by Ouida
“I thought there was implicit confidence before marriage whatever there is after,” sneered his sister, as she passed him. He answered her calmly: —
“I should say, Helena, that neither before nor after marriage would any man who respected his wife suffer curiosity or suspicion to enter into him. If he do, he has no right to expect happiness, and he will certainly not go the way to get it.”
That was the only reply he gave Lady Clive, but her thorn No. 2 festered in him, and when he bade Beatrice good night, standing alone with her in the little drawing room, he took both her hands in his, and looked straight into her eyes.
“Beatrice, why would you not let me see that note this evening?”
She looked up at him as fearlessly and clearly.
“If I tell you why, I must tell you whom the note was from, and what it was about, and I would much rather do neither as yet.”
“That is very strange. I dislike concealment of all kinds, especially from you, who so soon will be my wife. It is inconceivable to me why you should need or desire any. I thought your life was a fair open book, every line of which I might read if I desired.”
Beatrice looked at him in amazement.
“So you may. Do you suppose, if I had any secret from you that I feared you should know, I could have a moment’s peace in your society, or look at you for an instant as I do now? I give you my word of honor that there was nothing either in the note that concerns you, or that you would wish me to tell you. In a few days you shall know all that was in it, but I ask you as a kindness not to press me now. Surely you do not think me such a child but that you can trust me in so small a trifle. If you say I am not worthy of your confidence, you imply that I am not worthy of your love. You spoke nobly to your sister just now, Ernest; do not act less nobly to me.”
He could not but admire her as she looked at him, with her fearless, unshadowed regard, her head thrown a little back, and her attitude half-commanding, half-entreating. He smiled in spite of himself.
“You are a wayward, spoiled child, Beatrice. You must have your own way?”
She gave a little stamp of her foot. She hated being called a spoiled child, specially by him, and in a serious moment.
“If I have my own way, have I your full confidence too?”
“Yes; but, my dear Beatrice, the only way to gain confidence is never to excite suspicion.” And Lady Clive’s thorn rankled à ravir; for even as he pressed his goodnight kisses on her lips, he thought, restlessly, “Shall we make each other happy? — am I too grave for her? — and is she too wilful for me? I want rest, not contention.”
The night after that there was a bal-masqué at the Redoute. I was just coming out of my room as Beatrice came down the corridor; She had her mask in her hand, her dress was something white starred with gold, and round her hair she had a little band of pearls of Earlscourt’s gift. I never saw her look better, specially when her cheeks flushed and her eyes brightened as Earlscourt opened his door next mine, and met her. He did not see me, the corridor was empty, and he bent down to her with fond words and caresses.
“Do I look well?” she said, with child-like delight.
“I am so glad, Ernest, I want to do you honor.”
In that mood he understood her well enough, and he pressed her against his heart with the passion that was in him, whose strength he so rarely let her see. Then he drew her hand through his arm, and led her down the stairs; and, as I laughed to find to what lengths our cold statesman could come at last, I thought Lady Clive’s thorns would be innocuous, however well planted.
Earlscourt never danced; nothing but what was calm and stately could possibly have suited him; but Beatrice did, and waltzed like a Willis, (though she liked even better than that standing on his arm and talking with his friends — diplomatic, military, and ministerial — on all sorts of questions, most of which she could handle nearly as well as they;) and about the middle of the evening, while she was waltzing with some man or other who had begged to be introduced to her, Earlscourt left the ball-room for ten minutes in earnest conversation with one of the French ministers, who was leaving the next morning. As he came back again, I asked him where Beatrice was, because Powell, of the Bays, was bothering my life out to introduce him to her.
“In the ball room, isn’t she? She is with Lady Mechlin, of course, if, the waltz is over.”
A familiar voice stopped him.
“She is not in the ball room. Go where you found her the other night, and see if Cæsar’s promised wife be above suspicion!”
I could have sworn the voice was Lady Clive’s; a pink domino passed us too fast for detention, but Earlscourt’s lips turned white at the subtle whisper, and he muttered a fierce oath — fiercer from him, because he’s never stirred into fiery expletives. “There is some vile plot against her. I must sift it to the bottom;” and, pushing past me, he entered the ball room. Beatrice was not there; and wending his way through the crowd, he went in through several other apartments leading off to the right, and involuntarily I followed him, to see what the malicious whisper of the pink domino had meant. Earlscourt lifted the curtain that parted the anteroom from the other chamber — lifted it to see Beatrice Boville, as the pink domino had prophesied, and not alone! With her was a man, masked, but about Earlscourt’s height, and seemingly about his age, who, as he saw us, let go her hand with a laugh, turned on to a balcony, which was but a yard or so from the street, and dropped on to the pave below. Beatrice started and colored, but I thought she must be the most desperate actress going, for she came up to Earlscourt with a smile, and was about to put her hand through his arm, but he signed her away from him.
