Constance Fenimore Woolson

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

Perhaps it was curiosity that made him do what he did; whether it was or not, mingled with it there was certainly a good deal of audacity. He rose, went to her, and took her hand. “Forgive me,” he said; “I am in love with some one else.”

  It implied much. But had not her manner implied the same, or more?

  She rose; they were both standing now.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded, a light coming into her eyes—eyes usually abstracted, almost dull.

  “Only what I have said.”

  “Why should you say it to me?”

  “I thought you might be—interested.”

  “You are mistaken. I am not in the least interested. Why should I be?”

  “Are you not a little unkind?”

  “Not more unkind than you are insolent.”

  She was very angry. He began to be a little angry himself.

  “I ask your pardon with the deepest humility, Miss Stowe. The insolence of which you accuse me was as far as possible from my mind. If I thought you might be somewhat interested in what I have told you, it was because you have honored me with some small share of your attention during the past week or two; probably it has spoiled me.”

  “I have; and for a month or two, not a week or two. But there was a motive— It was an experiment.”

  “You have used me for experimental purposes, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am immensely grateful to have been considered worthy of a part in an experiment of yours, even although a passive one. May I ask if the experiment is ended?”

  “It is.”

  “Since when? Since I made that confession about some one else?”

  Miss Stowe’s face was pale, her dark eyes were brilliant. “I knew all the while that you were in love—hopelessly in love—with Mrs. Lovell,” she said, with a proud smile. “That was the reason that, for my experiment, I selected you.”

  A flush rose over his face as she spoke. “You thought you would have the greater triumph?” he asked.

  “I thought nothing of the kind. I thought that I should be safe, because you would not respond.”

  “And you did not wish me to respond?”

  “I did not.”

  “Excuse me—we are speaking frankly, are we not?—but do you not contradict yourself somewhat? You say you did not wish me to respond; yet, have you not tried to make me?”

  “That was not my object. It was but a necessary accompaniment of the experiment.”

  “And if I had responded?” he said, looking at her.

  “I knew you could not. I knew quite well—I mean I could imagine quite well—how much you loved Beatrice. But it has all been a piece of folly upon my part—I see it now.” She turned away, and went across to the piano. “I wish you would go now,” she said, in a low voice, vaguely turning over the music. “I cannot, because my aunt will think it strange to find me gone.”

  Instead of obeying her, he crossed the room and stood beside her; and then he saw in the twilight that her eyes were full of tears and her lips quivering, in spite of her effort to prevent it.

  “Margaret,” he said, suddenly, and with a good deal of feeling in his voice, “I am not worth it! Indeed I am not!” And again he touched her hand.

  But she drew it from him. “Are you by any chance imagining that my tears are for you?” she said, in a low tone, but facing him like a creature at bay. “Have you interpreted me in that way? I have a right to know; speak!”

  “I am at a loss to interpret you,” he said, after a moment’s silence.

  “I will tell you the whole, then—I must tell you; your mistake forces it from me.” She paused, drew a quick breath, and then went on, rapidly: “I love some one else. I have been very unhappy. Just after you came I received a letter which told me that he was soon to be married; he is married now. I had an illness in consequence. You may remember my illness? I made up my mind then that I would root out the feeling if possible, no matter at what cost of pain and effort and long patience. You came in my way. I knew you were deeply attached elsewhere—”

  “How did you know it?” he said. He was leaning against the piano watching her; she stood with her hands folded, and pressed so tightly together that he could see the force of the pressure.

  “Never mind how; but quite simply and naturally. I said to myself that I would try to become interested in you, even if only to a small degree; I would do everything in my power to forward it. It would be an acquired interest; still, acquired interests can be deep. People can become interested in music, in pictures, in sports, in that way; why not, then, in persons also, since they are more human?”

  “That is the very reason—because they are too human,” he answered.

  But she did not heed. “I have studied you; I have tried to find the good in you; I have tried to believe in you, to idealize you. I have given every thought that I could control to you, and to you alone, for two long months,” she said, passionately, unlocking her hands, reddened with their pressure against each other, and turning away.

  “It has been a failure?”

  “Complete.”

  “And if you had succeeded?” he asked, folding his arms as he leaned against the piano.

  “I should have been glad and happy. I should never have seen you again, of course; but at least the miserable old feeling would have been laid at rest.”

  “And its place filled by another as miserable!”

  “Oh no; it could never have been that,” she said, with an emphasis of scorn.

  “You tried a dangerous remedy, Margaret.”

  “Not so dangerous as the disease.”

  “A remedy may be worse than a disease. In spite of your scornful tone, permit me to tell you that if you had succeeded at all, it would have been in the end by loving me as you loved—I mean love—this other man. While I, in the meantime, am in love (as you are kind enough to inform me—hopelessly) with another woman! Is Beatrice a friend of yours?”

  “My dearest friend.”

  “Has it never occurred to you that you were playing towards her rather a traitorous part?”

  “Never.”

  “Supposing, during this experiment of yours, that I had fallen in love with you?”

