WHEN the Marquise Desmoines received from Fillmore a letter announcing that the defendants in the case of Desmoines vs. Lancaster declined to defend, she uttered a sharp cry, and dropped the letter as if it had been poisonous. That strange sense of justice—of what is fairly due to one as a human being—which is perhaps the last thing to die out of even the least deserving of God’s creatures, told her heart that she had been outraged. All things had slipped away from her. Despite all her powers, and her desperate yearning to exercise them, she was powerless. There could scarcely be, for her, a keener suffering. With some natures, the very intensity of anguish is its own partial antidote; the faculties are so far stunned as to be unable, for a time, to gauge the poignancy of the disaster. But Perdita’s clear and vigorous intellect would not permit her such an escape. She immediately saw her position in all its bearings and prospects. Her mind shed a pitiless light upon every aspect of her defeat and humiliation. Something vital within her seemed to gasp and die.

After a long, breathless pause, she took up the letter again, and read it to the end. It contained a request on the part of the writer to be allowed to call on her at a certain hour that evening. It was not difficult to see what that meant. She had made the surrender of herself to Fillmore contingent upon his recovery of the legacy: and he was coming to claim the fulfillment of her promise. She would be called on to play the part of a complaisant fiancÉe. At this picture, Perdita laughed; and then, setting her teeth with rage, tore the paper into fragments. Such rage is deadly. Had Fillmore been present, his fiancÉe would have attempted his life. And yet it was not he that could enrage her: nothing that he could have done could have affected one pulsation of her heart. She had passed into a region of emotion almost infinitely more intense than any with which he could be connected. But, as sometimes a woman will kiss a child or a dog, thinking “this kiss is for my lover!” so might Perdita have driven a dagger to Fillmore’s heart, and said, “Be Philip and die!”

She looked at her hands: how white and fine they were,—how beautifully formed! She rose and walked to and fro in the room; every movement was grace and elasticity,—the harmonious play of parts exquisitely fashioned and proportioned. She paused before the looking-glass, and contemplated the form and features imaged there. She drew out her comb, and shook down on her shoulders a soft depth of bright-hued hair. She loosened the front of her dress, and exposed a bosom white as milk and curved like the bowl of Ganymede, save for the slight indentation of a scar, on the right breast. She gazed into the sparkling reflection of her eyes, as if some mystery were hidden there. “I have seen no woman more beautiful than you,” she said aloud. “What is the use of beauty? Why was I born?”

She returned to her chair, and threw herself in it sidewise, as a child might do, with her cheek resting against the back, one knee drawn up, her hands folded, her eyelids closed. As she lay thus she looked like a type of lovely and innocent weariness. “Why was I born?” she repeated in a whisper. Her thoughts strayed back along the vista of her seven and twenty years: from the distance she saw the figure of a little girl, with bright hair and laughing eyes, come tripping onwards, inquisitive, observant, quick-witted, stout-hearted; fond of her own way, and ready to take her own part; but good-humored always and tolerant of others. Onward comes the child, growing taller as it advances, beginning now to realize its loneliness in the world, sometimes meditating gravely thereon, but never losing courage; beginning also to realize its own superior gifts, and exercising them experimentally, for the pleasure of the use, and not always with too much heed for the effect on others. Still forward she comes, with a step somewhat less frolicsome, with eyes that look more penetratingly ... a mind that harbors ambitious thoughts; a face that can conceal as well as express; a confidence in herself and in her fortune: worldly wisdom already, at seventeen years. That great, broad book of the world—of human life and character—with its profundity, its insanity, its pathos, its absurdity, its veins of good, its masses of evil,—the girl Perdita has studied it all, and no mother no loving friend, has been beside her, to direct her studies, to interpret her discoveries, to correct her errors.... Who is this antique figure who now walks beside her, to whose formal and laborious gait she endeavors to accommodate her own: this gray-haired man of more than thrice her age, with his habits, his prejudices, his limitations, his ailments? Is this her husband?—the lord and master of that brilliant, buoyant creature? Ah, Perdita, are you his wife? Do you love him, honor him, obey him? Are he and his possessions the final embodiment and satisfaction of your ambitious dreams? Can you do without love—you, who have never tried what love is? It is ill being prudent before experience, and wise before instruction. Why are your lips so persuasive, your eyes so winning, your touch so caressing?—Why are you so lovely, Perdita?... Why were you born?

