Augusta de Grasse Stevens

"The Red House,
"Benton's Station, New Hampshire,
"April, 188—.

"My Friend,

"A clever Frenchman once said, 'On revient toujours À ses premiers amours.' Let us suppose this to have been said of a woman who, in her first youth, had loved a man and jilted him, and then, after many years and much sorrow, her heart returned again to him with a love and constancy unknown before. Cannot the past teach you to read between the lines? I did not write to you of my engagement; but now that it is over, and I am free, I find myself instinctively seeking the old shelter of your friendship, which at one time was never denied me; appealing to the old sympathy to which I then never appealed in vain. Are you astonished—surprised? I am not. In those old days—whose glory is not yet faded, over whose memory 'Requiescant in pace' has not yet been written—I came to you at all times, and you refused me nothing save one thing—once. So now I creep back to the old refuge, and bid you fold down the cere-cloth from our dead past, and see if still, after all these years, it does not look somewhat fair; if still there does not cling to it the memory of those old days; of blue skies, bluer waters, sweet roses, sweeter vows, bright sunshine, brighter promises! My marriage engagement is broken, Philip. Why? I can give no reason. He was all that the world calls worthy, and I believe he loved me; yet I found him wanting. Memory is a rare and delusive beautifier, and my memory is sadly tenacious of the past; therefore I am free. I could not be dishonest to him, even though I would. Yes, I am free, and I am writing you after years of silence. I wonder will you smile over this half-confession, and say, 'Impetuous as ever!' or will you understand, and, so understanding, send me the answer I desire? But should you choose to misconstrue my words, I can but say that I have wished to be honest, however late in the day. Write to me, Philip, or better, come to me. After all, I am but a woman, and a very weak one.

"Patricia."

This was the letter that awaited Philip Tremain on his breakfast-table, one bright spring morning of that most fickle, yet most beautiful month, April. Even as he entered the room he became aware of its subtle presence made known to him by its faint, dead odour of violets; consequently it caused him no great shock of surprise to find the large, square envelope, sealed with the device of a lighted candle and a silly moth, and the motto "Delusion" below a monogram; with the firm handwriting forming his name and address looking up at him from its dainty surroundings of silver and damask. As the face of a once dearly loved friend, neglected yet not forgotten, comes back to one from out the mists of memory, recalled unexpectedly by some trivial circumstance—a strain of music, a line of poetry, a faded flower.

Time was when each succeeding morning of Mr. Tremain's life, the early post brought a similar letter, but in those days his manner of receiving it differed exceedingly from this greeting. Then, he would take it up tenderly, holding it for a few moments before his longing eyes, and perhaps—for he was young and very adoring—raise it to his lips before he broke the seal—which in those days was not a cynical candle and blind moth, but a true lover's knot, with a French sentiment intertwined.

Now he eyed it askance for a second or more before he lifted it, and then after balancing it lightly on his open palm, put it down unopened, made his tea, buttered his toast, and opened his newspaper; nor did he glance towards it again until, his breakfast finished, his cigar alight, sitting in the sunshine that flooded his apartment, he took it up and broke the seal.

Various emotions passed over his face as he read. Surprise, half anger, half scorn, and lastly, as he came to the final lines, a quiver of pity or tenderness softened the stern outlines of forehead and lips. He laid the open letter on his knee, and as he sat motionless, the increasing noise of the shrill street cries, and the echo of commencing traffic bespoke the reawakening of the great city to one more day of toil and strife and unrest, passed by him unheeded.

A breath of the past was mingled with the present, and bore along with it the scent of fresh grass, a mingled perfume of fruit and flowers, a vision of flowing muslin draperies, a lithe, graceful figure, dark, lustreless hair crowning a proud little head, eyes of deepest violet shaded by black, pencilled brows and lashes, a face whose almost dusky colouring flushed in an instant into richest carmine when deeply moved.

