Volume II. The Wife CHAPTER 10.
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After Florence Armitage had left Mrs. Hartley on the day she showed her the letter which she had received from Archer, she did not see so clearly as while with her, theimpropriety of making a reply. The image of the young man was constantly before her mind, and, scarcely conscious of it herself, she dwelt with pleasing emotions on that image.
When she went home, she shut herself up in her own room, and read over his letter again.
"I fear to wrong anyone," she sighed.
Then came up to the eyes of her mind, with vivid distinctness, the form of Grace Leary; and the whole scene on the night appointed for her wedding arose and passed before her. Shuddering, she strove to banish the blasting visions, but strove in vain. It seemed as if the wretched girl was in the room — and warning her not to give a moment's heed to the tempter!
The excitement, under which she had been for some time, at length subsided. But still her thoughts turned to William Archer. Resolutely did she strive to banish his image, but she strove without success. It was still present with her.
That night, before she retired to bed, she wrote three letters in answer to the one she had received, and destroyed them all. The first one seemed to her too cold and repulsive in style; and the two last, rather warmer than she thought it right to send.
For days and weeks a violent struggle went on in her mind. She saw Mrs. Hartley frequently during the time, but carefully avoided making any allusions to the subject. One day she met Mrs. Leslie in the street. She had not visited her for some time. That lady urged her so strongly to call upon her, that she promised to do so, and very soon fulfilled her promise. Dexterously did Mrs. Leslie manage to lead Florence to allude to the past.
"Have you never seen him since?" she asked, finally, alluding to Archer, and speaking in a tone that completely betrayed Florence into a misplaced confidence.
"But once," was replied.
"When?"
"A few weeks ago I met him in the street."
"Did you speak to him?"
"Certainly not."
"Poor fellow! He has suffered severely."
"And so has Grace Leary. A thousand times more deeply than ever he has." Florence said this with something like indignant warmth.
"That may be — poor wretch! But, it is possible that he may be innocent of any wrong towards her."
"She solemnly accuses him; and charges the ruin of other victims upon him."
"Of all of which he may be guilty."
"Can there be any doubt of it?"
"There is always a doubt of guilt, where no positive evidence is given."
"But is there not positive evidence in this case?"
"There is the testimony of a wicked woman. How far do you think that ought to be taken?"
"It should be taken with allowance, certainly. But, in this case, her testimony is not the only proof. The wrong done to Grace Leary by William Archer has been a thing of notoriety for a long time."
"There has been a good deal of running gossip on the subject, I know; but a little tattle of this kind is too common to have much weight attached to it. The young man declares his innocence — and we should take good care that, in throwing him off, we do not wrong the innocent."
"What do you think? What is your opinion, Mrs. Leslie?" Florence asked, with a countenance and tone of voice that betrayed the interest her heart still retained in Archer.
"I believe he has been a wild young man — that, in the thoughtless ardor of youth, he may have been led astray in some things. But, of the errors of his youth, I believe he has sincerely repented, and that it is wrong to condemn him on their account."
Florence did not reply.
"That he suffers acutely in consequence of the present aspect of affairs, I know. He was deeply attached to you, and still is."
"Do not speak so to me, Mrs. Leslie," Florence said, with evident agitation.
"I speak but the truth. Surely you are not afraid to hear that."
"I do not know that Mr. Archer is innocent of the dreadful crime charged upon him in the most solemn manner — a manner that carried instant conviction to my heart, and to everyone present."
"And still all may have been but the mad ravings of an insane creature."
"No matter. It was a timely occurrence of so startling a nature as to warrant me in declining to fulfill my engagement with him, and Heaven knows, I have no desire now to renew it! In the interaction I had with him after I consented to become his wife, I saw deeper into his character. He is selfish and overbearing; and I was led to suspect, from evidence not to be educed, that there was more love for me on his tongue than in his heart!"
"You are certainly mistaken."
"I think not."
"Indeed you are."
"That is barely possible. I doubt it."
"But if you refuse to marry him, you need not refuse to speak to him."
"That is another question, and the only one about which I am undecided. I do not wish to wrong anyone — to wound anyone."
"Of course not. For this reason you should be well assured that there is good cause for the stand you have taken towards Archer, who, let me tell you, still loves you as truly and tenderly as ever."
"Mrs. Leslie! what do you mean?" quickly exclaimed Florence, with increased agitation. "I, have just told you that I believed his love for me to be only an empty profession."
"In which belief you have wronged him!"
"You speak with a strange confidence."
"I have a right to say so. Though so many have judged the young man with the harshest kind of judgment, and turned coldly from him, I have still remained his friend. To me, then, he might be expected to open his heart freely — and he has done so."
Mrs. Leslie looked attentively at Florence, to see the effect of her words, and then went on.
"The truth is, William Archer has himself told me that for you, he still has the purest regard — and if you never look at him, never speak to him — he will still love you, and you only — and love you until the end.
The effect of this was to make Florence turn pale, and tremble from head to foot! The words of the tempter were sinking into her heart. When she parted with this criminally injudicious friend, it was with a half-extorted promise that she would not refuse to speak to Archer, when next she met him. This promise, she was soon called upon to perform. On the next day, she passed the young man in the street. As they were approaching, their eyes met and were fixed. Florence inclined her head, but did not smile. A respectful bow was returned — and both passed on — one with a thrill of pleasure, the other with a wildly throbbing heart.
