A Modern Iago. A novel

Front matter

NOW READY. AT ALL LIBRARIES. A SON OF SWEDEN. FROM THE GERMAN OF VAN DER VELDE, BY CHRISTINA TYRRELL, Translator of H''erner's " Success, and How He Won It," " Under a Charm" &c. 2 Vols., 21/. " A Story of great power and merit ; it is full of stirring interest and sentiment, and affords a lively picture of the place and the time. The work of translation has been admirably done." — Daily News. " Illustrates a period of Swedish History that has very rarely been dealt with in fiction. * * * * Out of the Historical events of the period, dexterously worked up with a purely fictional element, Van der Velde has made a very powerful and interesting story." — Scotsman. " An exceptionally fine example of Historical Romance. Mrs. Tyrrell, who has already won for herself a good reputation as a translator, has as a rule completed her task so well in this instance that the English version leaves almost nothing to be desired. * * * * In short this is a Novel which everybody ought to read, and which everybody with a spark of imagination must enjoy." — Morning Post.

REMINGTON & CO., s, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C. A MODERN IAGO. a MoM, IN TWO VOLUMES. BY C. DESPARD. Author of " Chaste as Ice : Pure as Snow," " Wandering Fires," tc. VOL. II JnnuMjn : REMINGTON AND CO., ;, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C. 1879. [All Rights Reserved.]

Part II Pereyra Chapter

I. TWO PROMENADERS ON THE BOULEVARDS. If we would follow the fortunes of others in whom we are interested, we must retrace our steps, and shift the scene. It is June again, and we are not in the miserable quarters of London, but in the very gayest quarter of gay Paris. On a certain afternoon — bright, clear and animating — the flaneurs of the fashionable Boulevards were fortunate enough to have their curiosity languidly stimulated by two strangers, who had been pacing up and down persistently. " Bd Anglais," " homme magnifique,'* " type remarquable ! " were some few of the comments that might have been heard. Be yond a doubt they had reference to one only of the strangers, since the other was not dis tinctive from the point of view of physique. Yet there were those who, as they passed, murmured something about finesse.

The fact was, that the pair formed a remarkable vol. n. B contrast. Could we imagine the popular idea of mind substantified and set against the finest conception of material existence, we might frame a notion of the effect produced by these two men, as, silent for the most part, but now and then exchanging a few words, they paced backwards and forwards in their apparently aimless saunter. They were passing for the fourth time the decorated front of a well-known confectioner, when the younger man — he of grand physique — turned to his companion. " Do you think they will really pass this way ? " he asked. " It is getting late." " And you are impatient ! Well — little wonder. But, impatience, my dear Carring ton, tends to throw error into our concep tions. So far from being late, it is early."

" Ah ! " he smothered a sigh. " Time has become my enemy, like everything else." " Time will bring you your recompense." " Will it, Pereyra ? Does time ever bring anything good to the guilty ?" " I am afraid I scarcely follow you," said Pereyra, with chilling politeness. " Good and bad, you know, and guilt and righteous ness, are to me not much better than abstract ideas. But only a few are emancipated." The last words were added as an aside, with a peculiar intonation. They seemed to have an exciting effect upon Carrington, who grasped his companion's arm, and answered with a certain wildness, "" I had rather not be emancipated ; it does not suit me ; and, do you know, Pereyra, I some times think I have been wrong in listening to you. Pray do not take offence, old fellow.'' He spoke with a childish earnestness of appeal, that in a man of his type was piteous.

" I know you meant well, and — if I had been as strong as you ! — but I'm not. These things are too much for me. I really feel at times as if my brain were softening." " It will soften in real earnest, if you go on as you are doing," said Pereyra, sternly. " Yes, yes, I know ; that you should warn me proves your friendship. I am trying to break myself of it. I shall in time. But that illness in the North was altogether too much for my resolution. Good heavens ! how gloomy it was ! Rain ! Rain ! If you had not found me out, I believe I should have dissolved." He tried to laugh, but the effort was a feeble one. " And," said Pereyra, with one of his peculiar smiles, " in spite of the friendship I have shown you, you persist still in distrust ing me." " Distrusting you ? Come, my dear fellow, are you quite just?

I assure you it was a question of judgment, nothing more. The cleverest man in the world makes a mistake now and then. You see — now pray don't take offence again — I must understand her better than you do, and do you know, Pereyra," he laughed uneasily, "I sometimes think you are not so well up in women s natures as you are in men's." " Not had your experience ? " " Well — no. I've had a confounded lot of experience, worse luck." " But," said Pereyra, quietly, " we are wandering from our point." He had often occasion, in these days, to make such a remark. This unhappy young man's indulgence in an æsthetics was slowly but surely sapping his brain. He could now neither grasp a subject nor follow it out with any continuity of thought. " Point ! Point ! " he repeated, an ex pression of painful perplexity clouding his face ; " what was our point ?