Ten years had gone by since Philip Tremain, a young barrister struggling for briefs, idle, clever, lazy, and cursed with expectations of money, first met Patricia Hildreth. He was living then in a small city, in the interior of New York State, situated near one of those great lakes so renowned for their beauty and their treachery. On account of his talents and position he was rather the enfant gÂtÉ of society in that aristocratic little town; which, by the way, held itself very exclusive, and counted among its residents many blue-blooded descendants of old colonial families; its customs were colonial as well as its traditions, and it looked down with contempt upon its sister city, on the borders of a sister lake, because it had admitted within the doors of hospitality scions of fathers who were known to have made their money in trade.

To this hot-bed of traditional conservatism came Patricia as a guest—handsome, disdainful, capricious, city-bred Patricia—armed with all her little wiles and graces, a creature of wonderful resource, to be looked upon from afar, and to be judged and condemned by the narrow code and petty by-laws of the unwritten Blackstone of Hurontown. To the married women she was a dangerous siren; to the girls a triumphant, unapproachable Thetis; to the men a delusion and a snare, so soon as ever she burned them with the blue fire of her eyes, or flashed her smile upon them from the freshest of red lips, revealing the whitest of pearly teeth.

In virtue of Philip Tremain's long acknowledged precedence where anything feminine was concerned, all the other young eligibles of Hurontown stood aloof and watched the coming flirtation, half in envy, half in pride; for was not the conquering hero one of their own belongings, and one also who had never known the arts and cajoleries of women, save as portrayed by the demure maidens of their own little town; whose manners and conversation betook largely of the Puritan training bestowed upon them by their mothers? And was not this mocking, fearless young amazon a maiden fresh from that modern Babylon, New York, where, if all the girls were fair, all, too, were more or less false, and like the Lorelei, only ensnared to destroy? Would it not be a proud boast for all future Huronites if this beautiful young witch should be captured by their village Perseus, and so changing the classic rÔle be made subservient to his will and pleasure all the days of her life?

But Patricia was petulant and capricious, and Patricia was not to be easily won; both of which reasons made Philip pursue her the more eagerly; to him, as to all men, that which is easy of attainment is not to be desired. Whether he was successful or not remained for a long time unknown to the outside world, but before many weeks had gone by Patricia had given over her superior little airs, ceased pursing up her pretty mouth, and become indeed wondrously meek and gentle, as she cast down her proud eyes and hung out the red flag of danger, followed by the white flag of truce; all of which signals signified a total surrender to the enemy.

Thus one evening as they drifted idly about in a cockle-shell of a boat on the blue waters of the great lake, she holding the oars, he sitting at her feet, the softly fading pink and amber light in the west casting a rosy hue over her sweet face and fleecy white draperies, he put his hand on hers, and drawing down her not unwilling head, told his love—the old, old story—and gained the assurance of hers.

Then followed days of beatific bliss and rapture, though both were poor, and a more undesirable and foolish marriage for either in the world's eyes—even the little world of Hurontown, which aped the morals and cynicism of modern Babylon—could not be imagined. As a punishment for their precipitate happiness came an indignant letter from Patricia's mamma summoning her home, and peremptorily bidding her give up such foolish playing at love. What did she think would be her chances for the future if she marred all possibilities by such reckless flirtations? Was she really devoid of all sense and judgment?

The lovers parted with vows of undying constancy, and the flame of their love was kept alight by the interchange of daily letters, which, on Patricia's part at least, were the cause of considerable deception and hood-winking. Thus the months wore on; winter came, and with it a kind friend, lately visiting in modern Babylon, brought news of Patricia's gay life in that city, and rumours of her not too innocent flirtations, of her daring public opinion by various foolhardy escapades; of her beauty, her wit, her heedlessness of public censure; to all of which Philip listened, smiling, believing in her fully, trusting that his love for her, and hers for him, was sufficient safeguard against all attacks made upon her loyalty by those in her own home.