"What am I doing?" Florence asked herself, after her feelings had calmed down. "Where is this to end? I will call upon Anna and be guided by her. She always sees right."
But, conscious that Anna's advice would not accord with her feelings, she deferred calling to see her, day after day, and week after week.
The recognition of Archer by Florence, encouraged the young man. A visit to Mrs. Leslie soon after, and a half hour's conference with that lady gave him renewed hope.
Scarcely a month had elapsed before the thoughtless young girl was again on terms of intimacy with Archer, a man against whose character common report had not said one word too much.
With most consummate art did the sordid lover insinuate himself once more into favor. Florence and he met at the house of Mrs. Leslie, who did all in her power to forward his designs. At length Archer ventured to renew his vows of love, and to claim the fulfillment of a promise already given. The weak girl was fully in his toils. She yielded a trembling consent, for reason told her that she was acting wrong.
Thus far no one but Mrs. Leslie knew anything of the state of Florence's mind — not even her parents, who had not the most remote suspicion that she had met Archer since the occurrence of an event that has been more than once alluded to.
"How will your father and mother feel about this?" asked Archer, during one of their interviews, after he had become fully restored to favor with Florence. "Do you think it possible to disabuse their minds of the prejudice against me with which they are affected?"
"I can hardly tell. But they cannot be deaf to reason."
"Do they ever speak of me."
"No. Your name is never mentioned in our house."
"What do you think are their feelings towards me?"
"Unfavorable."
"How shall we approach them on the subject that lays so near our hearts?"
"I cannot tell. I tremble whenever I think about it."
"Will there be any use in asking their consent?"
"I fear not. My father is set in his ways. When he once makes up his mind, it is almost impossible to move him."
"How about your mother?"
Anna shook her head.
"What is to be done?"
"I do not know," was the maiden's desponding reply.
"We cannot live without each other."
Florence leaned her head confidingly against her lover, and he drew his arm tenderly about her. There was a deep silence, that continued for many minutes.
The real truth was, Archer had everything to fear from a general knowledge of the fact that he had renewed his attentions to Florence. For this reason he did not, so far as he was concerned, wish the parents of Florence consulted at all in the matter. His own wish was, to marry clandestinely; and this he meant to propose, if he could see it safe to do so. The reader can now perceive the drift of his leading questions to the infatuated girl.
"Suppose," he suggested, "on making known our wishes to your parents, they should positively refuse me your hand? What will be our position?"
"I have told you," was replied, "that I love you more than life."
"And are you ready to forsake all for me, if called to such a trial?"
"Can you doubt it?"
"No. I would doubt my own heart if I did."
"You must not doubt it."
"If your parents will not consent to our union, as I fear they will not, what course shall we take?"
"It is for you to say that. I am ready to become your wife."
"But you will have to do it in the face of your parents' disapprobation. You will have to act in disobedience to them. Would it not be better to avoid that?"
"Can it be avoided?"
"I think so." And as Archer said this, he regarded the face of Florence with close attention. Its expression encouraged him to proceed.
"How?"
"By a marriage at once, while they are still ignorant that we have met."
"I do not see that such a step will give matters an aspect any more favorable."
"I think it will. Take this view. We can be married privately, and then send a letter explaining why we took the step, laying particular stress upon the unconquerable reluctance we both felt to risking the danger of a refusal by asking consent. Depend upon it, our position will be much better, than if we get married after an expressed disapprobation. The act may be excused as a piece of folly, or madness, or whatever they may choose to call it. But it will have about it nothing of direct disobedience, a thing so hard for a parent to forget and forgive."
Florence felt the force of this. Mrs. Leslie was now referred to, and she seconded the views of Archer warmly. The bewildered, and really unhappy girl at length yielded a reluctant consent.
"When shall the marriage take place?" eagerly asked the lover.
Florence was silent.
"Name the earliest possible moment. No time is to be lost."
"No, not an hour," said Mrs. Leslie.
"Why need it be delayed at all. We are both ready to join hands as well as hearts. Why may it not take place this very night?"
"O no — no! That is too hasty," objected Florence. "I must have a little time to collect and compose my thoughts."
"You are willing to marry William?" said Mrs. Leslie.
"O yes. I have said so," she replied.
"And have little hope of gaining the consent of your parents?"
"I fear they would not give it."
"Then why delay what must take place?"
"Let me have a single day for preparation. I ask no more." Tears gushed from the eyes of the excited girl.
Neither Archer nor his friend could say a word more. It was then regularly arranged that the marriage should be celebrated privately, on the next night, at the house of Mrs. Leslie.
As Archer and Florence walked home that night, the latter noticed that a female, small in stature, and with a marked peculiarity of dress, passed them no less than four times. Each time she looked intently into the face of Florence, and once partly paused, and seemed about to speak. The countenance of this person was clearly seen by Florence as the light of a lamp fell upon it. It was strangely familiar. But where she had seen it, she tried in vain to think. Archer did not appear to notice this female, or, if he did, he made no allusion to her.
"Tomorrow night," he said, as he kissed the hand of Florence at her father's door, and then walked rapidly away.
"Cursed creature!" he muttered between his teeth, when a few paces distant — "you thwarted me once; but I defy you now! Tomorrow night I will be the husband of Florence, and then your revengeful spirit will have to seek out some new scheme. If you cross my path many times more, I will murder you!"
The clenched teeth and hands, and the dark face of the young man, showed plainly that he was really under the influence of demoniac passions. He hated the object of his censure, whoever it might be, with a murderous hatred!
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