“Your acting is quite useless with me. I am not to be blinded by it again. I have believed in your truth as in my own—”
“So you may still. Listen to me, Ernest!”
“Hush! Do not add falsehood to falsehood.”
He spoke sternly and coldly; his pride, which was as strong as his love for her, would not gratify her by a sign of the torture within him, and even in his bitterest anger Earlscourt would never have been ungentle to a woman. That word acted like an incantation on her, the blood crimsoned her temples, her eyes literally flashed fire, and she threw back her head with the haughty, impatient gesture habitual to her.
“Falsehood? Three times of late you have used that word to me.”
“And why? Because you merited it.”
She stood before him, the indignant flush hotter still upon her cheeks, her lips curved into scornful anger. If she was an actress, she knew her rôle to perfection.
“Do you speak that seriously, Lord Earlscourt? Do you believe that I have lied to you?”
“God help me! What else can I believe?” he muttered, too low for her to hear it.
She asked him the question again, fiercely, and he answered her briefly and sternly, —
“I believe that all your life with me has been a lie. I trusted you implicitly, and how do you return it? By carrying on clandestine intercourse with another man, giving him interviews that you conceal from me, having letters that you destroy, doubtless receiving caresses that you take care are unwitnessed; while you dare to smile in my face, and to dupe me with child-like tenderness, and to bid me ‘trust’ you and believe in you! Love shared to me is worthless, and on my wife, Beatrice, no stain must rest!”
As he spoke, a dark shadow spread over her countenance, her evil spirit rose up in her, and her bright, frank, fearless face grew almost as hard and cold as his, while her teeth were set together, till her lips, usually soft and laughing, were pressed into one straight haughty line.
“Since you give me up so easily, far be it from me to dispute your will. We part from this hour, if you desire it. My honor is as dear to me as yours to you, and to those who dare to suspect it I never stoop to defend it!”
“But, my God! Beatrice, what am I to believe?”
“Whatever you please!”
“What I please! Child, you must be mad. What ca
n I believe, but that you are the most perfect of all actresses, that your art is the greatest of all sins, the art that clothes itself in innocence, and carries would-be truth upon its lips. Prove to me that I wrong you!”
She shook her head; the devil in her had still the victory; her eyes glittered, and her little teeth were clinched together.
“What I exact is trust without proof. I am not your prisoner, Lord Earlscourt, to be tried coldly, and acquitted if you find legal evidence of innocence; convicted, if there be a link wanting. If you choose to trust me, I have told you often your trust will never be wronged; if you choose to condemn me, do. I shall not stoop to show you your injustice.”
Earlscourt’s face grew dark and hard as hers, but it was wonderful how well his pride chained down all evidence of suffering; the only sign was in the hoarseness of, and quiver in, his voice.
“Say nothing more — prevarication is guilt! God forgive you, Beatrice Boville! If you loved me, and knelt at my feet, I would not make you my wife after the art and the lies with which you have repaid my trust. Thank God, you do not already bear my name and my honor in your hands!”
With those words he left her. Beatrice stood still in the same place, her lips set in one scornful line, her eyes glittering, her brow crimson, her whole attitude defiant, wronged, and unyielding. Earlscourt passed me, his face white as death, and was out of sight in a second. I waited a moment, then I followed my impulse, and went up to her.
“Beatrice, for Heaven’s sake, what is all this?”
She turned her large eyes on me haughtily.
“Do you believe what your cousin does?”
I answered her as briefly: —
“No, I do not. There is some mistake here.”
She seized my arm, impetuously: —
“Promise me, on your honor, never to tell what I tell to you while I live. Promise me, on your faith as a gentleman.”
“On my honor, I promise. Well?”
