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Fashion and Famine. Ann S. Stephens
as I have said, he loved to play with his victims, and the anguish of shame which she endured had something novel and exciting in it. For some time he would not aid her, even by a question, but he really wished to learn a portion of her history, for during the last three years he had lost all trace of her, and there might be something in the events of those three years to affect his interest. It was his policy, however, to appear ignorant of all that had transpired.
But she was silent; her ideas seemed paralyzed. How many times she had fancied this meeting—with what eloquence she had pleaded to him—how plausible were the excuses that arose in her mind—and now where had they fled? The very power of speech seemed abandoning her. She almost longed for some taunting word, another cold sneer—at least they would have stung her into eloquence—but that dull, quiet silence chained up her faculties. She sat gazing on the floor, mute and pale; and he remained in his seat coldly regarding her.
At length the stillness grew irksome to him.
"I am waiting patiently, Ada; waiting to hear why you abandoned your husband!"
She started: her eye kindled, and the fiery blood flashed into her cheek.
"I did not abandon my husband. He left me."
"For a journey, but for a journey!" was the calm reply.
"Yes, such journeys as you had taken before, and with a like motive, leaving me young, penniless, beset with temptation, tortured with jealousy. On that very journey you had a companion."
She looked at him as if eager even then, against her own positive knowledge, to hear a denial of her accusations; but he only smiled, and murmured softly—
"Yes, yes, I remember. It was a pleasant journey."
"It drove me wild—I was not myself—suspicions, such suspicions haunted me. I thought—I believed, nay, believe now that you wished me to go—that you longed to get rid of me—nay, that you encouraged—I cannot frame words for the thought even now. He had lent you money, large sums—William, William, in the name of Heaven, tell me that it was not for this I was left alone in debt and helpless. Say that you did not yourself thrust me into that terrible temptation!"
She laid her hand upon his arm and grasped it hard; her eyes searched his to the soul. He smiled—her hand dropped—her countenance fell—and oh! such bitter disappointment broke through her voice.
"It has been the vulture preying on my heart ever since. A word would have torn it away, but you will not take the trouble even to deceive me. You smile, only smile!"
"I only smile at the absurdity of your suspicion."
She looked up eagerly, but with doubt in her face. She panted to believe him, but lacked the necessary faith.
"I asked him to deny this on his death-bed, and he could not!"
"Then he is dead," was the quick rejoinder. "He is dead!"
"Yes, he is dead," she answered in a low voice.
"And the daughter, his heiress?"
"She too is dead!"
He longed to ask another question. His eyes absolutely gleamed with eagerness, but his self-control was wonderful. A direct question might expose the unutterable meanness of his hope. He must obtain what he panted to know by circuitous means.
"And you staid by him to the last?"
She turned upon him a sharp and penetrating look. He felt the whole force of her glance, and assumed an expression well calculated to deceive a much less excitable observer.
"I thought," he said, "that you had been living in retirement. That you left the noble villain without public disgrace. It was a great satisfaction for me to know this."
"I did leave him. I did live in retirement, toiled for my own bread; by wrestling with poverty I strove to win back some portion of content."
"Yet you were with him when he died!"
"It was a mournful death-bed—he sent for me, and I went. Oh! it was a mournful death-bed!"
Tears rolled down her cheeks; she covered her face with both hands.
"I had been the governess of his daughter—her nurse in the last sickness."
"And you lived apart, alone—you and this daughter."
"She died in Florence. We were alone. She was sent home for burial."
"And to be a governess to this young lady you abandoned your own child—only to be governess. Can you say to me, Ada, that it was only to be a governess to this young lady?"
There was feeling in his voice, something of stern dignity—perhaps at the moment he did feel—she thought so, and it gave her hope.
She had not removed her hands; they still covered her face, and a faint murmur only broke through the fingers—oh! what cowards sin makes of us! That poor woman dared not tell the truth—she shrunk from uttering a positive falsehood, hence the humiliating murmur that stole from her pallid lips—the sickening shudder that ran through her frame.
"You do not answer," said the husband, for Leicester was her husband—"you do not answer."
She had gathered courage enough to utter the falsehood, and dropping her hands, replied in a firm voice, disagreeably firm, for the lie cost her proud spirit a terrible effort, and she could not utter it naturally as he would have done.
"Yes, I can answer. It was to be the young lady's governess that I went—only to be her governess!—penniless, abandoned, what else could I do?"
He did not believe her. In his soul he knew that she was not speaking the truth; but there was something yet to learn, and in the end it might be policy to feign a belief which he could not feel.
"So after wasting youth and talent on his daughter—paling your beauty over her death-bed and his—this pitiful man could leave you to poverty and toil. Did he expect that I would receive you again after that suspicious desertion?"
"No, no. The wild thought was mine—you once loved me, William!"
The tears were swelling in her eyes again; few men could have resisted the look of those eyes, the sweet pleading of her voice—for the contrast with her usual imperious pride had something very touching in it.
"You were very beautiful then," he said—"very beautiful."
"And am I so much changed?" she answered, with a smile of gentle sweetness.
In his secret heart he thought the splendid creature handsomer than ever. If the freshness of youth was gone, there was grace, maturity, intellect, everything requisite to the perfection of womanhood, in exchange for the one lost attraction.
It was a part of Leicester's policy to please her until he had mastered all the facts of her position; so he spoke for once sincerely, and in the rich tones that he knew so well how to modulate, he told how superbly her beauty had ripened with time. She blushed like a girl. He could feel even that her hand was glowing with the exquisite pleasure given by his praise. But he had a point to gain—all her loveliness was nothing to him, unless it could be made subservient to his interest. What was her present condition?—had she obtained wealth abroad?—or could she insanely fancy that he would receive her penniless? This was the point that he wished to arrive at, but so far she had evaded it as if unconsciously.
He looked around the room, hoping to draw some conclusion by the objects it contained. The scrutiny was followed by a faint start of surprise; the hard carpet, the bureau, the bed, all were familiar. They had been the little "setting out" that his wife had received from her parents in New England. How came they there, so well kept, so neatly arranged in that high chamber! Was she a governess in some wealthy household, furnishing her own room with the humble articles that had once been their own household goods? He glanced at her dress. It was simple and entirely without ornament; this only strengthened the