But still the young wife passes onward, with little misgiving and less regret. There is a great deal of splendor and luxury around her, and she easily makes herself their nucleus and culmination. Famous men pay court to her; wise men listen to her conversation; women criticise and try to imitate her. In the brilliant society of her day and place she is a figure and a topic. Musicians dedicate their compositions to her; poets immortalize her in their rhymes of a season. She is the heroine of a hundred anecdotes, but of not a single romance: very intrepid and adventurous, but with the coldness as well as the sparkle of ice. “Can’t make her out,” said Lord Fitz Hardinge, who was said to have come to Paris especially to be presented to her. “Don’t see how she keeps it up—a woman of her complexion, too. Egad! I have it! The Marquis must be Cupid in disguise!” This mot was repeated until it reached Perdita’s ears. “A woman’s complexion changes with her company,” she said; “and as to the Marquis, my husband, it is better to be a disguised Cupid than a make-believe one.” As his Lordship’s excesses had somewhat worn upon his constitution, this shaft struck deep and resisted all efforts to extract it. People seldom attacked the Marquise Desmoines more than once.

Meanwhile, Perdita is still sitting in the same position in her chair, one knee drawn up, her hands clasped and her eyelids closed. What vision does she behold now? A handsome room, with polished floor, the walls bright with pictured panels bordered with gold; candles set in burnished sconces: the door opens and her husband enters, leaning on the arm of a tall young man. The stranger is plainly dressed, but his form and bearing are noble: and his face, relieved by the black hair around it, prints itself on her mind, never to be forgotten—so intense and vivid does it seem with life and meaning, yet so composed and clear. A new feeling, strange and sweet, creeps in gentle undulations along Perdita’s nerves, and settles in her heart. He sits beside her, and they converse, easily and with mutual pleasure and comprehension; his voice, grave and genial, makes music in her ears; his dark direct glance meets hers—absorbs and mingles with it. She draws fuller breath; this atmosphere, in which she has never lived before, gives her for the first time real life: she understands what she is, and what is possible for her. The Enchanted Prince has awakened the Sleeping Beauty.

The days that follow are like no other days, before or since. He is a poet, but what poetry ever equaled their companionship? The world, with its follies, its emptiness, its formulas, its delusions, seems to stand aside to let them pass.... One day they have ridden out with a cavalcade, bound on an expedition of pleasure to some distant chateau. Riding onward, she and he, and drawn insensibly together, they pass fleetly along woodland paths, through dancing shade and sunlight, leaving the others behind, or in advance, perhaps; they have little thought but of each other. Light is Perdita’s heart; no shadow has darkened it since that first meeting. The passing moments have filled the capacity of sensation, leaving no room for reflection or forecast; she has never even said to herself, “This is friendship,” or “This is love;” enough that it is delight, growth, harmony, beauty: that it lets her know how sweet it is to be a woman. At last, as they ride on, the pinnacles of the chateau taper upward above the trees; anon, before them opens a sweep of lawn, which they cross, and alight at the broad steps that lead up to the door. They are the first to arrive; for half an hour, perhaps, they will have the house to themselves, save for the servants who are preparing the collation below-stairs.

They stroll through the airy rooms, with merry and gentle talk, until at length they enter a hall where, over the chimney-piece, is suspended a pair of antique rapiers. Perdita takes down one of these, and putting herself in posture of offense, bids her companion take the other and defend himself. He complies, and, for a few moments, laughingly parries and pretends to return her thrusts. All at once, as she presses him, his foot slips on the polished floor, and ere he can recover himself he feels his point touch her breast....

