malbone stood one morning on the pier behind the house. a two days’ fog was dispersing. the southwest breeze rippled the deep blue water; sailboats, blue, red, and green, were darting about like white-winged butterflies; sloops passed and repassed, cutting the air with the white and slender points of their gaff-topsails. the liberated sunbeams spread and penetrated everywhere, and even came up to play (reflected from the water) beneath the shadowy, overhanging counters of dark vessels. beyond, the atmosphere was still busy in rolling away its vapors, brushing the last gray fringes from the low hills, and leaving over them only the thinnest aerial veil. farther down the bay, the pale tower of the crumbling fort was now shrouded, now revealed, then hung with floating lines of vapor as with banners.
hope came down on the pier to malbone, who was looking at the boats. he saw with surprise that her calm brow was a little clouded, her lips compressed, and her eyes full of tears.
“philip,” she said, abruptly, “do you love me?”
“do you doubt it?” said he, smiling, a little uneasily.
fixing her eyes upon him, she said, more seriously: “there is a more important question, philip. tell me truly, do you care about emilia?”
he started at the words, and looked eagerly in her face for an explanation. her expression only showed the most anxious solicitude.
for one moment the wild impulse came up in his mind to put an entire trust in this truthful woman, and tell her all. then the habit of concealment came back to him, the dull hopelessness of a divided duty, and the impossibility of explanations. how could he justify himself to her when he did not really know himself? so he merely said, “yes.”
“she is your sister,” he added, in an explanatory tone, after a pause; and despised himself for the subterfuge. it is amazing how long a man may be false in action before he ceases to shrink from being false in words.
“philip,” said the unsuspecting hope, “i knew that you cared about her. i have seen you look at her with so much affection; and then again i have seen you look cold and almost stern. she notices it, i am sure she does, this changeableness. but this is not why i ask the question. i think you must have seen something else that i have been observing, and if you care about her, even for my sake, it is enough.”
here philip started, and felt relieved.
“you must be her friend,” continued hope, eagerly. “she has changed her whole manner and habits very fast. blanche ingleside and that set seem to have wholly controlled her, and there is something reckless in all her ways. you are the only person who can help her.”
“how?”
“i do not know how,” said hope, almost impatiently. “you know how. you have wonderful influence. you saved her before, and will do it again. i put her in your hands.”
“what can i do for her?” asked he, with a strange mingling of terror and delight.
“everything,” said she. “if she has your society, she will not care for those people, so much her inferiors in character. devote yourself to her for a time.”
“and leave you?” said philip, hesitatingly.
“anything, anything,” said she. “if i do not see you for a month, i can bear it. only promise me two things. first, that you will go to her this very day. she dines with mrs. ingleside.”
philip agreed.
“then,” said hope, with saddened tones, “you must not say it was i who sent you. indeed you must not. that would spoil all. let her think that your own impulse leads you, and then she will yield. i know emilia enough for that.”
malbone paused, half in ecstasy, half in dismay. were all the events of life combining to ruin or to save him? this young girl, whom he so passionately loved, was she to be thrust back into his arms, and was he to be told to clasp her and be silent? and that by hope, and in the name of duty?
it seemed a strange position, even for him who was so eager for fresh experiences and difficult combinations. at hope’s appeal he was to risk hope’s peace forever; he was to make her sweet sisterly affection its own executioner. in obedience to her love he must revive emilia’s. the tender intercourse which he had been trying to renounce as a crime must be rebaptized as a duty. was ever a man placed, he thought, in a position so inextricable, so disastrous? what could he offer emilia? how could he explain to her his position? he could not even tell her that it was at hope’s command he sought her.
he who is summoned to rescue a drowning man, knowing that he himself may go down with that inevitable clutch around his neck, is placed in some such situation as philip’s. yet hope had appealed to him so simply, had trusted him so nobly! suppose that, by any self-control, or wisdom, or unexpected aid of heaven, he could serve both her and emilia, was it not his duty? what if it should prove that he was right in loving them both, and had only erred when he cursed himself for tampering with their destinies? perhaps, after all, the divine love had been guiding him, and at some appointed signal all these complications were to be cleared, and he and his various loves were somehow to be ingeniously provided for, and all be made happy ever after.
he really grew quite tender and devout over these meditations. phil was not a conceited fellow, by any means, but he had been so often told by women that their love for him had been a blessing to their souls, that he quite acquiesced in being a providential agent in that particular direction. considered as a form of self-sacrifice, it was not without its pleasures.
