THE Marquise Desmoines had, at the end of the summer, relinquished her abode in Red Lion Square and gone to live in more luxurious quarters further west. Apparently, her experiment of life in London had pleased her, and she meant to have some more of it. She had remained in town during the greater part of the dead season, giving the house furnishers and decorators the benefit of her personal supervision and suggestions. The lady had a genius for rendering her surroundings both comfortable and beautiful: even more, perhaps, than for enjoying the beauty and comfort when they were at her disposal. She appreciated the ease and ornament of life with one side of her nature; but another and dominant side of it was always craving action, employment and excitement, and, as a means to these ends, the companionship and collisions of human beings. Her imagination was vivid, and she was fond of giving it rein, though she seldom lost control of it; but it led her to form schemes and picture forth situations, in mere wantonness of spirit, which, sometimes, her sense of humor or love of adventure prompted her to realize. At the same time, she was very quick to comprehend the logic of facts, and to discriminate between what could and what could not be altered. But it was her belief that one of the most stubborn and operative of facts is the human will, especially the will of a woman like herself; and upon this persuasion much of her career was conditioned.

After her house was finished, and she established in it, and before the return from their wedding-trip of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Lancaster, Perdita spent most of her time in retirement and apparent serenity. She rode on horseback a great deal, and saw very little company. Indoors, she occupied herself ostensibly in arranging flowers and in music. Old Madame Cabot, her respectable and dreary female companion, had seldom known her mistress to be so composed and unenterprising. All the Marquise seemed to want was to be let alone: she had developed a novel passion for meditation. What did she meditate about? To judge by her countenance, of nothing very melancholy. To be sure, although no one could express more by her countenance than the Marquise Desmoines, it was rash to make inferences from it to her mind. It might well be that, had she wished to indulge in lugubrious thoughts, she was not without means of doing so. She had been in contact with some tragic experiences of late: and her entrance upon the estate of widowhood had placed her at a turning point in the path of existence; a place where one must needs pause, to review what is past and to conjecture or to plan what may be to come. Such periods are seldom altogether cheerful to those who have passed the flush of their youth. It cannot be denied, moreover, that Perdita had undergone an unusual moral stimulus at the time when she and Marion met over the murdered body of Charles Grantley; and that stimulus had been followed by consequences. But did it mark a permanent new departure? For a character like Perdita’s was anything permanent except the conflicting and powerful elements whereof the character itself was composed? Were evil and good anything more to her than different ways of keeping alive the interest of life? Whoever is virtuous, whoever is wicked in this world, still the balance of wickedness and virtue will remain broadly the same. The individual varies, the human race continues unaltered. We grow and act as nature and circumstances determine; and sometimes circumstances are the stronger, sometimes nature.

There were phases of Perdita’s inward existence with which Madame Cabot was probably unacquainted. The Marquise wanted several things, and would not be at rest until she got them: and, by that time, new objects of desire would arise. It may be that she had not defined to herself exactly what she wanted, or that she merely wanted to achieve a certain mental or moral situation and sensation, and was indifferent by what methods she achieved it. The truth is, a woman like Perdita is as dangerous as fire—resembles fire in her capacities both for benefit and mischief. And if Madame Cabot could have beheld her at certain times, in the solitude of her room, pacing up and down the floor, with her hands behind her back; or cutting a sheet of paper into shreds with a sharp pair of scissors; or lying at full length upon the cushions of a lounge, with her hands clasped behind her head, her white throat exposed, and her dark eyes roving restlessly hither and thither; or springing up to examine herself minutely in the looking-glass; or talking to herself in a low, rapid tone, with interspersed smiles and frowns;—if Madame Cabot could have seen all this, she might have doubted whether, after all, the Marquise was going to settle down into an uneventful, humdrum existence.

The party at Lady Flanders’ was Perdita’s first prominent appearance in London society, and it seemed also to introduce a change in her mood. She was now less inclined to shut herself up alone, more talkative and vivacious than she had latterly been. She kept Madame Cabot in constant employment, though about nothing in particular, and addressed to her all manner of remarks and inquiries, of many of which the dreary old lady could not divine the drift, and almost fancied, at times, that the Marquise must imagine her to be some one else; especially as Perdita had more than once exclaimed, “But after all you are not a man!” One afternoon, when Perdita had been in exceptionally good spirits, the servant announced Mr. Merton Fillmore.

