LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2703, 6 December 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

VIEGINIA; OR, FAITHFUL UNTO

DEATH.

( Continued.)

A month passed T> ; two months. Virginia grew pale, lisJess, distraite. Her step was languid, her eye haggard. She did not know how to etrlure her life ; she suffered torments day ard night from an agonising desire to hoax' tie voice, to meet the eyes again which had given light to her cuul and in whose absence she felt it must needs perish of want. It was plain enough to her why ho avoided her. He had seen that she loved him; he would not encourage nopes m x.reast. Had ah s! not br“m warned, ere, ever sbo met him ta.it he abjured marriage r one rememoered, with a breaking heart, her own Hist words to him. saw the change in Virginia, he put it down entirely to tha effects of j» London season—to the late hours and the want of fresh air. Never mind! the end was near at hand, and then they would go and fill their lungs with mountain air and their eyes with fair scenes, and the roses would come back to her cheeks and lips, and the light to her eyes. He never for an instant connected his niece’s pallor with Philip Vansittart. He would have ridiculed the idea of people being twice in each other’s company, and breaking their hearts with longing afterwards. Mr Hayward, his sister, and Virginia, were dining at a Swiss table d’hote. Exactly opposite were two empty places. The fish had been served, when two gentlemen came in and took them. One was Philip Vansittart. At sight of him the crimson blood rushed to Virginia’s cheeks, then ebbed away, leaving her deathly pale. For a moment she thought she must swoon or die from the intensity of her feelings. Philip was scarcely less moved, though, being a man, ho was able to control his agitation better. When he had time to look more narrowly at Virginia, ho saw a mighty change in her. His heart smote him; and yet—had he not suffered ? Great Heaven! Had his been a bed of xoses ? Had ho not agonised after her ? Dinner over the party went off into the garden. A mutual unspoken desire made Vansittart and Virginia steal off together to a secluded spot. Twilight was creeping on—the last glow of a rosy sunset was fading away; the ■strains of a delicious waltz were borne towards them. Vansittart felt his passion mastering him. Ho made a Herculean effort over himself. Ho would speak. Ho would tell her the truth. After that she would forgot him. They "were sitting under a tree that screened them off from the rest of the garden. He could see well enough that she was trembling with nervousness ; that delight, fear, and expectation were blended in the beautiful eyes she turned towards him ; and, lost suddenly he should yield to that mad longing to catch her to his heart, he began to speak hurriedly—abruptly. But Virginia scarcely hears him. Her lips are burning to ask him that one question, and, not heeding what he is saying, she' turns, and in a tremulous voice that vibrates to his very soul, she says, ‘ Why have you kept away from us all this time ?’ Why? And Vansittart catches his breath. Thou the gyves of his strong will give way as the withes fell from Samson,

. ‘1 will tell you,’ he says : ‘I love you so hbrribly, that it is pain aud anguish to mo to bo with you, for then 1 feel that when I leave you I am ready to die of longing aud misery. ’

‘ Well V she utters in a very low voice,, bending her eyes on the ground. It is only one little won!, but it speaks such volumes ! ‘ Why should you leave me ?’ it says ; is it not my case, too ? What need you more than apeak ?’ ‘ You have heard,’ he goes on, not daring to look at her, ‘that I have forsworn marriage. Marriage,’ jjassiouately, ‘kills love, and I would rather, ten times over, suffer what I have suffered—and God knows that is not a little '. than a day should come when, having known such divine happiness as I should know were you mine, we should

grow cold and weary; when our passion should turn to indifference, our indifference to disappointment and heartburnings, and end, perhaps, in our cherishing feelings of vindictive spite and bitterness against eacli other, and in my thinking every woman pleasanter and fairer than you, and in your believing mo to be the greatest brute under Heaven !’

*Oh !’ utters Virginia, and she raises her eyes to his face with pained wonder. ‘ I have seen it a thousand times,’ ho continues vehemently; * I have known men passionately, madly in love with women, ready to count ‘ the world well lost,’ to sacrifice all the future only to call the idol of the moment theirs. I have seen them marry. I have watched the weariness that comes from security even more than from satiety, I have seen the links that were forge <1 in roses become gyves of iron—tenderness and courtesy give place to rudeness and contempt. ' I never saw but two people perfectly happy, and they/ lowering his voice, ‘wore not married, I have sworn a thousand times not to court wretchedness for myself and a woman I loved by loading her and myself with chains. My idea has been this. Some day I may meet with a being who, under natural circumstances, she keeping her freedom and me mine, I might love with all my heart and be faithful to until the day of my death. I would give her all I; possessed. I would devote myself t 6 making her happy ; if she had to sacrifice anything for my sake, I would atone to her for it by my unwearying love. But/ his voice mastered by emotion, ‘ bo w dare I say such words to you ? In the sphere in which you live they would be considered a dastardly insult—one must not dare to move one step from the beaten track of custom. The world would scoff at the idea that my love for you is more sacred and reverent than that of a man who, inspired by a momemtary passion for a woman and desiring her, obtains bis end by a simple and speedy means, without reflection as to the possible misery of both in the future. And yet/ his lips quivering, his face growing deathly white, 1 1 believe I could love you more dearly, love you longer, than husband ever loved wife/

