Harrington: A Story of True Love

by William Douglas O'Connor

Harrington paused again, nervously twitching his beard with his large shapely hand. Before Witherlee could reply, he went on again.

“Let me recall that conversation,” he said. “You sat in my arm-chair smoking, and you were praising Muriel, which was pleasant for me to hear. Presently, you remarked, ‘she’ll make Wentworth a superb wife,’ and then you quoted from Tennyson’s ‘Isabel’—‘the queen of marriage, a most perfect wife.’ I was, I own, amazed. ‘Why, Wentworth?’ I asked. You looked surprised, and said, ‘Why not Wentworth?’ Then you added—‘When people love, don’t they marry?’ ‘Certainly,’ I returned, ‘but you are mistaken, I think.’ ‘I think not,’ you replied, with a manner so cool and positive, that I was, to be frank with you, a little annoyed. I was about to drop the subject there, for it seemed to me hardly fair to canvass such a matter, when you remarked, ‘In fact, I know I’m not.’ I replied, ‘It is quite impossible that you should know it, Fernando, though you may have what seem to you strong reasons for believing it.’ You answered, rather unkindly it appeared to me—‘Do you doubt my word?’ ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘How can you think so—it’s not a question of veracity at all, but of judgment?’ ‘Well,’ said you, ‘I have proof—ocular proof—I wouldn’t say it if you didn’t put me to it.’ And then you told me that you visited the house the previous afternoon, and as you were entering the parlor, you saw Richard and Muriel standing together at the other end of the room, with their arms around each other, and saw them kiss each other. You drew back instantly, you said, without having been perceived by them, and made a clatter in the hall before you entered again. I could hardly forgive you at the time for having told me what you saw, or myself for having listened to you, for it was not a thing to be either told of or listened to. But I grant it happened naturally enough in the heat of the moment, and after all, I am glad to have known of an occurrence, the knowledge of which may prevent misunderstanding and trouble.”

Harrington paused once more, with vague emotion struggling in his features and his eyes fixed sadly on vacancy. The truth of the matter was this: Witherlee had seen on the occasion referred to, two persons in the attitude described, one of whom was Wentworth, and the other a young lady who, at the first glance, he thought was Muriel, inasmuch as she wore a lilac dress such as Muriel wore at times. He had, as he had said, retreated instantly—quite astounded too, for he had made up his mind that Emily was Wentworth’s sweetheart. But on entering again, he saw that he had been mistaken, and that the lady with Wentworth was not Muriel, but Emily. The illusion, however, made a strong impression on his fancy, and his mind teemed with tempting imaginings of Wentworth and Muriel in the Romeo and Juliet tableau. It was an easy step in his controversy with Harrington, begun simply for aggravation and continued with an obstinate desire to establish what he had so impudently assumed, to present his fancy as a fact, and insist upon it. This was a fair specimen of one of the good Fernando’s lies, which were rarely sheer inventions, but generally had a basis of truth in them.

“Now, Fernando,” resumed Harrington, “I want to ask you whether it is possible that you could have been mistaken? Are you absolutely sure that it was Muriel you saw with Wentworth, and not Miss Ames?”

Fernando’s drowsy conscience awoke just enough to give him a lethargic pinch, and dozed off again.

“I do not see, Harrington,” he replied with an injured air, “how I could be mistaken. There was nobody else in the room but Wentworth and Muriel when I first looked in. Emily was coming in through the conservatory door at the end of the parlor as I entered, but she was not there before.”

This was an ingenious transposition of the fact. It was Muriel who came in at the conservatory door, and not Emily. But Fernando had covered his position famously. In the event of the truth coming out, he could swear that in the confusion of the moment he had mistaken one lady for the other, apologize profusely, and make the explanation seem plausible.

“It was certainly Muriel,” he resumed. “Still the affair may be susceptible of a different interpretation. You must concede at least that Muriel and Wentworth like each other very much, and they might kiss each other and still be only friends.”

“No,” said Harrington, firmly—“that is not possible. That is not like Muriel. I know her too well to suppose that for a moment. If she kissed Wentworth, she loves him. I do not doubt you, Fernando. Their present close intimacy with each other confirms your story, I own. But something Richard said just now shook my belief—made me think, in fact, that you were in error, and I wanted to be doubly sure that you were not. Let me only say that I have a better motive for this inquiry than curiosity—and now let all this be forgotten. Never mention it again, I beg of you, to any person. Let it all pass forever.”

Witherlee’s conscience smote him terribly, and he felt maddened at his meanness, as Harrington strode away. But he was fully committed to his course, and to own his fault was impossible with him.