At this point of the vision, Perdita slightly changes her position in her chair, and a flush reddens her cheek. She breathes unevenly and her lips move. Ah, that summer noon, so distant now, when she found herself resting in his arms, her riding-habit stained with red blood—his face, his voice, so near, so tender: his touch so gentle! She had looked into his eyes, and laughed softly, in mere joy. Blessed sword! that by drawing her blood had revealed their hearts to each other. But ah! why was the wound not mortal? Was not the wound that it symbolized so? Why had she not died during those few minutes—too few—that had gone by before the sound of voices and horses’ hoofs announced the arrival of the party? Had anything that had happened since been worth the trouble of living through it? True, she had hoped; but hope is but the mask of despair, sooner or later to be cast aside. Before her wound was healed, the love which it had discovered had withdrawn itself, never to return. There had been some talk about honor, obligation, duty, prudence—to which she had assented with her lips, while all the rest of her rebelled; for it had not been sin that she contemplated, but only to let her heart love and be loved. Then, a farewell: and afterward a dreary blankness, amidst which she moved hardened, witty, cynical, unreconciled, until these latter days, which were bitterer and more disastrous than the first. Why was she born?

Enough of visions! Perdita rose to her feet, and gazed about her. Luxury and beauty surrounded her, as they had always done; but the darkness and wilderness that were within her turned all to ugliness and mockery. There was a terrible simplicity in her situation; a fatal lack of resources and alternatives. She walked across the room: something seemed to tread behind her; she turned quickly, but nothing was there. The sense of being dogged—pursued—still remained however. What was it?—fate? She smiled; then shivered nervously, and stood twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. Fate.... The idea fascinated her. Was her fate so near? and what was it like? Let it appear and declare itself! After a while she began to walk again, but now meditating profoundly. Once she stopped before the fire, and gazed fixedly at the burning coals: then moved away once more, not pacing up and down, but wandering irregularly about the room, knotting and untying her handkerchief; sometimes, in her pre-occupation, almost stumbling against a chair or table. Meanwhile, her usually varying expression had assumed a certain fixedness, and there was a vertical wrinkle between her brows, which seemed not to be caused by drawing her brows together, but to have marked itself there by some other means.

At last she stopped, passing her hands across her eyes and over her hair, which she seemed surprised to find hanging about her shoulders. She twisted it up into place again, adjusted her dress, and after pausing a moment as if to recover the thread of her thoughts, went to a cabinet at the side of the room, and looked attentively at the objects which it contained. They were mostly curiosities and works of art, such as a carved ivory cup, a box of Indian enamel, a vase of Venetian glass, figures in Dresden porcelain, a Chinese idol of silver, an antique locket of wrought gold. From among these objects Perdita selected a small, quaintly-fashioned lamp of pure crystal; it was of Persian manufacture, and bore some figures or letters of enigmatic purport, perhaps having reference to the tenets of the ancient fire-worshippers. She examined this lamp curiously, wiping away the dust with her handkerchief, and assuring herself that it contained no crack or imperfection. Finally she placed it upon the table near the fire; and having rung the bell, bade the servant summon Madame Cabot.

“Madame,” said the Marquise, when the old lady appeared, “I am expecting some one to call here this evening,—Monsieur Fillmore.”

“Yes, Madame la Marquise.”

“I wish you to lay out the black satin gown, and the diamonds,—you understand?”

“Yes, Madame la Marquise.”

“I am going out now,—alone: I shall not need your company. If any one calls in the meantime, say I shall not return until to-morrow. At no time to-day is any one to be admitted except Monsieur Fillmore: he will arrive about seven o’clock. Will you attend to this?”

“Certainly, Madame la Marquise. Will Madame dine at the usual hour?”

“No; you will dine by yourself to-day. That is all.”

“Au revoir, Madame la Marquise.”

