Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 699

'You suppose so! You can say it thus coolly, and call me by the name you used to speak so tenderly once, and not so long ago either. O Eliza!' His voice fairly broke down, and he covered his face with his hand.

She stood by, her cheeks a deep crimson, her eyes cast down, beating her palm with a flower she held, a rare hot-house flower. Hogan knew well who had given it to her.

'And will he marry you?' he asked.

She ceased the restless movement and looked up quickly.

'Will he marry me?' she repeated indignantly. 'Will I marry him? Ask that, rather. He thinks the compliment's there.'

'He is so much above you, Eliza. Take care you are not making your own misery. I speak now only as a friend, one interested in your welfare. Oh, take care; I warn you before it is too late!'

She stamped her foot on the ground in sudden anger, and her eyes flashed.

'I am sick of these warnings!' she exclaimed. 'I'm not bound to stand here and listen to them from you; and what's more, I won't either!' She darted past him and sped swiftly along the path.

'Good-bye, then, Eliza,' called he after her. 'And may you never feel the sorrow and desolation that I do this evening.'

But she neither stopped nor glanced round at him. He walked on, sighing as he went. The chill November wind whistled drearily over the fields; it was November too in his heart. All that night he lay sleepless, tossing about, unable to find rest for body or mind. At one instant he was cursing him who had alienated the heart that had once been wholly his own, vowing vengeance, and resolving to wrest Eliza from him by some means, before it was too late. The next moment, he bitterly reproached her for her faithlessness, called her vain, worldly, worthless, undeserving of serious love; half hoped she might suffer for her treatment of him, and proudly resolved to think no more of her; then groaning, and covering his face with his hands, as the thought of all she had been to him rushed overwhelmingly over his mind, and he felt how impossible it would be to forget her.

Next morning it was later than usual when he rose, for about daybreak he had slumbered a little. On going out, whether by accident or design, his steps turned in the direction of Daly's farm, and his eyes sought the window of Eliza's apartment. It seemed to him that there was an unusual commotion in the house. Figures moved hurriedly about the rooms and flitted past the windows. As he gazed up, the house-door was suddenly thrown open, and some of the farm-servants, who slept in the house, rushed out and ran down the garden. At the same instant, Daly appeared, his face pale and full of distress and agitation. Hogan hurried forward, some half-formed fear and alarm in his mind, to ask what was the matter. On seeing him, Daly exclaimed: 'She's gone, gone from us for ever! disappeared during the night!'

'Who?' cried Hogan. 'Not Eliza? It can't have come to that so soon! You don't mean that she has fled, fled with him?' He asked the question in a kind of desperation, hoping against hope and probability, for what else could the words he had heard mean?

'Yes; fled, and of a certainty with Mr Crofton,' answered Daly.

'But they may be overtaken. Let us try to save her before it is too late.'

'It is too late, I'm afraid. From what I am told, she must have left about four o'clock this morning. Mary says she heard a slight stir in the house about that time, but didn't mind it then.'

Hogan turned away, and walked to a little distance. 'Gone!' he murmured in accents of deep despair. At that moment Mary Conlan ran up to her uncle. She held a letter in her hand. 'See!' she exclaimed. 'We found this on the floor, under the table. It must have fallen down, and no one saw it till now.' Daly seized it eagerly, and tearing it open, began to read. It seemed short, for after a minute or two he called to Hogan, and handed it to him.

It was from Eliza, addressed to her father. She began by saying that when he read it she would be the wife of Charles Crofton. As she saw that they would all be against her marriage with him – though why, she did not know, unless some didn't wish to see her in a position so different from their own; and as there would be so many obstacles from Mr Crofton's family, they thought it best to take this step, and avoid useless remonstrances. She then mentioned the church where they had been married that morning and the name of the clergyman. She hoped her father would not be angry. He oughtn't to be; for should he not be glad of her happiness and rejoice in her social elevation. 'Now good-bye, dear old dad,' she concluded. 'I know Mary will take good care of you; and believe that I am still your affectionate daughter, Eliza. – To-morrow, I may sign myself Eliza Crofton. Tell Will Hogan not to be fretting after me.'

'Careless and cold enough; isn't it?' said Daly sadly, as the other handed back Eliza's letter to him. 'I'm afraid she doesn't mind much what either of us feels, thinking of the grand life that's before her. I'll go to town at once and see if it's as she says.'

Hogan made no reply. He walked away; and when he had gone a little distance, threw himself down on the ground and groaned aloud in agony of spirit.