" " You alluded just now to an error of judg ment on my part." " Yes, yes ; that reminds me. I intended to tell you of my dream last night. It made me feel young again, and generous. I was generous once, Pereyra. I used to have fine ideas." " Not singular, my dear fellow. Young fools are pretty much the same all the world over. Bnt, if one may venture to be curious, what was your dream ? " The painful perplexity had passed from Carrington's face. It was soft as is that of a loving woman, while he went on in a low voice — " To give all this up ; not to thrust myself upon her, with my miserable rights, but to go away, and trouble her no more; to work till I grow worthily famous, and meantime to watch over them from a distance ; difficulties come even to the well-guarded, and I might become their providence some day ; but even then to ask for no reward except to be allowed to look into my daughter's face, and to make her confess that I was never an utter villain."

He paused for a moment, then turned to his companion, " Pereyra, what do you say ? Is not this a better idea than yours?" "From the transcendentalist's point of view, certainly ; you know that is not mine. However, if you have strength of mind to stick to it persistently, do so by all means. But, remember, romantic mists have a trick of fading ; a month or two hence your point of view may be a trifle chilling ; you may wish for quarters not so ethereal, of course, but warmer, and then your opportunity will be gone." " It is true. I lost an opportunity once." " And regretted it ? " " Yes ; but it was a different opportunity from this." " We cannot expect events to repeat them selves with photographic minuteness of detail, and the fact is they never do. But, take your own course. Would it not be as well to go back, sinceyou prefer she should not see you?"

Carrington stood irresolute. " Let me hide somewhere, Pereyra," he said, pleadingly. " I must see her, by heaven, I must ! I have been living on the hope of this hour." The wily Spaniard took him by the arm and drew him on. " Come," he said, " transcendentalism re quires decision. Pluck out the right eye, and never mind the pain. Soon be over." " You are laughing at me." " Upon my soul, no ! I admire you. Ah ! " looking back, " there are Lady de Courcy's horses ; the finest pair in Paris ! Now, Carrington, once for all, resolution ! " " Her carriage — really — is it true ? " " Yes ; you have barely time to get out of the way." " Pereyra — I cannot." " What ! determination broken down already ?" They had barely time for further remark. A well-appointed English carriage, with two occupants, a lady and a child, was passing them slowly by.

Both gentlemen raised their hats. It was flower market day, in the Place de la Madeleine, and close to where they stood the carriage drew up, as the ladies wished to buy bouquets for their dinner table that evening. As she alighted, Lady de Courcy bowed to Pereyra. His companion one might have imagined she had not seen, but for a flash of the grand old defiance in her steadfast eyes, and the setting together of her lips. Holding Madeleine by the hand, she passed on amongst the flowers. Pereyra turned to Carrington, whose lips were ashy pale, and whose teeth chattered. " She would not see you," he said, " I think she is a little unwise." " Would not see me ? " broke in the other, impetuously ; " then — by God ! she shall see me. Pereyra did not answer, and a few moments later he bade a hasty farewell to his young friend.

For the cold calculator, the cynic, the man who openly scoffed at those humble emotions, which, by his showing, keep the human race in slavery, had, for once in his life, found. solitude almost a necessity. Hastily he returned to his own quarters. No magnificent hotel housed Pereyra. His apartment, small and scantily furnished, was in the top story of a huge barrack-like house; there was nothing in all his surroundings to arouse or feed æsthetic feeling. Yet when at home he looked round him smilingly. In this bare little room, where the consciousness of resources nearly drained, and power slowly ebbing, was for ever being forced upon him, he had ripened his last and most audacious scheme. A few days ago it had seemed further than ever from accomplishment. True, he had made himself useful, almost necessary, to the woman by whose aid he had determined to set his fortunes on a secure basis ; he had forced her, once at least, to feel his power, and had roused in her mind sentiments of a kindred nature with his own.

But, in spite of all, he was actually no nearer to her than before. Why was this ? The keen intellect had not failed to gauge the difficulty. A presence had been with drawn, but the softening influence of that presence was potent still, while the gentle duties of her daily life, her child's affection, and her interest in her protegee prevented the old world-hatred, of which an unhappy life had sown the germs in her character — germs that he, the man of subtle mind, had suceeeded in nursing into life, from reassert ing its power. The affection then must be poisoned, the interest destroyed, the softening influence paralysed, if he would ever bring her round to participation in his views, and to consent, when the due time, should arrive, to share the dominion he was slowly, but surely, preparing for himself.

