We will not follow Weldon through his downward path. At first conscience restrained him, but the ridicule of his associates soon drowned her warning voice, and he hurried on in his reckless course until he became a leader among his former teachers in vice.
Thus passed his college life, and when he returned to his home it was with feelings dulled and seared by crime.
Paul Weldon’s father was a country gentleman of the old school. His mother, the proud daughter of a poor earl, had been a belle, and had married, partly for love, partly for money. Preferring to be “first in a province rather than second in a city,” when her charms waned she retired to her husband’s fine old country-house, where she assumed the airs of a queen regnant over the neighboring provincials. In the outskirts of the village, however, was one who neither courted nor fawned upon her. This was Mrs. White, the widow of a gallant officer who fell bravely fighting for his country, bequeathing to his young wife’s guardianship his only child—a daughter, then an infant. Mrs. White possessed a small annuity, and with this she purchased the cottage near Weldon Manor. Here she lived quietly and happily, devoting her whole time to the education of her daughter, who, like a rose in the desert, seemed “born to blush unseen.”
When the Weldons returned to the old house, which they had not visited for years, Lucy White was a lovely, innocent girl of sixteen. I have said that Mrs. White did not court the lady of the manor, wherefore she was hated by her; but living apart and alone, the humble inhabitants of the cottage were ignorant of the enmity of the haughty dame.
Shortly after the arrival of the Weldons at the manor-house, their son returned from college. He soon discovered the beautiful cottager, and found means to make her acquaintance. From that time the fair girl was seldom alone, and she soon discovered that the light of loving eyes was preferable even to the holy radiance of the stars, and that the low tones of love were sweeter than the songs of birds, or the music of murmuring streams. She was guileless, unsuspecting; he was artful and persuasive—one who could easily make “the worse seem the better cause,” and the result was that her unsuspecting love became her ruin. Her idol was her betrayer! She soon awoke to the consequences of her crime, and besought her destroyer to spare her from misery—to save her from disgrace. Paul’s heart was melted; he loved her truly and would have repaired the wrong he had done her; but his mother unfortunately discovered the state of things, and by prayers and entreaties, jeers and taunts, so wrought on his pride that he determined to forsake her.
Poor Lucy! how earnestly, how vainly she entreated him to save her.
“O, Paul—Paul,” she exclaimed, “if you love me—if you ever loved me—spare me! Save me, I entreat you, for the sake of my poor widowed mother! For the sake of my unborn babe, if not for mine; drive me not forth an outcast—homeless, friendless. Too guilty to dwell with the pure; too innocent to consort with the vicious, where shall I go? Men will behold me with sneering pity; women will turn aside from the fallen. I am a woman and have sinned, and may not hope for pardon. In happier days, Paul, you have often told me how dear I was to you, and have you so soon learned to despise me for my sin? You turn away! Ah, yes; it is so; you—even you whom I loved so truly, and trusted so deeply, turn from me in my sorrow—in my shame. But no—no; I cannot—I will not believe it. Speak to me—give me hope, or else confirm my despair.”
Paul averted his head, for love and pity struggled in his heart; but the demon pride, mastered the angels, and he determined to leave her to her wretchedness. Still his tongue refused to speak the heartless words.
“What, still silent?” she cried. “Will you not even speak to me, Paul? And a few short months ago you seemed to live only in my presence; now you are eager to shun me. Then you had no eyes for any one but me; now, you turn away; then you had no ears for sweeter music than my voice, now you shudder at its sound; then you vowed you would never know joy apart from me; now you would drive me from you forever. Then your low, loving, passionate tones entered my soul, lulling its guardian spirit with their sweet music until my senses swam in a sweet delirium of delight, from which I awoke—to find myself the wretched creature you have made me. And you, who wrought this change—you, who sought me but to betray—stand there before me, silent, trembling, when I ask you to repair your wrong—when for the sake of love and pity I ask for justice. You will not even answer me. Why do you hesitate, if you would give me hope? Why prolong my suffering? If you would plunge me into despair, why dally with me? Why not let me know the worst? Speak, answer me, I entreat—I command you!”
She retreated a few paces, and gazing steadily on his averted face, awaited his reply. He hesitated; at last he spoke: