CHAPTER XVI.

THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.

Miss Eliza Halstead was not a person at all likely to leave any stone unturned which lay in the path of her love. She knew something of the power which beauty has over a young heart, and feared Savage might seek some explanation that would exculpate Anna Burns from the evil that she had imputed to her—for so powerful is genuine innocence that even prejudice feels its influence, let circumstances be ever so much against it.

Scarcely had Savage left the house, when Miss Eliza put on her lilac bonnet, with its crush-roses and point-lace. Carefully she smoothed the strings, and puffed out the bows with her long fingers, leaving pink shadows all around her face, almost as effective as the bloom of youth. When she had sufficiently elaborated this portion of her toilet, she wrapped a costly shawl around her, and stole softly out of the house, resolved to keep her visit and its object a secret.

Mrs. Savage was at home; and would she walk directly up stairs.

Yes. Miss Eliza swept her trailing silks up the broad staircase, settling her shawl as she went—for she was forever arranging and rearranging her dress, in-doors and out. Twice she paused before a mirror, impanneled in the wall, and examined the flow of her long skirt, over both shoulders, before she entered the room in which Mrs. Savage was waiting, with Miss Eliza’s card in her hand.

“What can she mean?” murmured the lady, reading over some writing in pencil above the name. “Something to communicate of the utmost importance to the honor of the family—but here she comes. My dear Miss Halstead, I am delighted! How good of you to come. Sit down here; you will find it more comfortable.”

No. Miss Eliza preferred to sit with her back to the light. It took her some minutes to compose her drapery; but at last she settled down in the crimson easy-chair, like some tropical bird in its nest, and was ready for the occasion.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” observed Mrs. Savage, with her blandest smile. “What a color the air has given you.”

“Yes,” answered Miss Eliza, tightening her glove. “My complexion is so exquisitely sensitive, that a breath of air brings the bloom to my cheeks.”

Mrs. Savage smiled a graceful acquiescence to this self-praise, and hoped Miss Eliza would never feel, as she did, any lack of youthful bloom.

“When the time comes,” Miss Eliza said, with a smile of conscious superiority, “I must submit, like others. But, Mrs. Savage, I came on a painful and humiliating errand; excuse me, if I am compelled to give you pain; but, after your great kindness in throwing me into the same picture with your son, I feel like a traitor till you know all.”

Mrs. Savage bent her stately head, and replied that she was listening with attention.

“After that evening, which seemed to give a dawning hope of union between the houses of Savage and Halstead, you will imagine, dear lady, that my thoughts, hopes, prayers, were all hovering around your son. Knowing well that our mutual passion had maternal sanction, I allowed the pent-up feelings of a too ardent nature to gush forth, till I fear your noble son saw too clearly into the state of my affections. I strove to conceal the rush of tender emotions that awoke to the sound of his very footstep; but there are souls so transparent, that a child can read them. For a time, dear lady, all was hope, all was happiness; true as the needle to the pole myself, I had profound confidence in your son. For a time his conduct was all that the most devoted heart could desire—I was his ideal, his love, his divinity. Though he was too delicate to say all this, I felt it, madam, in the very core of this heart.”

Here Miss Eliza pressed a fold of a shawl that covered her bosom, and went on.

“Then came a frost—a killing frost! Oh! my dear madam—mother, may I not call you? that girl—that creature—who received your bounty but to betray it, has broken in upon my pure dream of happiness. Your son has, for some time, left the refinements which circle around my home, and, regardless of breaking the heart that has learned to adore him, has given his time and his attentions to that creature.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Savage, starting up from her elegant apathy, her face flaming with passion, her plump hand clenched, “my son—my son, Horace Savage, visiting Anna Burns! Miss Halstead, you are crazy with jealousy; stung to death in your vanity, to say such things of him. Why, he is proud as I am, honest as his father. I do not believe this!”

Eliza Halstead was rather pleased with this outbreak. She saw in it a sure termination of the attachment which, in her belief, certainly existed. That which she had failed to do, that haughty woman would accomplish, she felt certain.

“You are severe, unkind, to doubt me so,” was her pathetic rejoinder. “I have seen them together in the street.”

“That is nothing, of course; he would speak to her or any other person, poor and dependent. A Savage is too proud for arrogance. If that is all the proof you have, permit me to say that your absurd jealousy has outrun all common sense.”

“Madam!” exclaimed Miss Eliza—and the angry red outflamed the permanent color on her cheek—“Madam, I have seen him enter the low house where she lives, not once, but half a dozen times. I have seen him walking, block after block, with her down such streets as you never entered in your life.”

“But you were there, it seems.”

“A woman’s heart will take her anywhere when she suspects the object of her love.”

“Miss Halstead—but it is useless arguing with you, utterly useless; there is no fool like an old fool!”

