at once.
But, when he was gone, she had fits of weeping, and could settle to nothing for a long time.
Months had elapsed, and she was getting a sort of dull tranquillity, when, one evening, taking a walk she had often with him, and mourning her solitude and wasted affection, he waylaid her, and clung to her knees, and shed crocodile tears on her hands, and, after a long resistance, violent at first, but fainter and fainter, got her in his power again, and that so completely that she met him several times by night, being ashamed to be seen with him in those parts by day.
This ended in fresh promises of marriage, and in a constant correspondence by letter. This pest knew exactly how to talk to a woman, and how to write to one. His letters fed the unhappy flame; and, mind you, he sometimes deceived himself, and thought he loved her; but it was only himself he loved. She was an invaluable lover; a faithful, disinterested friend; hers was a vile bargain; his, an excellent one, and he clung to it.
And so they went on. She detected him in another infidelity, and reproached him bitterly; but she had no longer the strength to break with him. Nevertheless, this time she had the sense to make a struggle. She implored him, on her very knees, to show her a little mercy in return for all her love. “For pity's sake, leave me!” she cried. “You are strong, and I am weak. You can end it forever, and pray do. You don't want me; you don't value me: then, leave me, once and for all, and end this hell you keep me in.”
No; he could not, or he would not, leave her alone. Look at a bird's wings!—how like an angel's! Yet so vile a thing as a bit of birdlime subdues them utterly; and such was the fascinating power of this mean man over this worthy woman. She was a reader, a thinker, a model of respectability, industry, and sense; a businesswoman, keen and practical; could encounter sharp hands in sharp trades; could buy or sell hogs, calves, or beasts with any farmer or butcher in the country, yet no match for a cunning fool. She had enshrined an idol in her heart, and that heart adored it, and clung to it, though the superior head saw through it, dreaded it, despised it.
No wonder three years of this had drawn a tell-tale wrinkle across the polished brow.
Phoebe Dale had not received a letter for some days; that roused her suspicion and stung her jealousy; she came up to London by fast train, and down to Gravesend directly.
She had a thick veil that concealed her features; and with a little inquiring and bribing, she soon found out that Mr. Falcon was there with a showy dogcart. “Ah!” thought Phoebe, “he has won a little money at play or pigeon-shooting; so now he has no need of me.”
She took the lodgings opposite him, but observed nothing till this very morning, when she saw him throw off his dressing-gown all in a hurry and fling on his coat. She tied on her bonnet as rapidly, and followed him, until she discovered the object of his pursuit. It was a surprise to her, and a puzzle, to see another man step in, as if to take her part. But as Reginald still followed the loitering pair, she followed Reginald, till he turned and found her at his heels, white and lowering.
She confronted him in threatening silence for some time, during which he prepared his defence.
“So it is a LADY this time,” said she, in her low, rich voice, sternly.
“Is it?”
“Yes, and I should say she is bespoke—that tall, fine-built gentleman. But I suppose you care no more for his feelings than you do for mine.”
“Phoebe,” said the egotist, “I will not try to deceive you. You have often said you are my true friend.”
“And I think I have proved it.”
“That you have. Well, then, be my true friend now. I am in love—really in love—this time. You and I only torment each other; let us part friends. There are plenty of farmers in Essex that would jump at you. As for me, I'll tell you the truth; I have run through every farthing; my estate mortgaged beyond its value—two or three writs out against me—that is why I slipped down here. My only chance is to marry Money. Her father knows I have land, and he knows nothing about the mortgages; she is his only daughter. Don't stand in my way, that is a good girl; be my friend, as you always were. Hang it all, Phoebe, can't you say a word to a fellow that is driven into a corner, instead of glaring at me like that? There! I know it is ungrateful; but what can a fellow do? I must live like a gentleman or else take a dose of prussic acid; you don't want to drive me to that. Why, you proposed to part, last time, yourself.”
She gave him one majestic, indescribable look, that made even his callous heart quiver, and turned away.
Then the scamp admired her for despising him, and could not bear to lose her. He followed her, and put forth all those powers of persuading and soothing, which had so often proved irresistible. But this time it was in vain. The insult was too savage, and his egotism too brutal, for honeyed phrases to blind her.
After enduring it a long time with a silent shudder, she turned and shook him fiercely off her like some poisonous reptile.
“Do you want me to kill you? I'd liever kill myself for loving such a thing as THOU. Go thy ways, man, and let me go mine.” In her passion she dropped her cultivation for once, and went back to the THOU and THEE of her grandam.
He colored up and looked spiteful enough; but he soon recovered his cynical egotism, and went off whistling an operatic passage.
She crept to her lodgings, and buried her face in her pillow, and rocked herself to and fro for hours in the bitterest agony the heart can feel, groaning over her great affection wasted, flung into the dirt.
While she was thus, she heard a little commotion. She came to the window and saw Falcon, exquisitely dressed, drive off in his dogcart, attended by the acclamations of eight boys. She saw at a glance he was gone courting; her knees gave way under her, and, such is the power of the mind, this stalwart girl lay weak as water on the sofa, and had not the power to go home, though just then she had but one wish, one hope—to see her idol's face no more, nor hear his wheedling tongue, that had ruined her peace.
The exquisite Mr. Falcon was received by Rosa Lusignan with a certain tremor that flattered his hopes. He told her, in charming language, how he had admired her at first sight, then esteemed her, then loved her.
She blushed and panted, and showed more than once a desire to interrupt him, but was too polite. She heard him out with rising dismay, and he offered her his hand and heart.
But by this time she had made up her mind what to say. “O Mr. Falcon!” she cried, “how can you speak to me in this way? Why, I am engaged. Didn't you know?”
“No; I am sure you are not, or you would never have given me the encouragement you have.”
“Oh, all engaged young ladies flirt—a little; and everybody here knows I am engaged to Dr. Staines.”
“Why, I never saw him here.”
Rosa's tact was a quality that came and went; so she blushed, and faltered out, “We had a little tiff, as lovers will.”
“And you did me the honor to select me as cat's-paw to bring him on again. Was not that rather heartless?”
Rosa's fitful tact returned to her.
“Oh, sir, do not think so ill of me. I am not heartless, I am only unwise; and you are so superior to the people about you; I could not help appreciating you, and I thought you