In this little room he wove the final act of his drama, and to-day its first scene was enacted. Triumphantly— yes — for his eyes shine, his head is thrown back, he looks almost noble, such is his self-assurance, and pride of the intellect that is capable, he firmly believes, to cope with those unseen powers, which men, in their ignorance, call fate. "By heaven!" he mutters to himself, as he proceeds with his toilet, " I shall end by loving this woman, and when I love it will not be as a Carrington or a Calverley, a fool, or an enthusiast — Pah ! if they had any blood in their veins ! they have not, and it is well for me, well for me ! "

Chapter II. Helen Tells Her Tale

It was not caprice that had led Helen to leave the lovely little Paradise, upon which she and her children had entered with such joyful hope. She had reasons for the change. For the sake of Madeleine and Clarice she had thought it well to leave for a time the neigh bourhood of London, since uneasy rumours were, she was aware, being circulated diligently through her circle, and Herr Wissenbourg, who now considered Clarice almost an appanage of his own, having an important engagement in Paris, had sug gested, almost commanded, that his pupil should follow him thither. Helen besides was restless. She had been very ill in Cedar House. Doctors came and went, and talked wisely of cerebral excite ment, and recommended absolute quiet for some indefinite period of time. But the doctors were wrong ; after those first few days Lady de Courcy rose and went calmly about her daily life.

Possibly she would fain have laid herself down to die, for there was a sick weariness in her eyes, now and again, which made those who looked at her turn aside with aching at their hearts ; but her life held duties now which she could not dare to neglect. No news from outside had penetrated to the room where she lay, and, when she got up again, it was natural she should not wish to see old friends. Edina, the family-gossip, had been sent, after those May holidays, to a school in Paris. Clarice and Madeleine lived an absolutely secluded life. Thus it came about strangely that none of them heard of the nine days' wonder afc St. Jude's. Helen concluded that Julian Calverley be lieved her unworthy of his affection, and, with a sad heart, she acquiesced in his decision. Madeleine, who felt with that keenness of instinct, which is peculiarly the property of sensitive children, that something was wrong, shed a few quiet tears about going away, and not seeing Julian, but said nothing.

She comforted herself by sending him pretty knick-knacks from Paris, each of which he acknowledged. Late in the month of May Lady de Courcy took possession of a pretty and comfortable hotel garni in the Avenue de 1' Imperatrice. Her husband had been well known at the French Court, and she had many acquaint ances in Paris. She threw open her salons, and was presently queen of a little circle, comprehending some of the most distinguished names in the gay city. It could scarcely be said that Helen was happy, but happy is a wide word and abundantly taken in vain. She was at rest. She had schooled herself into submission to her pain. Her life held duties, even enjoyments, and she was no peevish girl to turn away with sick distaste from small pleasures, be cause a great happiness had been denied to her.

On the contrary, though it cost her a severe effort to throw herself heartily into this fresh beginning of life — to show in terest in Clarice's progress, and watch how Madeleine's nature unfolded, she made it un flinchingly, and the reward of effort came to her. Shut up in herself she would have grown morbid. As it was, her mind and heart were at. work, and the sorrow, which would always be a sorrow, did not possess her ; it threw over her rather the veil of tender mystery, that, in this gay, cynical capital, over which, notwithstanding its cynicism, the ideal has so firm a hold, constituted her principal charm. Clarice, meanwhile, who had not forgotten the vow made in that solitary schoolroom, had been watching her friend, and some of all this she saw. She had passionate cravings for those she loved, and she had been allowed a glimpse of the possibilities of rare happiness which waited upon these two — Julian, whom she worshipped ; Helen, whom she adored.

But now all was ended — the licdit and warmth were mysteriously shut out where gladness had been was a voiceless blank. Sadly, but with noble resignation, Helen was accepting her lonely lot, while as for Julian — where was he •? What was he doing ? Suffering surely ! but why ? A misunderstanding had arisen, so Clarice thought, which one sensible word could set right. Oh ! if she might speak that word ! Ideas long brooded over tend to leave the shadowy sphere of ideas, and to pass into the living world of deeds ; and when the idea ia enthusiastic, the deed is apt to be imprudent. Clarice's idea was already on the border land. From brooding she had begun to plan. Would her plan seek for itself execution ? Not yet, possibly, for this girl had much of the shrewdness of a nation, which is happy in its women's keen sense and good judgment.