“Mr. Fillmore?” she repeated. “Well, ... let him be admitted.”

He had already called upon her several times, always with more or less reference to business matters, and there was a fair degree of familiarity between them. Perdita had not been insensible to the keenness and virility of his mind and the cultivation of his taste; and for this and other reasons she was disposed to have a liking for him. As he entered the room she rose to receive him, with a smile that might have conferred distinction on a night-watchman. Fillmore, on his part, seemed also in a very genial frame of mind, and they began to chat together most pleasantly.

“Now, I hope you have not come about any business,” said the Marquise, after they had touched upon Lady Flanders and kindred topics.

“You are not in a business humor?”

“I don’t like business to be my rival.”

“Do you regard as a rival the key that opens the door to you?”

“Sir, I disapprove of keys altogether. If my door is closed, no key can open it; and if it is open....” She made a gesture with her hand.

“I shall take you at your word,” said Fillmore quietly, after he had looked at her for a moment. There was something in his tone that conveyed more than any amount of conventional thanks and compliments. “As for business,” he continued, “you have already put that away from you by force and violence.”

Perdita laughed. “I have behaved like a fool, haven’t I?”

“That is what people would say.”

“What do you say?”

“I think you were wise.”

“Not even generous?”

“To be generous, one must sacrifice something.”

“Well?”

“It is true you have sacrificed your curiosity.”

Perdita laughed again. “And that is wise rather than generous, you think? But my curiosity might come to life again some day. By the way, have you any news of Sir Francis?”

“People say of him that ‘he will never be himself again.’ Perhaps that would not be a very hard saying for the best of us. But Bendibow is certainly suffering. He looks old and haggard, and his mind seems out of poise. He is living at his Twickenham place: I have seen him only twice. ’Tis impossible to lift him out of his mood: you cannot fix his attention. I wished to make him agree to the appointment of some capable man to take charge of the bank, but he would listen to nothing. The servants say he is constantly muttering to himself, when he fancies he is alone.”

“Can Sir Francis Bendibow go mad because his son is dead?” interrupted Perdita, leaning back on the sofa and looking at Fillmore with eyes half closed.

“He was very fond of the boy,” replied Fillmore, after a pause: “and possibly the circumstances may have been more disturbing than is generally supposed. ’Tis said that he manifests some peculiarities—” he checked himself.

“Go on!” said Perdita. “My imagination is worse than my curiosity.”

“He disappears, for several hours at a time, generally after dark, without mentioning where he is going.”

“So you consider me wise in not sending for the packet, and opening it?”

“Why should you?”

“If I should, some time, would you advise me?”

“I would rather not.”

“By-the-way, talking of the packet, how are our friends the Lancasters getting on?”

“Rather brilliantly, I should judge. Mrs. Lancaster, especially, seems to accept her changed circumstances very cordially.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Perdita, manifesting interest. “She was reluctant enough at first.”

“She has a singular character; not easy to fathom. Mr. Grantley probably understood her better than most people. She may have been unwilling that her husband should appear to be dependent on her. At all events, they are making preparations for a fashionable appearance in society: Lancaster’s success is assured already; and for aught I know, his wife may have it in her to make an even greater success than he.”

“What are they doing?”

“I understand they have rented a house in a desirable quarter; some additions are to be built to it, and alterations made; and then it will be furnished as taste and Providence may permit. Meanwhile, as of course you are aware, ‘Iduna’ continues to sell new editions, and all the omens are propitious.”

“What do you think of ‘Iduna’?” asked Perdita carelessly.

“It is strong—too strong, I should fancy, for a bridegroom.”

“More knowledge of love than a bachelor had a right to have—is that what you mean?” inquired Perdita, arching her brows.

“There is such a thing as understanding a passion too clearly to feel it,” Fillmore answered. “You may take up a matter either intellectually or emotionally, but you will seldom be equally strong in both directions.”

“But the pleasure of emotion is only in feeling. It is blind. Intellect is sight. Sight often makes sensation more pleasurable.”