The old lady courtesyed and went out. Perdita sat down at her desk and wrote several letters, which she locked up in a drawer. Her dejection seemed to have been lightened: her demeanor was grave, but not oppressed or unnatural. Occasionally she would fall into revery for a few minutes, but the abstraction was not painful, and was easily cast aside. In the course of an hour or so she closed her desk, and going to her room, put on a dark pelisse and veiled bonnet, and went out. The sky was overcast, and the air cold; but there was neither rain nor wind. The streets were full of people, and the shops were doing a thriving trade in Christmas goods. Perdita mingled with the crowd, and seemed to take pleasure in observing them: in gazing into the shop windows, shoulder to shoulder with them: in listening to the confused noise of voices, tramping feet, and rattling wheels. On the Strand she happened to notice four ragged children flattening their noses against the glass of a candy-shop. “I choose this,” said one little girl “Oh! I choose this!” said another, in the pride of superior discernment. “Don’t yer wish yer may git it?” remarked a boy, the eldest of the party, with gloomy cynicism. “Come in here, youngsters,” said Perdita; “you shall have all the candy you want!” With the matter-of-course acceptance of miracles characteristic of children, they followed her into the shop, and presently came forth again with candy enough to last them for a week. None of them thanked her, any more than we thank the sun for shining through a break in the clouds—the supposition being that the sun is made for that purpose. But Perdita was not in need of gratitude. She wanted to feel the actual contact of human creatures for a few hours, and that was all. Resuming her walk, she passed through St. Paul’s churchyard, and along Cheapside, where she entered a shop and made one or two purchases on her own account. Thence she turned in a southerly direction, and presently came in sight of London Bridge. It was a quaint, narrow, high-backed structure, with jutting piers, affording spaces for venders of apples and other cheap merchandise to set up their little stalls. The bridge was roaring with vehicles and crowded with foot-passengers; there was no noisier or more populous place in London. There was a high balustrade on each side; but by stepping upon one of the semicircular stone seats over the piers, it was possible to look over at the broad stream beneath. Perdita did this, and remained for a long time, absorbed by the spectacle. The brown river, rushing at the arches of the bridge, fell through them in boiling cataracts, with a sound that was audible over the tumult of the vehicles and the foot-passengers above. On either bank, the wharves were thronged with shipping—straight masts and cobweb cordage, dense as primeval forests. Black chimneys belched forth blacker smoke, which trailed and brooded over the city: huge, ugly buildings of stone or brick looked down into the dark water. Millions of human beings had done all this: millions of human beings lived and moved here, labored and hungered, fought and conquered, struggled and succumbed, were born and died. Here was the centre and concentration of the human race, the culmination of the history of five thousand years; and what a gloomy, dirty, toiling, roaring, sordid Babel it was! And yet, what a strong charm and attraction! We battle and shout and hope in the face of death; we know that our hopes are vain and that death is sure; we know that life is weariness and that death is rest; we bury our parents and know that our children shall bury us; and still generation succeeds generation—appears and disappears—and each maintains the turmoil with as much energy and earnestness as if to it alone belonged not the present only, but likewise the future and the past. Earthly life, the oldest of all deceivers, the mightiest of all hypocrites, exposed and condemned at each passing moment of recorded time—by what spell does it still retain its mastery over us? Does it inspire the wish to be cheated that it gratifies? or is there something behind—within it—some reality whereof it is but the symbol, which leads us onward to another goal than that we aimed at,—a goal which, were it revealed to us, we never should attain?

Chilled by long contact with the stone parapet, Perdita stepped down from her perch, and returned along the bridge. In one of the narrow streets leading toward Cheapside, she noticed a small inn or ordinary, where a card nailed to the door-post announced that a dinner was to be had inside at a cheap rate. Perdita entered; the place was low and dark, and was tolerably full of customers, most of whom were seated at opposite sides of the little oblong tables projecting at right angles from the walls. A man, seeing Perdita stand there, made room for her beside him. He wore a dirty fur cap and a topcoat of coarse cloth; had a bold, not unhandsome face, and powerful but by no means clean hands. A plate full of some sort of food was put before Perdita, and she began to eat. The man who had nearly finished his dinner, now called for a pot of ale; and having glanced at Perdita once or twice, he addressed her:

“Say, my dear, you’re a good-looking gal, do you know that?”