Before acting, she wished to see how to act, and in order to do this, it would be necessary to understand the mystery of that sudden change in the aspect of affairs, which had so perplexed Edina and herself. But she would not ask for information, she waited patiently, and at length the moment of revealment come. One day Helen came home from her after noon drive unusually tired and depressed. Guests were dining with them that evening, and she entertained them with the ordinary grace and courtesy ; but Clarice saw that her gaiety and animation were forced. The young girl feared her friend was ill, and late at night when the household had gone to rest, she crept into her room. Lady de Courcy was in bed, but awake, Tier eyes were fixed upon the little wood fire, there were two crimson patches in her cheeks.

Turning uneasily, she saw the quiet little figure by her side, and put out a burning hand. " I did not like to ask you to sit up, dear," she said, " but I am glad you have come." "Madame is ill?" " Not ill — no — only tired, so tired." Clarice's eyes filled with tears. Helen was still looking at the fire. " It is your first concert to-morrow," she said. " I shall be better, I hope. You must not go alone." " Do not think of me, I entreat," cried the young girl. Lady de Courcy smiled. "Well! to-morrow will take care of itself." To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. What a dreary sound it has ! If we could be spared some of the to-morrows ! But " dusty death " attends upon the happy, and the tired, the wretched. " Clarice, my child, you are crying. Come here — sit down. I think you love me, dear."

" Madame, I would give — my life " — her voice was broken — " if only you might be happy once more." " Yes, I can rely upon you. I have suffered, Clarice ; I must suffer again. Per haps the new suffering will be too much for me. I felt this evening that I should like to leave my story in some loving heart. I will tell it you, dear, and, perhaps, some day, you will find an opportunity of telling it again. You are not cold ? " " Oh ! no — this room is warm." " Stay, then, for a few moments, and listen to my story. You may not understand it all, for your life has been simple and innocent. You have not known, and thank God for it, the agony of conflicting duties and feelings — of seeming what you know you are not — of sin, which poisons the life. Do not look at me so pitifully, dear ; you make my heart soft, and after this it must be hard ; it must neither feel pain, nor sicken at contempt, nor shrink away from insult."

Her strength of voice had returned — her eyes gleamed. One might have fancied she was bidding defiance to a world set in array against her. And, meanwhile, to the young girl who listened, it was as though these moments were fateful, as though upon the words now to be spoken the whole course of their future depended. I have said she had a pictorial mind. As Helen told, in faltering words, the story of her life, scene after scene seemed to pass before the girl's brain ; and one linked itself on to the other; and her sympathetic in stinct filled the blanks, till, as a single image, it was grasped by her mind. Helen's story was often broken. She repeated herself, and went back to points over looked to pick up the thread — in her words it might not be adequately represented. Let us try to see it, as it was mirrored in the young French girl's brain.

Two pictures she seems to see ; on the one hand — majestic, stern, terrible — a form neither of earth nor heaven. She recognises it, for she has seen it before, and knows how, piti less, it can hunt sad lives to despair : on the other, a daughter of earth, strong and beautiful, looking with smiles into the cast-iron face of fate, and vowing that her life at least shall be good. With moist eyes and trembling heart, Clarice follows out the stages of this fair young life. Enthusiasm she sees, love for all beautiful things, frank generosity, and vague cravings for some perfect life of best emotions gratified, and highest desires ful filled, and these longings are nurtured by one loved, revered, almost idolized- — a father and a friend ; one who, in heart sickness, has shut himself out from the world, and who yet looks out from his self-made prison with hopes of world regeneration through a mystical reveal ing.

In his pupil, he thinks to find an instru ment for his purpose ; and he gives her the prophet's training. She hears wild outbursts against society and its restrictions. Custom and law are, in her hearing, stigmatized as tyrants to humanity. The voice of the heart, she is told, should be obeyed as the voice of God, and shams avoided as a soul-deadening potion. The girl passes into the woman. Her training has served to confuse her ideas of right and wrong, and to set her in antagonism to things as they are. And now the world steps in, in the form of a mother, hitherto careless, whose vanity and ambition are awakened at sight of her young daughter's singular beauty. The girl is taken, almost by force, from her home. Clarice sees her next — -and her own experience helps her to realise the scene — in a fashionable school.

Even from the world's point of view, the school is ill-chosen ; how — with its affecta tions and pruderies in those who rule, its inanities, its deceptions, its running sore of something worse than deception in those who obey, or profess to obey — it affects this young girl, fresh from her first teacher's idealism, even Clarice, with her experience of school life, can barely imagine. But Helen's words are pathetic, and they well depict the horror and soul-sickening of her first few weeks at school. The paltry restrictions fret her ; the daily communica tion with what she feels, rather than knows, to be degrading and trivial, is offensive to her nature. She has fits of brooding, followed by outbursts of passion, that really alarm her teachers. VOL. II. Mme. D'Arcy, so the schoolmistress styles herself, sends for the mother of the new pupil, says, as mildly as may be, that she fears there is something wrong, and recommends a doctor's house for a time.