malbone drove that afternoon to mrs. ingleside’s charming abode, whither a few ladies were wont to resort, and a great many gentlemen. he timed his call between the hours of dining and driving, and made sure that emilia had not yet emerged. two or three equipages beside his own were in waiting at the gate, and gay voices resounded from the house. a servant received him at the door, and taking him for a tardy guest, ushered him at once into the dining-room. he was indifferent to this, for he had been too often sought as a guest by mrs. ingleside to stand on any ceremony beneath her roof.
that fair hostess, in all the beauty of her shoulders, rose to greet him, from a table where six or eight guests yet lingered over flowers and wine. the gentlemen were smoking, and some of the ladies were trying to look at ease with cigarettes. malbone knew the whole company, and greeted them with his accustomed ease. he would not have been embarrassed if they had been the forty thieves. some of them, indeed, were not so far removed from that fabled band, only it was their fortunes, instead of themselves, that lay in the jars of oil.
“you find us all here,” said mrs. ingleside, sweetly. “we will wait till the gentlemen finish their cigars, before driving.”
“count me in, please,” said blanche, in her usual vein of frankness. “unless mamma wishes me to conclude my weed on the avenue. it would be fun, though. fancy the dismay of the frenchmen and the dowagers!”
“and old lambert,” said one of the other girls, delightedly.
“yes,” said blanche. “the elderly party from the rural districts, who talks to us about the domestic virtues of the wife of his youth.”
“thinks women should cruise with a broom at their mast-heads, like admiral somebody in england,” said another damsel, who was rolling a cigarette for a midshipman.
“you see we do not follow the english style,” said the smooth hostess to philip. “ladies retiring after dinner! after all, it is a coarse practice. you agree with me, mr. malbone?”
“speak your mind,” said blanche, coolly. “don’t say yes if you’d rather not. because we find a thing a bore, you’ve no call to say so.”
“i always say,” continued the matron, “that the presence of woman is needed as a refining influence.”
malbone looked round for the refining influences. blanche was tilted back in her chair, with one foot on the rung of the chair before her, resuming a loud-toned discourse with count posen as to his projected work on american society. she was trying to extort a promise that she should appear in its pages, which, as we all remember, she did. one of her attendant nymphs sat leaning her elbows on the table, “talking horse” with a gentleman who had an undoubted professional claim to a knowledge of that commodity. another, having finished her manufactured cigarette, was making the grinning midshipman open his lips wider and wider to receive it. mrs. ingleside was talking in her mincing way with a jew broker, whose english was as imperfect as his morals, and who needed nothing to make him a millionnaire but a turn of bad luck for somebody else. half the men in the room would have felt quite ill at ease in any circle of refined women, but there was not one who did not feel perfectly unembarrassed around mrs. ingleside’s board.
“upon my word,” thought malbone, “i never fancied the english after-dinner practice, any more than did napoleon. but if this goes on, it is the gentlemen who ought to withdraw. cannot somebody lead the way to the drawing-room, and leave the ladies to finish their cigars?”
till now he had hardly dared to look at emilia. he saw with a thrill of love that she was the one person in the room who appeared out of place or ill at ease. she did not glance at him, but held her cigarette in silence and refused to light it. she had boasted to him once of having learned to smoke at school.
“what’s the matter, emmy?” suddenly exclaimed blanche. “are you under a cloud, that you don’t blow one?”
“blanche, blanche,” said her mother, in sweet reproof. “mr. malbone, what shall i do with this wild girl? such a light way of talking! but i can assure you that she is really very fond of the society of intellectual, superior men. i often tell her that they are, after all, her most congenial associates. more so than the young and giddy.”
“you’d better believe it,” said the unabashed damsel. “take notice that whenever i go to a dinner-party i look round for a clergyman to drink wine with.”
“incorrigible!” said the caressing mother. “mr. malbone would hardly imagine you had been bred in a christian land.”
“i have, though,” retorted blanche. “my esteemed parent always accustomed me to give up something during lent,—champagne, or the new york herald, or something.”
the young men roared, and, had time and cosmetics made it possible, mrs. ingleside would have blushed becomingly. after all, the daughter was the better of the two. her bluntness was refreshing beside the mother’s suavity; she had a certain generosity, too, and in a case of real destitution would have lent her best ear-rings to a friend.
by this time malbone had edged himself to emilia’s side. “will you drive with me?” he murmured in an undertone.
she nodded slightly, abruptly, and he withdrew again.
“it seems barbarous,” said he aloud, “to break up the party. but i must claim my promised drive with miss emilia.”
blanche looked up, for once amazed, having heard a different programme arranged. count posen looked up also. but he thought he must have misunderstood emilia’s acceptance of his previous offer to drive her; and as he prided himself even more on his english than on his gallantry, he said no more. it was no great matter. young jones’s dog-cart was at the door, and always opened eagerly its arms to anybody with a title.