Virginia sits rooted to the spot, a deadly anguish strangling her heart. Then, whilst the divine strains of music still flow on, she feels herself drawn to his heart; his lips meet hers in one long kiss that steals her very soul away from her. Ho is gone—the music has ceased —the night grows chill —she shivers. ‘ The world well lost/ she mutters to herself, and then, with listless steps, and strange, affrighted eyes, she drags herself upstairs to her room. In a charming house, surrounded by an acre of ground, turned by a cultivated taste into a small paradise, a house not more than two miles from Hyde Park corner, live Philip Vansittnrt and Virginia Hayward. The neighborhood knows them as Mr and Mrs Vansittart, and has not the very remotest conception that in so perfectly ordered an establishment there is anything which they would designate as ‘ odd/ If anything could arouse suspicion in the breasts of the servants who wait upon them, and the tradespeople who serve them, it would be the extraordinary tenderness subsisting between them; the excessive courtesy and consideration of Mr Vansittart for Mrs .Vansittart, and the entire absence of that familiarity commonly seen between affectionate husbands and wives, which almost invariably engenders subsequent contempt. The house is furnished with exquisite taste. Mr Vansittart is continually bringing home artistic treasures to add to its embellishments. Mrs Vansittart has a carriage and a fine pair of horses—she seldom, however, drives into town except to the play, or to dine. A great many gentlemen of distinction and rank come to the house who treat Mrs Vansittart like a queen, and a few ladies; clever, literary laches, ladies holding peculiar views—very rarely the consorts of the distinguished and well-horn men. Is Philip happy ? Is Virginia happy ? To this I can only reply by another question. Is any one happy ? They love each other with unfailing tenderness—they are all the world to each other —the thought of separation would be death to them. And yet the heart of either is gnawed by a secret worm. In the midst of his busy life, Philip can never forget that he has sacrificed the woman whom he adores from the very bottom of his soul, and the horrible .suspicion will stab him that he has sacrificed her needlessly. They are living as husband and wife, and yet no feeling of weariness, of satiety comet near them—each day draws them nearer together; makes them find fresh points in each -itjier to love and admire, she his wile, occupying her proper sphere it society, sought after, courted, admired, Ire with no feeling or -off, reproach, she with no consciousness (which she must feel though she never betrays) of cruelty and selfishness on his part; might they not even be happier ? He forgets to tell himself that they are happy because no tie hinds them —nay, he says secretly in his heart that that tie lq the only thing wanting make their facility perfect, riow it is too late. The world knows the truth—marriage can never whitewash Virginia in Society’s eyes—no future can condone the crime of the past. Ho haa settled every farthing he has in the world upon her—no mean fortune—he loads her with gifts—he is perpetually thinking of her pleasure anl amusement, and yet, for ever, the load cf his debt to ber weighs down his soul. And Virginia ? Philip is all in all fr> her; ho is her heart, her soul, her conscience, and yet he cannot shield her from the fate he has brought upon her. What must inevitably be the sufferings of a proud and pure-minded woman, who knows herself to be an object of scorn to her sex ? How would a man, naturally honorable and high-minded, feel, if, in some fatal moment, he had been tempted to commit a forgery, or take an unfair advantage at cards, and was afterwards shunned by every man friend; thrust out of every club, banned utterly from the society of his follows, except those with whom it would revolt him to associate P This is the only case that can parallel that of a woman, who has lost the world for a man’s sake ; and men who have a difficulty in realising how great is the sacrifice they compel or accept from a woman would do well to consider this.

Virginia suffered many a bitter pang when she showed herself in public with Philip. She quivered under the open •stare or look askance of members of her own sex; if she showed a bravo frontj it was that of the Spartan boy ! Philip was particularly fond of the opera and the play ; he would not have gone without her, so she accompanied him and made no demur. Of course every, relation and friend she had in the world shunned her as though she wore a leper, which indeed, morally, she was in their eyes. She loved society, no woman was more calculated to shine in it, and from this she was cut off. True, they constantly entertained brilliant and clever men, whose conversation and company were very agreeable to her ; but however much a woman may like, nay even prefer the society of men, it is a bitter thought to her that she cannot command that of her own sex. And, though men treated her with even a greater and more delicate courtesy than they would perhaps hare shown their own women, Virginia was none the less conscious of the moral ban under which she lay. She was the daughter of a clergyman, she had been religiously brought up, and she writhed under the terrible consciousness that her life was a sin against her God. If man could supply the place of God and Saviour now, whither should she fly when ho was torn from her or grew weary of her ? She was glad that she had no children—could she live to be shamed by them, scorned by them ? And yet—how sweet it would have been to feel clinging arms about her neck; to hear little voices lisp the sweetest word on earth to a mother’s ear, if only she might have been as other mothers—as other wives! Never, never once had she breathed or hinted a wish that Philip should marry her; she had a superstitious dread that once the chain was forged his love for her would cease—marriage could not now reinstate her in the world’s sight—she had ceased to remember that her life was a

crime. Twelve years elapsed, and during that time Virginia enjoyed unbroken health. Then, one winter, she caught a severe cold, which settled on her lungs ; her life was

despaired of. No woman was ever a more tender, more devoted nurse than Phillip. But this illness left her extremely delicate ; she could no longer brave all weathers as formerly, nor be Phillip’s constant companion in his walks and drives. She was forbidden to go out at night, and they had been so in the habit of going to the play, especially in the winter months. At first he insisted on remaining at home with her, but she was too unselfish to allow him to sacrifice himself. There was many an evening when she was unable to leave her room, and when talking would bring on severe paroxysms of coughing. She succeeded in prevailing upon him to visit the theatre without her, and sometimes even to dine with a friend. After a time he got into the habit of going about alone, and although he was even more tender and considerate than before, she felt an agonising consciousness that he could, after all, do without her, which he had sworn ten thousand times he never could. She began to have sleepless nights and passionate fits of crying. Nemesis was coming upon her with gigantic strides, Phillip did not suspect that she was unhappy. He thought her illuess affected her spirits. A great change had come over her, which ho deplored. She was no longer the bright, amusing companion of yore. To be continued.