Daly's inquiries proved that the marriage had actually taken place that morning in the church Eliza mentioned. He was even shewn her signature in the book; and there remained not a doubt that she was actually the lawful wife of Charles Crofton. Daly felt a certain pride in his daughter's position; but he sorely missed her bright face and laughing teasing ways. He felt that he had lost his daughter for ever, and it sometimes almost seemed to him as if she had died.

As time went on, an occasional letter came, dated at first from London, afterwards from the continent; but they were as brief as they were far between, and told almost nothing. She hoped he was in good health. She was well, and seeing many things she had never even heard of before, and going into a great deal of gay society. This was usually their substance.

From the time of Eliza's departure, a great change came over Hogan. He grew so gloomy and irritable, that those with whom he had formerly been a favourite began gradually to shrink from him. Few will take misery as an excuse for broken spirits, and all steal away from the stricken one —

As the ancients shunned the token
Of a lightning-blasted tree.

But there was one who never avoided Hogan. Mary Conlan was often by his side, always ready with smiles and cheering words. She never alluded to his grief; but he saw by her actions and her sympathetic eyes how she felt for him in his sorrow. And though it seemed sometimes, when he turned from her with a dark brow and monosyllabic answer, that her task was an ungracious one, yet he blessed her in his heart that she still did not forsake him, and cherished the kind and gentle words she spoke as the only thing that made life not utterly a burden.

CHAPTER IV. – THE GLAMOUR FADES

In an elegantly furnished apartment of one of the most fashionable hotels of Paris, a young lady sat alone. The rich sunshine of a warm July afternoon streamed through the room. Now and then a gentle breeze strayed in at the open window beside which she was seated, and sounds of life, careless, outwardly happy life, floated upwards.

It was a brilliant and varied scene to look on: the handsome equipages dashing by, the gaily attired ladies, the city itself, of which the window commanded a fine view, with its sungilt trees and white glittering domes; a scene that might well attract the eye.

But this gazer, though beautiful and young, not more apparently than twenty years of age, one for whom it might be supposed to have every attraction, appeared indifferent to it. Her attitude, as she leaned back in her chair, her head resting on its cushioned top, betokened weariness; and the beautiful large black eyes fixed so wistfully, appeared to look far away and beyond what lay before her. It might be that it was a scene she was well accustomed to from childhood – that she was worn out after last night's gaiety. Yet she did not look like a born Parisian. There was a light in those eyes that seemed as if reflected from limpid, rippling streams, a something about that form which told of mountains and heath-covered paths. She roused herself from her reverie with a deep sigh and sat upright in her chair.

'Oh, if I could see it once again!' she murmured, 'the dear old place, and my father and all the familiar faces! It is a long time since I wrote to him. I never care to do it, because I can tell him nothing. Yet why should I not? What a relief it would be if I might freely unburden my heart to some one! I must do it.'

She rose, and walking to a small writing-table, unlocked the desk that stood on it and took out a letter. It was written in a large masculine hand. She read it over with fond brimming eyes, then seated herself at the table, and taking a sheet of paper, began to write rapidly, seldom pausing for consideration, as if she wrote straight down the thoughts that were in her mind. The letter abounded in fond expressions of love and interest, that seemed as if wrung from a sad home-sick heart.

'I sometimes think,' she wrote, 'in the morning when I awake, that I am at home, and fancy I hear the loud chirping of the birds among the ivy round my window, the lowing of the cattle, your voice in the yard talking to the labourers, and all the sounds that used to rouse me. Shall I never, never hear any of these again? I left them heedlessly, thinking only of him and the life of enjoyment I was going to. I do not think I cast one parting glance on the hills and fields that last evening, nor pressed a warmer kiss than usual on your cheek at night. There seemed some glamour over me that I could not resist, and that made me cold and unfeeling to all but the one. It is a just retribution that I should pine to return now, when I never can. He may tell me that I shall yet be there as mistress of Crofton Hall; but shall I? Something in my heart tells me that I shall see it never, nevermore! Would you know me now, I wonder, if you saw me? I am changed, I think, but the change within is the greatest of all. I can hardly recognise myself sometimes, as the same lively, thoughtless Eliza Daly.'