“Yes,” said Perdita, “other men have told me so.”

“What’s your name?”

“Perdita.”

“Perdita? Rum name, that! What’s your lay?”

“Nothing, in particular.”

“Flush, eh? Made a haul?”

Perdita nodded.

“Hello! you,” said the man, raising his voice, “fetch ’arf a pint for this lady.”

The ale was brought, and Perdita raised it to her lips, saying, “Here’s your health!”

“Same to you, my dear,” said the man, taking a gulp from his pewter. “By G——! you’re one of the right sort. Do you know who I am?”

Perdita looked at him. “You’re a stout fellow,” she said; “you look as if you could take your own part. Are you a highwayman?”

“Easy! none of that!” exclaimed the man, in a low tone, catching her by the shoulder. Perdita eyed him composedly, and he presently relinquished his grasp, and chuckled. “All right,” he said, “I see you know a thing or two. Now, look here. I ain’t got no mort. What do you say—shall we strike hands? You and me together can do good business. What do you say?”

“What do you mean by mort?”

“Come, now? Walker! Well, wife, if you like.”

“Do you mean that you’ll marry me?”

“As sure as my name’s—what it is!” said the man.

“Will you take care of me, and beat any man who insults me?”

“Yes, I will!”

“I have a great mind to let you marry me,” said Perdita, after a pause. “You’d be as good as anybody else, and perhaps better. But I’ve been married once, and I don’t think I shall ever marry again. I’m going to do something else.”

“What?”

“That’s no business of yours.”

“Can’t yer marry me and do that, too?”

“No.”

“Well, look here! Think it over. I’ve got money, and I can make things easy for you. You’ll find me here to-morrow. I ain’t often met the woman I’d take to as quick as I would to you. Think it over. You ain’t got any other chap in your eye, have yer?”

“I’ll promise you this much,” said Perdita; “if I don’t marry you, I’ll marry no one else.”

“And will you be here to-morrow?”

“If I’m alive.”

“That’s hearty! Well, good-by, my dear, if you must go. Give us a kiss, won’t yer?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fond of yer.”

“Truly?”

“Honor bright!”

“You may kiss me,” said Perdita; and when he had done so, she added, “You have done what no other man will ever do. Good-bye!”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When the Marquise reached home, it was after five o’clock. In the dressing-room she found Madame Cabot; the black satin dress was laid out on the sofa, and the diamonds were on the dressing-table. The Marquise performed her toilet carefully, and when it was completed, she scrutinized her appearance with unusual deliberation. “Do I look well, Madame Cabot?” she asked at length.

“I have never seen Madame la Marquise look more beautiful.”

Perdita smiled. “Well, I have need to look beautiful to-night. The gentleman whom I expect to-night—Monsieur Fillmore—is coming to claim my promise to marry him. A woman should appear beautiful in the eyes of her bridegroom, should she not, Madame Cabot?”

“Without doubt! Madame la Marquise is then resolved to marry?”

“I have resolved to change my condition,” said Perdita. “I am tired of this lonely life, and am going to make an end of it.”

“May Madame enjoy every happiness!”

“I don’t think of that—I don’t expect it!” said the Marquise, after a pause. “After my experience, Madame Cabot, I should be a fool to look forward to happiness, either in this state or in any other. But it will be a change, at least: a great change!” She added, after a moment, “I have spoken to you of this, because, when the change comes, I shall not any longer need your services. You have been comfortable with me, I hope, madame?”

“It will be a great grief to me to leave Madame le Marquise.”

