madame Cabot’s distress, and fixed her eyes upon a group that was also hastening toward the gate from another part of the grounds.
It consisted of a man and two women. The former was fashionably dressed, had rather a dandified air, and a handsome, bright, good-humored countenance. The lady on his arm was tall, and of a fine figure; her face, which was uncovered, had a flush of excitement upon it, and her eyes sparkled. Close behind the couple followed a woman who was evidently a domestic. Perdita had no difficulty in recognizing Marion, and that elegant poet and fascinating man of the world, Mr. Thomas Moore. As they passed her, she gave another of her odd little smiles.
“So much for my charity!” she murmured to herself. “Poor Philip!—allons, madame!”