LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume II, Issue 126, 26 October 1874, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE BITER BIT.

By J. A. St. John- Blythe.

f Concluded .] The moment Fitzgerald and I entered Miss Fairleigh’s presence the next day, I detected that, as he would have expressed it, ‘ something was up. ’ There was a certain amount of suppressed excitement in her manner, not usual with her, and a sort of gleam of triumph in her eyes. I thought, too, she was dressed with peculiar care, and her hair arranged in the way most calculated to show its marvellous color and enormous profusion. She chatted quietly enough until after luncheon. Then she suggested coffee in the ‘little drawing-room.’ This was a tiny room, little more than a deep recess, divided only by curtains from the drawiug-room, with a large bow-window opening into the garden. ‘ How you two must be wondering,’ she said, with a laugh as she sipped her coffee, *at my strange request ! What a pity you are not parsons, instead of soldiers ! Then each would have come flying in haste to receive a confession, to find his hopes ruthlessly destroyed by the presence of a rival. Now what do you think I sent for you for ?’ Neither feeling disposed to suggest Fitzgerald’s hypothesis, we both sat looking, I fancy, rather foolish. She laughed merrily, then added, more gravely. ‘ It’s a strange thing I’ve done, but I could not compass the purpose of years by any other means, and it doe? not matter to mejwhat anyone thinks. The fact is, I am in a little difficulty. lam forced to accord an interview, this afternoon, on a matter of business, to which I could hardly demand a witness, and yet which I wish should not be entirely private. So I mean to hold it in the drawing-room, where every word will be audible to you. When you have heard what passes, you will better understand my reasons for acting in a way that must seem strange. ’ I don’t think either Fitxgerald or I quite liked the position, but what could we say ? It was unpleasantly like eaves-dropping, certainly. Still, there might be many interviews, particularly of a business character, in which she was justified in acting as she did, if she chose; and it was awkward to assume she was asking us to do anything unfair.

She started up, almost as she spoke, as if her ear had caught some sound; and only saying, ‘ I will call you to appear, if I wish it !’ she passed between the curtains ; and in another moment we heard the drawingroom door open, and the servant announce * Captain Berrington. ’ Fitzgerald and I looked at one another in blank astonishment; too confused to think what was the right course to follow, until it was too late to do anything save remain silent and unwilling listeners to the most extraordinary interview it were possible to conceive. Never shall I forget it. Every word seems stamped indelibly on my memory.

‘ Ida ! ’ Berrington exclaimed, in a low impassioned tone, the moment the servant had closed the door, —‘ dear Ida ! ’

‘ Captain Berrington,’ she replied, in a cold calm tone, ‘ I never gave you permission to use my Christian name. ’ ‘ Good heavens ! ’ he exclaimed ; ‘ what do you mean ? ’ ‘What I say. I should have thought my meaning was sufficiently clear. ’

‘ But you have granted the interview, and I asked for it only if you would give me hope.’ ‘You did; I am perfectly aware of that fact. You were good enough to state, in your note, the exact manner in which you wished me to act. It was very kind of you to arrange it all so charmingly, but, under the circumstances, I prefer keeping such arrangements in my own hands. I merely granted the interview because I wished to speak to you.’ ‘Woman ! ’ he said, in a low hoarse tone ; ‘ have you no mercy, no pity ? What does this mean ?’ This was too bad. Fitzgerald started up, with an angry flush on his face, and was about to speak, but I prevented him. ‘We must go through it now,’ I whispered; ‘ there’s no escape. ’ He saw it was so. The window, whether by design or accident I know not, was so filled with flowers, there was no possibility of escaping that way ; and the conversation had been carried too far to let us interrupt it. Fitzgerald sat down again, gnawing his lip with angry vexation. ‘You will understand it all presently,’ was Miss Fairleigh’s answer. Then, in a softened tone, she asked : ‘Do you love me very much ? ’ ‘ Love you ! Oh, Ida ! ’ And he poured forth a torrent of broken, impassioned words. I could not see, but I could feel how she looked—cold, stately, statuesque. It might even be smiling upon him—that cruel smile !

‘ I thought you did,’ she said. * I intended you should.’ ‘Then you do love me? Ida, why you torture me in this cruel way ? ’ ‘ Stay a moment; you rush at conclusions. How much do you love me ? ’