She then went on to tell how she had at first enjoyed her entrance into society. It was plain that she had been greatly admired, and that she had been able to adapt herself quickly to her new sphere in life. But as her triumph became less new, spots began to tarnish its brightness. With the murmurs of admiration and praise that reached her ears, scornful reflections on her humble birth were mingled; and she began to notice a tinge of condescension in the manner of many towards her, which at first, when absorbed in delight at the novelty and grandeur of everything, had not struck her. It was not possible even that with all her native quickness and tact, the humble farmer's daughter could at once be transformed into the polished lady, and so occasionally slight breaches of etiquette were observable, which did not fail to excite criticism. She would have thought much less about all this, only she saw how her husband was annoyed by it. She found too that remarks which she made in conversation frequently displeased him. He would accuse her of being too naïve, and of allowing her ignorance of some things with which she should be familiar, and her familiarity with others of which she ought to be ignorant, to appear. At first he would reprove her laughingly; but gradually, whenever she offended, with more and more displeasure. She soon learned to seal her lips on such subjects, and appear to know no more of the ways among which she had been brought up than any of them – learned even to deny all knowledge of the familiar spot itself.

But the gloss had gone from her pleasure, and she saw that it was also fading from something more valued still – her husband's love. She feared that he was becoming tired of her. She had amused him for a while, and he had lavished the most passionate fondness on her; but that was past now. She thought he repented, and was ashamed of the unequal match he had made; and she resolved that her presence by his side should no longer remind people of it and wound his pride. She absented herself from every gaiety. At first he would ask her to accompany him as usual, and seem surprised when she refused; but he never pressed her. He thought, or feigned to think, it was because of delicate health she would not go; but she knew that he was glad.

Withdrawn from the excitement in which she had lately lived, her spirits sank, and as they did so, her husband grew more and more careless and indifferent. Still, he was never unkind. He brought her presents and indulged every fancy; but she could not be content with the light good-nature that prompted this. She was dependent on him only, and he left her alone and unhappy, scarcely seeming to know that she was so, or betraying impatience at it.

As she finished her letter, the outpouring of a sad disappointed heart, which has found in the reality so mournful a contrast to the bright ideal, her tears fell heavily one by one. When she wrote the direction on the envelope, she sobbed aloud, and buried her face in her hands. In a few minutes she composed herself to read over what she had written. Having done so, she paused and seemed to consider.

'No; I will not send it,' she said aloud. 'It would be a comfort to me to get the affectionate reply I know I should from him, but it would grieve him too much to think I was unhappy. It must not go.'

She was about to tear it across; but a sudden thought stayed her hand. She folded it up and placed it in the envelope. 'If I die, let them send it to him. And stay! I will put a little piece of my hair in it.' She took up a pair of scissors, and going to the glass, severed a glossy curl. She folded it in a piece of paper, and wrote, 'With Eliza's love;' then laid it within the letter, which she sealed with black wax, and instantly locked her desk.

As she did so the door opened, and her husband entered. He threw himself on one of the couches with some commonplace remark, such as people make when they think it incumbent on them to say something, but are urged by no impulse from the heart.

'Paris is beginning to shew signs of getting thin,' he continued lazily. 'We must leave it soon. I think of Rome for the winter. What do you say?'

'I have no objection,' she answered, trying to speak cheerfully; but there was a tremble in her voice, and something that seemed to strike him as unusual, for he turned round and looked at her.

'What is the matter?' he asked.

'Nothing; there is nothing the matter with me.'

'Very well; that's all right.' He closed his eyes.

She stood looking at him wistfully. Though her own love had grown dim and faint as his for her, and another face – that of him whom she had turned from in her infatuation – was ever before her, yet the change pained her. She went to him, and taking his hand, said gently, but with a thrill in her voice that told of deep emotion: 'Do you remember that evening – it is nearly a year ago now – when you first told me that you loved me, and asked me to be your wife? I was frightened, and said it was impossible the thing could ever be; but you knelt at my feet, and declared that the happiness of your life depended on me.'

'Well, of course. And what then?' he answered, somewhat impatiently.

'It does not now, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, do not talk such nonsense, dear. I was courting you then; but now such raptures and declarations would be ridiculous. You are altered. You always meet me with a sad face now. It is not very pleasant, I assure you.' He spoke peevishly, and getting up, walked to the window, and stood looking out with a discontented brow.

She followed him and laid her hand on his arm. 'Oh, do not – do not withdraw your love altogether from me!' she said pleadingly. 'You are all I have. Think of all I left to go with you.'

'All you left!' he repeated. 'And did I leave nothing, give up nothing for your sake?' There was a bitterness in his tone as he asked the question, and she perceived it.

'Oh, yes, yes; I know you did,' she answered. 'Much; and that is what grieves me; because I fear,' she added in a lower tone, 'that if it were to do again you might act differently.'