But when there came a letter from Patricia, short, and not very gracious, flippant and worldly in tone, announcing her approaching visit to Europe under the chaperonage of a lady rather too well known for her leaning towards a brilliant life, and altogether unfitted to be the guide, philosopher, and friend of so impetuous a nature as his lady love's, Philip aroused himself from his indolence, and awakened to dangers ahead for him and her, betook himself to modern Babylon, and presented himself before her without word of warning. Came, indeed, most unexpectedly upon her, as she was holding her little court, composed of one or two clever men, several handsome ones, a sprinkling of fair girls and equally fair matrons; in the midst of whom Patricia shone forth resplendent, as the planet Venus among her satellites.

Upon this fashionable throng burst poor Philip, disturbed, travel-stained, and weary. From the fulness of a young, loving, jealous heart, overcharged and ready to explode at the first touch of powder, he demanded, not too courteously perhaps, that she should instantly then and there, explain the presence of those obnoxious men, renounce her contemplated journey, throw aside the useless, frivolous life she was leading; marry him at once, and come to him in his poverty and toil with him; he did not add for him, or she might have yielded. He was not even gracious in his manner of asking, and his hand clasped hers roughly, sending the brilliant rings into the soft fingers mercilessly.

Patricia drew back her injured hand, noting with self pity the red marks his violence had left upon it, glanced down at her dainty costume of delicate laces and softest silk, looked at the evidence of wealth in her soft surroundings, turned a little towards the inner room, brilliantly lighted, where she had left her subtle flatterers and adorers, their words still echoing in her ears, then brought her unwilling eyes back to Philip's tired, angry, harassed face, noted, although half ashamed, his rumpled hair and ill-fitting coat, his general lack of finish and repose, and drawing one hand slowly over the other, slightly shook her head.

"You will not?" he cried out hoarsely. Then without waiting for her reply, he burst into a torrent of disappointment and recrimination, urged thereto by his hurt self-love; as he, quick as Patricia to make comparisons, noted in proud disdain his provincial appearance beside the perfectly-mannered, faultlessly-dressed, languidly-interested young moths, who fluttered about the flame of Patricia's beauty, stupidly singing their sensibilities in the fire of her brilliancy. Yet none the less, though he knew and felt his own worth and truth to be boundless, compared to theirs, he also felt that in the eyes of the woman he loved, he looked—oh, unpardonable sin—honest, jealous, and countrified.

"You are not worthy of my love, or of me," he cried. "Go your own way, Patricia, lead your own life; I release you, but don't for one moment think you have injured or blighted mine. If all these luxurious dainties, and all those brainless fools," with a contemptuous wave of his hand towards the innocent revellers and their surroundings, "are more to you than my love, then is your love too dainty a luxury for me. I loved you, Patty, God knows how I loved you; but that goes for nothing in your eyes. Good-bye, Patricia, good-bye."

She stood very still and silent while he spoke, the colour burned red in her cheeks, the fire gleamed in her eyes, her bosom rose and fell rapidly with the quick beating of her heart. She had not intended that half unwilling shake of her head to be taken so literally, and used against her. Was he not over anxious to grasp at this chance of freedom? Were there not others, only waiting for her to declare herself unfettered, to offer her so much more than this one poor man could give? Above all, did he not snatch at this suddenly-made breach between them with almost indecent haste? Her head rose proudly. She met his look gallantly.

"As you say; no, I cannot live without what to me makes up the sum of life; luxuries, dainties, call them what you will; they have not entered over much into your life, I know; but they have become a part of mine, and of me. I should be miserable without them."

"Even as my wife?" he asked royally.

"Even as your wife," she answered proudly.

He said no more, but as he turned to go from her, she came close up to him, touching him lightly on his arm. His love had been very dear to her; might she not keep a slight chain upon him still, so that in the future she might have some little hold upon him; and, indeed, did she not love him all the more because of his hot anger, and bitter truth, and loyal love?