The Marquise seemed gratified. “You will be able to make yourself comfortable in your own way, hereafter,” she said. “I have arranged that you shall want for nothing in the future.... Well, you may leave me now. Remember that no one is to be admitted but Monsieur Fillmore; and that I am not to be disturbed till he comes.”

“I shall not forget, Madame.”

“Good-night.”

“Good-night, Madame la Marquise, and much felicity!”

Perdita went into her boudoir and locked the door. The candles were lighted, the fire was burning cheerfully, everything was warm and luxurious. Perdita held in her hands a large vial containing a colorless fluid, and something done up in a piece of paper. These she placed on the table, beside the crystal Persian lamp, which has already been mentioned. She drew a chair to the table, and seating herself in it, unfolded the paper, which proved to contain a small wick. This she inserted in the lamp, and then filled the lamp full of the colorless fluid from the vial. Finally, she lit the wick from one of the candles. It burned with a pale bluish flame, emitting, however, an intense heat.

After contemplating this flame awhile, and testing its ardor by passing her hand over it, Perdita rose up nervously, and glanced around her. She had suddenly grown very pale, and her eyes looked black. Her lips also were white, and for a moment they trembled; but only for a moment. She held herself erect, and raised her head, looking straight before her across the table, as if at some one who stood on the other side. Her expression, at first, was haughty; but gradually it softened, and at last became exquisitely tender and gentle. Her bosom rose and fell with a long sigh....

She raised her hands, and clasped them firmly over her eyes. She stooped quickly down, until her lips almost touched the bluish flame of the lamp, at the same instant drawing in a sharp, deep breath, that made the flame leap far down her throat. She tried to do it a second time, but only partially succeeded. She reeled backward, uttering no sound, and fell, as she had wished to do, on the sofa. A few convulsive movements shook her, and then she lay still, her head thrown back, and her eyes half closed. Her position had not altered by a hair’s breadth when, an hour later, the door was broken open, and Fillmore came in.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Perdita’s death was known to many persons in London that same night; but the news did not reach Hammersmith until the next morning. It so happened that Marion was the first to receive it, by a messenger from Lady Flanders. She read the few lines, scarcely comprehending their purport; but after waiting a few moments, she read them again, and understood them. She returned up-stairs with difficulty, for all strength seemed to have gone out of her. She entered the room in which Philip was, but was unable to speak. She held the paper toward him.

“From Lady Flanders, eh?” said he, recognizing the handwriting. “An invitation to dinner I suppose.” He read what was written, and silence fell upon him. Marion, though she would gladly have turned her eyes away from him, could not do so. She saw the change that came over his face, and it made her heart faint. He kept his eyes down, gazing at the paper, and it seemed to Marion as if he were never going to raise them. The suspense became more than she could bear, and it gave her the power to use her voice.

“Do you know why she did it, Philip?” was her question.

He looked up, at last, with a slow and heavy movement, as if his eyelids were weighted, and met his wife’s gaze gloomily.

“If I do know,” he said, “it was for something very worthless.”

“Have you ... anything to tell me?” asked Marion, just audibly.

“Perdita was honest and noble: she died pure. There is nothing to tell. A priest would absolve me; I can never absolve myself. Many a man who has sinned is worthier to be your husband than one who has avoided sin as I have.”

There followed a deep silence. Then Marion moved a step nearer to him, and said, “Do you love me, Philip?”

“I used to say ‘yes’ last summer,” he replied; “I thought I could do anything and be anything, then. Now it seems to me that I am nothing, and can do nothing. Whether I love you, or not, years must tell you, not words. Such men as I are the curse of the earth.”

“You are not a curse to me!” said Marion, putting her arms around him, and looking up in his face. “You are my husband, and I love you: and neither years nor words shall make me believe you do not love your wife!”

[THE END.]

PUBLISHED BY FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT,

27 Park Place, New York.

THE

Cleverdale
Mystery;

OR,

The Machine and its Wheels.

By W. A. Wilkins, Editor of the Whitehall (N. Y.) Times.