  “It would have been nothing to Beatrice if you had,” responded Mrs. Lovell’s friend instantly and loyally, although remembering, at the same moment, that Fiesole blush. Then, in a changed voice, and with a proud humility which was touching, she added, “It would have been quite impossible. Beatrice is the loveliest woman in the world; any one who had loved her would never think of me.”

  At this moment Miss Harrison’s voice was heard in the hall; she was returning.

  “Good-bye,” said Morgan. “I shall go to-morrow. You would rather have me go.” He took her hand, held it an instant, and then raised it to his lips. “Good-bye,” he said, again. “Forgive me, Margaret. And do not entirely—forget me.”

  When Miss Harrison returned they were looking at the music on the piano. A few moments later he took leave.

  “I am sorry he has gone,” said Miss Harrison. “What in the world is he going to do at Trieste? Well, so goes life! nothing but partings! One thing is a consolation, however—at least, to me; the grandson of old Adam did not turn out a disappointment, after all.”

  “I do not think I am a judge,” replied Miss Stowe.

  In June Miss Harrison went northward to Paris, her niece accompanying her. They spent the summer in Switzerland; in the autumn returned to Paris; and in December went southward to Naples and Rome.

  Mrs. Lovell had answered Margaret’s letter in June. The six weeks of yachting had been charming; the yacht belonged to an English gentleman, who had a country-seat in Devonshire. She herself, by-the-way, might be in Devonshire during the summer; it was so quiet there. Could not Miss Harrison be induced to come to Devonshire?
That would be so delightful. It had been extremely difficult to wear deep mourning at sea; but of course she had persisted in it. Much of it had been completely ruined; she had been obliged to buy more. Yes—it was amusing—her meeting Trafford Morgan. And so unexpected, of course. Did she like him? No, the letter need not be returned. If it troubled her to have it, she might destroy it; perhaps it was as well it should be destroyed. There were some such pleasant qualities in English life; there was not so much opportunity, perhaps, as in America—“That blush meant nothing, then, after all,” thought the reader, lifting her eyes from the page, and looking musingly at a picture on the wall. “She said it meant only a lack of iron; and, as Beatrice always tells the truth, she did mean that, probably, and not irony, as I supposed.” She sat thinking for a few moments, and then went back to the letter: There was not so much opportunity, perhaps, as in America; but there was more stability, more certainty that things would continue to go on. There were various occurrences which she would like to tell; but she never wrote that sort of thing, as Margaret knew. If she would only come to Devonshire for the summer—and so forth, and so forth.

  But Beatrice did sometimes write “that sort of thing,” after all. During the next February, in Rome, after a long silence, Margaret received a letter from her which brought the tidings of her engagement. He was an Englishman. He had a country-seat in Devonshire. He owned a yacht. Beatrice seemed very happy. “We shall not be married until next winter,” she wrote. “I would not consent, of course, to anything earlier. I have consistently endeavored to do what was right from the beginning, and shall not waver now. But by next January there can be no criticism, and I suppose that will be the time. How I wish you were here to advise me about a hundred things! Besides, I want you to know him; you will be sure to like him. He is”—and so forth, and so forth.

  “She is following out her destiny,” thought the reader in Rome.

  In March Miss Harrison found the Eternal City too warm, and moved northward as far as Florence. Madame Ferri was delighted to see them again; she came five times during the first three days to say so.

  “You will find so many whom you knew last year here again as well as yourselves,” she said, enthusiastically. “We shall have some of our charming old reunions. Let me see—I think I can tell you.” And she ran over a list of names, among them that of “Mr. Morgan.”

  “What, not the grandson of Adam?” said Miss Harrison.

  “He is not quite so old as that, is he?” said Madame Ferri, laughing. “It is the one who dined with you several times last year, I believe—Mr. Trafford Morgan. I shall have great pleasure in telling him this very day that you are here.”

  “Do you know whether he is to remain long?” said Miss Stowe, who had not before spoken.

  “I am sorry to say he is not; Mr. Morgan is always an addition, I think—don’t you? But he told me only yesterday that he was going this week to—to Tarascon, I think he said.”

  “Trieste and Tarascon—he selects the most extraordinary places!” said Miss Harrison. “The next time it will be Tartarus.”

  Madame Ferri was overcome with mirth. “Dear Miss Harrison, you are too droll! Isn’t she, dear Miss Stowe?”

  “He probably chooses his names at random,” said Miss Stowe, with indifference.

  The next day, at the Pitti, she met him. She was alone, and returned his salutation coldly. He was with some ladies who were standing near, looking at the “Madonna of the Chair.” He merely asked how Miss Harrison was, and said he should give himself the pleasure of coming to see her very soon; then he bowed and returned to his friends. Not long afterwards she saw them all leave the gallery together.

  Half an hour later she was standing in front of one of Titian’s portraits, when a voice close beside her said, “Ah! the young man in black. You are not admiring it?”