“The man whom you saw with me to-night is my father. Lord Earlscourt chose to condemn me without inquiry; so let him! But I tell you, that you may tell him if I die before him, that he wronged me. You know Mr. Boville’s — my father’s — character. I had not seen him since I was a child, but when he heard of my engagement to Lord Earlscourt he found me out, and wanted to force himself on him, and borrow money of him, and—” She stopped, her face was crimson, but she went on, passionately. “All my efforts, of course, were to keep them apart, to spare my father such degradation, and your cousin such an application. I could not tell Lord Earlscourt, for he is generous as the winds, and I knew what he would have done. My note was from my father; he wanted to frighten me into introducing him to Lord Earlscourt, but he did not succeed. I would not have your cousin disgraced or pained by — Arthur, that is all my crime! No very great one, is it?” And she laughed a loud, bitter laugh, as unlike her own as the stormy shadow on her face was like the usual sunshine.
“But, great Heaven! why not have told this to Earlscourt?”
She signed me to silence with a passionate gesture.
“No! He dishonored me with suspicion; let him go. I forbid you ever to breathe a word of what I have told you to him. If he has pride, so have I. He would hold no dishonor greater than for another man to charge him with a lie. My truth is as untainted as his, and my honor as dear to me. He accused me wrongly; let him repent. I would have loved and reverenced him as never any woman yet could do; but once suspected, I could find no happiness with him. His bitter words are stamped into my heart. I shall never forget — I doubt if I shall ever forgive — them. I can bear anything but injustice or misconception. If any doubt me, they are free to do so; theirs is the sin, not mine. As he has sown so must he reap, and so must I!” A low, gasping sob choked her voice, but she stood like a little Pythoness, the pearl gleaming above her brow, her eyes unnaturally bright, the color burning in her face, her attitude what it was when he left her, defiant, wronged, unyielding. She swept away from me to a man who was coming through the other room, and he stared at her set lips and her gleaming eyes as she asked him, carelessly, “Count Avonyl, will you have the kindness to take me to Lady Mechlin?”
That was the last I saw of her. She left the Bad with her aunt as soon as the day dawned, and when I went to our hotel, I found that Earlscourt had ordered post-horses immediately he quitted the ball room, and gone — where he did not leave word. So my presentiment was verified; the pride of both had come in conflict, and the pride of neither had succumbed. How long it would sustain and satisfy them, I could not guess; but Lady Clive smiled again, as sweetly as ladies ever do when their thorns have thriven and brought forth abundant fruit. Some other time I will tell you how I saw Beatrice Boville again; but I often thought of
“Pauline, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time!”
when I recalled her with the pearls above her brow, and her passionate, gleaming eyes, and her fearless, scornful, haughty anguish, as she had stood before me that night when Pride v. Pride caused the wreck of both their lives.
IV. WHERE I SAW BEATRICE BOVILLE AGAIN
I don’t belong to St. Stephen’s myself, thank Heaven. Very likely they would have returned me for the county when the governor departed this life had I tried them; but as I generally cut the county, from not being one of the grass countries, and as I couldn’t put forward any patriotic claims like Mr. Harper Twelvetrees, (who, as he’s such a slayer of vermin, thought, I suppose, that he’d try his hand at the dry-rot and the red tapeworms, which, according to cotton grumblers, are sapping the nation,) I haven’t solicited its suffrages. The odds at Tattersall’s interest me more than the figures of the ways and means; and Diophantus’s and Kettledrum’s legerdemain at Newmarket and Epsom is more to my taste than our brilliant rhetorician’s with the surplus. I don’t care a button about Lord Raynham and Sir C. Burrell’s maids-of-all-work; they are not an attractive class, I should say, and, if they like to amuse their time tumbling out of windows, I can’t see for the life of me why peers and gentlemen should rush to the rescue like Don Quixote to Dulcinea’s. And as for that great question, Tea v. Paper, bohea delights the souls of old ladies and washerwomen — who destroy crumpets and character over its inebriating cups, and who will rush to crown Lord Derby’s and Mr. Disraeli’s brows with laurels if they ever go to the country with a teapot blazoned on their patriotic banners — more than it does mine, which prefers Bass and Burgundy, seltzer and Sillery; and, though I dare say Brown, Jones, and Robinson find the Divorce News exciting, and paper collars very showy and economical, as I myself am content with the Times and its compeers, and think, with poor Brummel, that life without daily clean linen were worthless, that subject doesn’t absorb me as it does those gentlemen who find “the last tax of knowledge” so grandiloquent and useful a finishing period. So I have never stood for the county, nor