* How much ? How can I answer such a question ? ’ ‘Do you think you love me as much as the numerous unhappy girls you have allured with your heartless protestations have loved you?’ I heard the start he gave. *Ah ! that touches you, does it ? Then I will ask you another question. Do you love me as much as Lucy Herbert loved you ? ’ ‘ Good God ! ’ There was a short silence. ,Then she spoke again. ‘ Does the truth begin to dawn upon you ? Then listen. Lucy Herbert was my cousin, and as dear to me as a sister. You little dreamed that, did you, when you marked as your victim ? Do you know where she is now ? I do. And I swore I would revenge her wrongs, if ever I had the chance. I recognised you the moment I saw you, from a likeness of you in her possession, and I saw through all your wiles. Would you have tried another mock marriage ? I daresay you are an adept at arranging them. I have kept my vow. Poor Lucy is avenged ! Your mad passion will be, to your low nature, what her true, deep love was to her pure, gentle one ! You thought, with your handsome face and winning ways, to snare me, and you are caught in your own trap at last. Now you will know what some of your victims have suffered. In conclusion, I can only say that there is not on this earth a human being whom I despise and detest as Ido you. I rejoice in your shame and humiliation, and, still more, in the fact that it has witnesses. ’ I heard her dress rustle with the last words, as if she were moving, and in another moment she had touched the cord—the curtains ran lightly back—and we were in Berrington’s presence. He glanced at us for a moment. Then the whole depth of the humiliation she had inflicted on him seemed to open before him ; he looked at her with an expression I cannot recall now without a shudder, and, with a muttered oath, turned and left the room. She watched him with a triumphant look. ‘ She is avenged ! ’ she muttered.

‘ Cruelly, but wrongfully avenged, Miss Fairleigh ! ’ I said, sternly. * What right have you to seek vengeance by means of decit and perfidy ? ’ * You don’t know,’ she said. ‘ Yes, I do. I know the whole story.’ ‘ And you defend him ? ’ ‘No. I condemn you.’

She laughed. ‘Revenge is sweet,’ she said. ‘ The next time Igo to see poor Lucy I shall not come away with such a burning pain at my heart. ’ I looked steadily at her as she spoke, and then I understood better her strange, unwomanly conduct. There was a sort of gleam in her eyes, which boded ill for her own fate in future. lam not sure that then the passion for revenge had not almost reached madness. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you can hardly expect either Fitzgerald or myself to thank you for the part you have entrapped us into playing in this drama. So you will excuse us if we wish you good afternoon.’ ‘ Good afternoon,’ she replied, with a haughty inclination of her head. Both words and gesture said, as plainly as they could say it, ‘You have served my purpose, you may go.’ I never saw her again. Chapter VI. In no small anxiety as to the result of Miss Fairleigh’s vengeance, we drove back to the barracks. I told Fitzgerald the whole story. ‘ He’ll have to leave the regiment, ’ he said. ‘ She’ll let it out right and left, for the sake of vengeance, and it will be sure to reach the colonel’s ears. But what a fiend she is ! ’ I hardly heard his words. My mind was filled with a terrible dread of what might be the end of the drama. I was going in search of Berrington, when I met his servant. *Oh please, sir ! will you come to Captain Berrington. He’s come in, looking awfully bad, and I really don’t think he’s quite right about his head. He’s been drinking terribly hard the last few weeks, sir, ’ the man added, in a low tone. Berrington was a good master, and the man was fond of him. I went instantly to his quarters. He was lying on a sofa, perfectly quiet, almost stunned, it seemed to me. His face was sullen, and heavy. He deserved his fate ; I said to myself as I stood beside him, and yet I could not but pity him. I don’t think I ever saw suffering so indelibly stanped upon a human face. I could get nothing out of him, so at last I left him; charging his servant to keep near at hand, and let me know, the first thing the following morning, how his master had passed the night. I was roused the next morning, soon after six, by a knock, and the man entered, with an anxious face.

‘ I wish you’d come, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the way Captain Barrington’s going on. ’

‘ What is he doing ?’ ‘He’s done nothing, sir, the best part of the night, but walk up and down his room ; and once or twice I heard him sobbing like a baby. There’s something awfully wrong, sir, I’m sure. He seems to me just mad with pain, and I’m really afraid what he may do.’ ‘Very well; go back to your master. I will come in five minutes.’ I hastily dressed, and proceeded to Berrington’s quarters, determined to put in force the power which, as surgeon of the regiment, I possessed, if I found him insensible to all reasoning. A useless resolution. As I ascended the stairs his servant came out of the sittingroom to meet me, and at the moment a pistol-shot rang through the building. We made a rush at Berrington’s bedroom door. It was not fastened, and we were in his room in a moment. Too late, however. He had fired with the barrel of the pistol in his mouth, and was lying on the floor with it beside him. We laid him on the bed. I never saw him look so handsome ; and yet I thought it seemed as if, in less than twenty-four hours, he had shrunk to half his former size. It was the most perfectiy merited piece of retributive justice I ever came across. How great soever -his sins had been, I believe, in the wretchedness of those months of passion and suspense, and the culminating agony of those few hours, they were dearly paid for. Yet I think I should have acknowledged, more readily, he deserved his fate, if vengeance had fallen upon him in a different way. It might, perhaps, have been that, in his hours of pain and weakness, Ida Fairleigh might have revenged the wrongs of her sex by a purer and holier method. She must have heard what happened. I don't know what she thought. But I do know that, if called upon to decide, I should have found it hard to choose whether I would stand in Berrington’s place, or in her own.