She is persuaded to keep her by Mrs. Campbell, who suggests that a little more liberty may bring about a change in the girl's temper. The suggestion is acted upon, and some irksome restraints are removed. When the rest of the young ladies are in the schoolroom, or walking two and two in the streets, and carrying on their flirtations under the very eyes of their gover nesses, this girl, with her Shelley in her hand, wanders alone about the beautiful old garden. And then — who will say it is not in the nature of things ? — her Apollo meets her ; he is actually nothing more nor less than Mme. D'Arcy's drawing master. To her he is the sun-god descended from the skies. On the one hand, beauty, ignorance, loveliness ; on the other, beauty, knowledge, and — not vil lainy, only a little flabbiness of moral fibre, and a child's facility to ignore future consequences, so only that the present be worthily filled — given these — and cannot the merest tyro conceive the end ?

Apollo is entangled in earthly wisps, fatally strong from the world's point of view; the enthusiastic maiden is unentano-led, and steeped to the lips in Shelleyan notions about love, devotion, custom's tyranny, and the grandeur of resistance to that cold, indefinite something, specified by the romancist as pru dence ; and they meet ; they are drawn to gether by a sympathetic instinct ; they dis cover that, before time was, their souls have been in search one of the other ; the girl pours our her dreams, and though no par ticular revelation drops from Apollo's lips, she yet feels (on account, probably, of that look in his face, that melting of dark eyes which, poor innocent enthusiasm ! may mean nothing higher than earthly passion) that there is something divine about him. It is the old, old story; such love-making as befits an Apollo and a sun-worshipper, to begin with, then flight, and marriage in the sight of God, as they put it, for, unhappily, of marriage of the worldly sort it is impossible to think, and afterwards — what ? awaking to find the sun-god a creature of clay, and the divine dreams purely the maiden's own, and, as ever, paradise not yet.

Such the story Clarice heard that evening. It had its sequel, and of a sadder nature, for, had the divinity been wholly of clay, Helen, perhaps, would have suffered less. He was not, and here crept in the utter misery. Though her mind had been warped by her early training, it had a vigorous substratum of intelligence. When she discovered the significance o£ the step she had taken, she formed another vision ; it was not so etherial as those Shel leyan dreams, which her marriage in the sight of heaven had rudely dispelled, but it was more reasonable. That her Eustace was not Apollo, the keen-eyed girl recognised very shortly ; he had talent, notwithstanding. She also had talent, and her ambition was unbounded. All that was necessary to them both was courage and determination. She set herself to work.

She was to write, he to paint ; they would make their own way ; they would win the respect, if not of the poor few, who call themselves society, then of the world, wherein these are but a fraction. And work she did, unremittingly ; more over, she so inspired the languid, pleasure loving artist, that he too began to see visions and dream dreams not wholly of earth. Thus until — does Clarice see the Fate-form smiling ? — their scanty means drew near exhaustion. Day after day the artist goes out, now with a poem or romance, written by the girl of eighteen, in which he and she had seen transcendant genius ; now with a picture of his own ; but he goes forth in vain. Disappointment waits upon disappointment, till he grows impatient, and says he will work no more. As she finishes the tale, Helen's voice grows faint; days she remembers of heart sickening despair ; evenings when she creeps out and sings in the street, and is thrown a few pence, which she spends eagerly in bread for him and for herself.

The day comes at last when she tells Eustace they have done what they can ; they must die now ; there is nothing left besides, unless a miracle save them. A miracle ? But is it a miracle ? She falls ill; she knows nothing ; she awakes to find her mother by her miserable bed. But where is Eustace ? she asks ; a question art fully parried by her mother. With reviving strength she asks it again, and at last, after many days, the whole truth is told her. He has gone, and gone for ever. How could a sun-god face death ? But, so sordid is a degenerate world, that only gold could save him. He was bribed by gold to leave her. And so her dream is over ? but no — not quite. A hope, a fear, a torment, com pounded half of longing, half of dread, binds her still to the past. She and her mother go away together to a little village in the north, and there her child is born — dies — as they tell her falsely — for all the miseries of the past two years seem to culminate in that hour of peril, which goes near to being her last, and she knows nothing, till once more she opens her eyes, this time to memories of a poisoned youth, and a life become unpro fitable.