She put out both her hands to him—her voice was very gentle and pleading:

"Since we are to part, Philip, and you will have it so, will you not kiss me once, only once more, for good-bye?"

He turned from her, unheeding her pleading voice or hands.

"Do not say it is my will that we part, Patricia; be just at least, if you cannot be generous. No, I will not kiss you now, I am not quite a hypocrite; perhaps one day, when I can believe and trust in you again, Patty, or when all my love for you is dead, or when I can think of you, look at you, judge you, as other men do, then I will kiss you, but not until then. Ask me then, Patricia."

"I will never ask you again," she answered passionately; "but you, Philip, shall be the first to beg a kiss from me, and I shall be the one to make your pride suffer, as you now make mine."

Then she left him, sweeping by him, proud, tremulous, excited, stung to the heart, but making no sign. He heard her laugh ring out joyously, a moment later, as she applauded some witticism of one of her admirers, and with a muttered exclamation he made his way out into the night.

So they had parted, and never since that unhappy evening had they met.

Time went on; there came trouble to Patricia in the death of her mother; he wrote her a cold note of condolence, to which he received no reply; then rumour brought him the knowledge of her inherited wealth, and, shortly after, of her engagement to a man many years her senior. Of her wealth he thought little, of her engagement he spoke calmly, and with the air of a cynic, who beholds all things pass by, good and bad, and says, in the bitterness of his soul, cui bono? But, inwardly his love and pride were roused from their sleep of years, and he owned to himself, with a hard honesty, that to think of her as belonging to another man than he was intolerable. He had not been able to keep her love when he won it, but it was none the less a pain to find that another had succeeded where he had failed. Time, however, that wonderful physician, in a measure numbed his distress, and to his world he posed as a charming man, though cold and heartless; not one to be sentimental over a dead past, but rather one to make his power felt, and to lead and bend other wills by the stern inflexibility of his own.

And then had come Patricia's letter, telling of her broken toys; asking to be taken back into his affections; seeking to creep back into the old shelter of his heart, where once she had ruled so proudly.

Ten years had passed since he, in that sweet month of roses, had first met and loved her. Ten years; and in the mean time Philip Tremain had risen high in the world, and in men's opinions; his money had come to him, partly by inheritance, partly through his own hard work; he had made his name well known, his fame was still a rising one. No need to feel ashamed for him now; indeed, no greater sybarite lived than he, no truer dilettante, and no one whose surroundings were more daintily luxurious.

But notwithstanding the changes that had developed this, to her, unknown side of his nature, as he sat in the sunshine this fair spring morning, holding Patricia's letter in his hand, he judged her no less harshly, blamed her no whit the less, than he had when last he saw her, and refused to kiss her for good-bye. With her own hands she had torn the veil from his idol ten years ago, and he would not now voluntarily raise a finger to restore its shattered beauty.

An hour glided by, his cigar was finished, the freshness of the morning had departed, before he aroused himself from his retrospect; he turned to his writing-table with a smile, and a half-uttered: "No, not even for you, my once beloved Patty; you have made your own life, and you must live it out to the bitter end—alone."

His answer therefore to Patricia was a polite stiff note of condolence or congratulation, which she chose, on the failure of her matrimonial plans. A regret he was unable to accept her invitation, a hope for her happiness, an assurance that she might always consider him her friend, but nothing more; not one word in answer to the love she proffered, not one of remembrance of, or regret for the past.

Patricia Hildreth's face was not good to look upon, as she read his response; if ever mortified vanity and determined revenge was readable on a woman's countenance, it was to be seen on hers then.

"So I have humbled myself in vain," she said. "Well, it shall be your turn next, my Philip, or my woman's wit is of no account; you shall feel the same sting as you have given me, incased in your armour of pride and well-being though you may be. Take care, Philip, my hand is small but it is firm to strike, and he is most lost who thinks himself invulnerable to a woman's charms."