essayed to stand for it, seeing that to one Bernal Osborne there are fifty prosers in St. Stephen’s, and to be bored is, to a butterfly flutterer, as the young lady whose name heads this paper once obligingly called me, torture unparalleled by anything short of acid wine or the Chinese atrocities, though truly he who heads our Lower House with his vernal heart and his matchless brain were enough to make any man, coxcomb or hero, oppositionist or ministerialist, proud to sit in the same chamber with him. But there are nights now and then, of course, when I like to go to both Houses, to hear Lord Derby’s rich, intricate oratory, or Gladstone’s rhetoric, (which has so potent a spell even for his foes, and is yet charged so strangely against him as half a crime; possibly by the same spirit with which plain women reproach a pretty one for her beauty: what business has he to be more attractive than his compeers? of course it’s a péché mortel in their eyes!) and when Mrs. Breloques, who is a charming little woman, to whom no man short of a Goth could possibly say “No” to any petition, gave me a little blow with her fan, and told me, as I valued her friendship, to get an order and take her and Gwen to hear the Lords’ debate on Tuesday, when my cousin Viscount Earl
scourt, one of the best orators in the Upper House, was certain to speak, of course I obliged her. Her sister Gwen, who was a girl of seventeen, barely out, and whom I wished at Jerico, (three is so odious a number, one of the triad must ever be de trop,) was wrathful with the Upper House; it in no wise realized her expectations; the peers should have worn their robes, she thought, (as if the horrors of a chamber filled with Thames odors in June wasn’t enough without being bored with velvet and ermine) she would have been further impressed by coronets also; they had no business to lounge on their benches as if they were in a smoking-room; they should have declaimed like Kean, not spoken colloquially; and — in fact, they shouldn’t have been ordinary men at all. I think a fine collection from Madame Tussaud’s, with a touch of the Roman antique, would have been much more to Gwen’s ideal, and she wasn’t at all content till Earlscourt rose; he reconciled her a little, for he had a grand-seigneur air, she said, that made up for the incongruities of his dress. It was a measure that he had much at heart; he had exerted for it all his influence in the cabinet, and he was determined that the bill should pass the Lords, though the majority inclined to throw it out. As he stood now against the table, with his calm dignity of gesture, his unstrained flow of words, and his rich and ringing voice, which could give majesty to commonplace subjects, and sway even an apathetic audience as completely as Sheridan’s Begum speech, every one in the House listened attentively, and each of his words fell with its due weight. I heard him with pride, often as I had done so before, though I noticed with pain that the lines in his forehead and his mouth were visibly deepened; that he seemed to speak with effort, for him, and looked altogether, as somebody had said to me at White’s in the morning, as if he were wearing out, and would go down in his prime, like Canning and Pitt.
“Lord Earlscourt looks very ill — don’t you think so?” said Lelia Breloques.
As I answered her, I heard a sharp-wrung sigh, and I looked for the first time at the lady next me. I saw a delicate profile, lips compressed and colorless, chestnut hair that I had last seen with his pearls gleaming above it: I saw, en deux mots, Beatrice Boville for the first time since that night eight months before, when she had stood before me in her passion and her pride. She never took her eyes off Earlscourt while he spoke, and I wondered if she regretted having lost him for a point of honor. Had she grown indifferent to him, that she had come to his own legislative chamber, or was her love so much stronger than her pride that she had sought to see him thus rather than not see him at all? When his speech was closed, and he had resumed his place on the benches, she leaned back, covering her eyes with her hand for a moment: and, as I said aloud (more for her benefit than Mrs. Breloques’s) my regret that Earlscourt would wear himself out, I was afraid, in his devotion to public life, Beatrice started at the sound of my voice, turned her head hastily, and her face was colorless enough to tell me she had not gratified her pride without some cost. Of course I spoke to her; she had been a favorite of mine always, and I had often wished to come across her again; but beyond learning that she was with Lady Mechlin in Lowndes Square, and had been spending the winter at Pau for her aunt’s health, I had no time to hear more, for Lelia, having only come for Earlscourt’s speech, bade me take her to her carriage, while Beatrice and her party remained for the rest of the debate; but the rencontre struck me as so odd, that I believe it occupied my thoughts more than Mrs. Breloques liked, who got into her carriage in not the best of humors, and asked me if I was going in for public life that I’d grown so particularly unamusing. We’re always unamusing to one woman if we’re thinking at all about another.