  There had been almost a crowd in the gorgeous rooms that morning. She had stood elbow to elbow with so many persons that she no longer noticed them; Trafford Morgan had been able, therefore, to approach and stand beside her for several minutes without attracting her recognition. As he spoke she turned, and, in answer to his smile, gave an even slighter bow than before; it was hardly more than a movement of the eyelids. Two English girls, with large hats, sweet, shy eyes, and pink cheeks, who were standing close beside them, turned away towards the left for a minute to look at another picture.

  “Do not treat me badly,” he said. “I need kindness. I am not very happy.”

  “I can understand that,” she answered. Here the English girls came back again.

  “I think you are wrong in admiring it,” he said, looking at the portrait; “it is a quite impossible picture. A youth with that small, delicate head and face could never have had those shoulders; they are the shoulders of quite another type of man. This is some boy whom Titian wished to flatter; but he was artist enough to try and hide the flattery by that overcoat. The face has no calm; you would not have admired it in life.”

  “On the contrary, I should have admired it greatly,” replied Miss Stowe. “I should have adored it. I should have adored the eyes.”

  “Surely there is nothing in them but a sort of pugnacity.”

  “Whatever it is, it is delightful.”

  The English girls now turned away towards the right.

  “You are quite changed,” he said, looking at her.

  “Yes, I think I am. I am much more agreeable. Every one will tell you so; even Madame Ferri, who is obliged to reconcile it with my having been always more agreeable than any one in the world, you know. I have become lighter. I am no longer heavy.”

  “You mean you are no longer serious.”

  “That is it. I used to be absurdly serious. But it is an age since we last met. You were going to Trieste, were you not? I hope you found it agreeable?”

  “It is not an age; it is a year.”

  “Oh, a great deal can happen in a year,” said Miss Stowe, turning away.

  She was as richly dressed as ever, and not quite so plainly. Her hair was arranged in little rippling waves low down upon her forehead, which made her look, if not what might be called more worldly, at least more fashionable, since previously she had worn it arranged with a simplicity which was neither. Owing to this new arrangement of her hair, her eyes looked larger and darker.

  He continued to walk beside her for some moments, and then, as she came upon a party of friends, he took leave.

  In the evening he called upon Miss Harrison, and remained an hour. Miss Stowe was not at home. The next day he sent to Miss Harrison a beautiful basket of flowers.

  “He knows we always keep the rooms full of them,” remarked Miss Stowe, rather disdainfully.

  “All the same, I like the attention,” said Miss Harrison. And she sent him an invitation to dinner. She liked to have one guest.

  He came. During the evening he asked Miss Stowe to sing. “I have lost my voice,” she answered.

  “Yes,” said Miss Harrison, “it is really remarkable; Margaret, although she seems so well, has not been able to sing for months—indeed, for a full year. It is quite sad.”

  “I am not sad about it, Aunt Ruth; I am relieved. I never sang well—I had not voice enough. There was really nothing in it but expression; and that was all pretence.”

  “You are trying to make us think you very artificial,” said Morgan.

  “I can make you think what I please, probably. I can follow several lines of conduct, one after the other, and make you believe them all.” She spoke lightly; her general tone was much lighter than formerly, as she herself had said.

  “Do you ever walk in the Boboli Garden now?” he asked, later.

  “Occasionally; but it is a dull place. And I do not walk as much as I did; I drive with my aunt.”

  “Yes, Margaret has grown indolent,” said Miss Harrison; “and it seems to agree with her. She has more color
than formerly; she looks well.”

  “Wonderfully,” said Morgan. “But you are thinner than you were,” he added, turning towards her.

  “And darker!” she answered, laughing. “Mr. Morgan does not admire arrangements in black and white, Aunt Ruth; do not embarrass him.” She wore that evening a white dress, unrelieved by any color.

  “I see you are bent upon being unkind,” he said. It was supposed to be a society remark.

  “Not the least in the world,” she answered, in the same tone.

  He met her several times in company, and had short conversations with her. Then, one afternoon, he came upon her unexpectedly in the Cascine; she was strolling down the broad path alone.

  “So you do walk sometimes, after all,” he said.

  “Never. I am only strolling. I drove here with Aunt Ruth, but, as she came upon a party of American friends who are going to-morrow, I gave up my place, and they are driving around together for a while, and no doubt settling the entire affairs of Westchester County.”

  “I am glad she met them; I am glad to find you alone. I have something I wish much to say to you.”

  “Such a beginning always frightens me. Pray postpone it.”

  “On the contrary, I shall hasten it. I must make the most of this rare opportunity. Do you remember when you did me the honor, Miss Stowe, to make me the subject of an experiment?”

  “You insist upon recalling that piece of folly?” she said, opening her parasol. Her tone was composed and indifferent.

  “I recall it because I wish to base something upon it. I wish to ask you—to allow yourself to be passively the subject of an experiment on my part, an experiment of the same nature.”

  She glanced at him; he half smiled. “Did you imagine, then, that mine was in earnest?” she said, with a fine, light scorn, light as air.

  “I never imagine anything. Imaginations are useless.”

  “Not so useless as experiments. Let yours go, and tell me rather what you found to like in—Trieste.”

  “I suppose you know that I went to England?”

  “I know nothing. But yes—I do know that you are going to—Tarascon.”