“A man who is in love, madame, wishes to do something more than to enjoy his own sensations; he wishes to have them shared by the lady of his choice. To insure that he must, at least, love with all his strength. And, as a matter of experience, there is little evidence to show that the best poets of love have also been the best lovers. They filter their hearts through their heads, so to speak; they imagine more than they can personally realize. There is Byron, for instance—”

“Yes; I saw him in Italy: he is an actor, who always plays one rÔle—Byron! But he is not like others. A poet of love ... if he is not a good lover, it may be because he never happens to meet a woman lovable enough. But when he does meet her ... it would be heaven for them both!” The Marquise seldom spoke with so much fervor and earnestness.

Fillmore looked at her intently, and his ordinarily unimpassioned face slowly reddened. He pressed one clenched hand strongly into the palm of the other.

“I have one argument,” he said, “to prove that poets are not the best lovers.”

“Arguments don’t always convince me. What is it?”

“I am no poet myself.”

“Is that your argument?” demanded Perdita after a moment.

“Yes.”

“How would you apply it?”

Fillmore, for once, hesitated. A great deal depended, for him, on what he might say next. Perdita was looking extremely lovely, yet she had not precisely the kind of expression that he would have wished her to have at this moment. But the man had made up his mind, long ago, as to what he intended to do, and he reflected that the mood of the moment would not make much difference in the long run. Success in his project was either possible, or it was not: but at all events, a temporary rebuff, should that happen, was not going to discourage him. So he manned himself, and said, quietly and firmly:

“Though I am no poet, no poet could love you more than I do.”

Perdita was perfectly still for a moment; not a nerve vibrated. She was instantly aware that she would on no account accept Fillmore’s offer; but it had been entirely unexpected, and she wished to give the surprise an opportunity to define its quality. It seemed to her not altogether disagreeable, simply as a betrayal of Fillmore’s state of mind toward her. She was pleased to have won the love of a man of his calibre; and she had the good sense, or discernment, to perceive that he loved her for herself, and not for any extrinsic advantage that the possession of her might afford him. She also saw that he was intensely in earnest. A less self-confident and victorious woman might have felt some consternation at the prospect of conflict which the situation contained: but Perdita, on the contrary, felt only exhilaration.

“When we first met,” she said at length, “you remarked that I would make a good lawyer. You understood me better then than you seem to do now.”

Fillmore shook his head.

“I might make a good lawyer,” Perdita continued, “but I should make a very bad lawyer’s wife.”

“I am a man, as well as a lawyer,” said Fillmore, bending a strong look upon her.

“And a gentleman, as well as a man,” she added with a gracious smile. “In fact, sir, if you were less agreeable, I might love you; but as it is, I like you and enjoy your society much too well for that. I would rather hate you than love you: and as for marrying you—pardon me for being the first to speak the word, but widows have privileges—I would rather love you and have you jilt me!”

There was a certain delicate comicality in Perdita’s way of saying this, which, though it implied no slight to Fillmore, was more disheartening than the most emphatic and serious “No” would have been.

“I had been flattering myself with the idea that you looked upon me more as if I were a man than a woman,” she continued. “Any one can fall in love with a pretty woman; and there is less distinction in being loved by a man like you, than in having you treat me as a friend and an equal—if you would do that!”

“You are the only woman who has ever been a woman for me,” replied Fillmore, with passion. “The love both of my youth and of my manhood is yours. I will do anything to win you, I will never give you up.”

“Oh, I can easily make you give me up,” said Perdita with a sigh.

“How?”

“By letting you know me better.”

“You do not know me!” he exclaimed.

“I shall always love some one else better than you.”

“Who?” demanded he, turning pale.

“Myself!” said Perdita with a laugh.

“You can be my wife, nevertheless.”

“That I never will,” she said, looking him in the face.

He rose from his chair. “I will never give you up,” he repeated. “I will go now. You will let me come again?”

“As often as you like: I am not afraid of you,” was her answer.

Fillmore bowed and turned away. She had had the advantage so far. But he loved her thrice as much as he had done before, and he had never suffered defeat in anything he had undertaken. She neither loved him nor feared him?—But she could be his wife, nevertheless; and he would do anything to win her.