This very trite adage was muttered under the lady’s breath; but Miss Eliza had sharp ears, and caught the word fool.

“What did you say, madam?” she demanded, sharply.

“Oh, nothing! only that I was an old fool, to believe any thing alleged against my son.”

“Believe what you like, think what you like,” answered the spinster, who was not so easily deceived; “I have done my duty—a painful, sad duty. All that I ask of you, his mother, is silence—secrecy; profound secrecy as to my part in the affair. Owing all loyalty to him, I have come here to betray him to his own mother. It breaks my heart; do not, I pray you, madam, add one pang to those which rend it now. Remember the relations which may one day unite us, and be faithful to the trust I have reposed in you.”

Mrs. Savage was by this time pacing up and down her sumptuous sitting-room, trampling upon the flowers in its map-like carpet as a tigress treads upon the grass of its jungle. She was dreadfully annoyed; all the pride and unbounded affection which she had lavished on her son, rose in revolt against the tidings Miss Eliza had brought her. Now that her suspicions were aroused, she remembered many little circumstances calculated to confirm Miss Eliza’s statement. As this belief grew strong upon her, the color left her face, and she sat down in her chair, stern and cold, doubting, unbelieving.

“You are sure of this thing?” she said, speaking in a slow, still voice. “This is no phantasy of a jealous imagination?”

Miss Eliza drew close to the woman whom she had come deliberately to wound, and took her hand. She dearly loved to create a sensation of any kind, and took the pallor and distress in that proud face as a personal compliment.

“Do not distress yourself, sweet friend, my almost mother; but have faith, as I do, in the immutable truth of love. He may wander away from me; he may have one of those fleeting fancies for another which sometimes disturb the most faithful heart, but in the end he will return; he will be mine—all mine!”

A smile quivered around Mrs. Savage’s mouth, spite of her distress; but it passed away, leaving a stern expression there. The evil was too serious not to sweep away all sense of ridicule in her mind.

“Now tell me quietly, and in as few words as possible, exactly what you have seen or know about this affair. Excuse me if I have seemed rude; but you took me by surprise. Now let me know the whole.”

“I have told you all, sweet friend—that is, all as regards your son; but as for that artful young person, Burns, really, as a young girl, hedged in from such knowledge by all sorts of refinement, I cannot tell you, without burning blushes, how unworthy she is.”

Mrs. Savage half started from her chair.

“You surprise, you astonish me,” she said. “If ever innocence was depicted in a face, I thought it was in hers.”

“She is artful enough to deceive you. She has deceived your son. Even Georgiana will believe nothing against her.”

“If she is what you say, there is little danger for Horace; there is too much refinement and discrimination in his character for a deception of that kind to last long with him,” said the mother.

Miss Eliza instantly took the alarm. She saw that Mrs. Savage had too much faith in her son’s principles for any fear of a person who could shock them, and with crafty adroitness sought to undo the impression she had made.

“Perhaps I have gone too far,” she said, retreating gracefully. “My own love of truth is so profound, that the least deviation seems to me like a crime. She professes to be every thing that is meek and good, yet I cannot believe in it. Without some falsehood, some deception, she could not have won such influence over a heart that is, in reality, all mine, as those who saw him kneeling at my feet that night must have felt.”

“Let that pass,” broke in Mrs. Savage, with a gesture of impatience. “You really know nothing against this girl, except that she is beautiful and lovely?”

“I never said she was beautiful,” cried Miss Eliza. “Never!”

“But I know that she is, and, to all appearance, a modest, well-bred girl. Seeing all this, I was an idiot to introduce her as I did.”

“I thought so all the time,” said Miss Eliza, demurely. “Not that I think of her as beautiful or well-bred—far from it; but those artful young creatures do fascinate men some way quite unaccountably. I cannot bear to think of it.”

“You are sure that he visits her house?”

“Sure as I am of my own life.”

“And that he walks with her in the street?”

“I have seen him join her not a block from your own door, and never leave her till she reached that which leads to her rooms in the garret of a tenement-house where she now resides.”

“Where is this house?”

Miss Eliza reluctantly gave the street and number where Anna Burns lived.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Savage; “you have done me a great service. I will think what steps had best be taken in the matter.”

“And you will keep my visit a secret? Situated as we are, he might think it indelicate for me to interfere.”

“I will not mention your name in the matter,” answered Mrs. Savage, wearily.

Miss Eliza arose, shook out the drapery of her dress, kissed Mrs. Savage with elaborate affection, and left the room, well satisfied with the work she had done.

Mrs. Savage was a proud, impetuous woman, well calculated for a leader in social life, and in all respects the mistress of her own house. Such women are usually ardent in their attachments; willing to die for those they love; ready to turn the world over in their behalf; but well disposed to regulate and control the happiness they are so earnest in securing.

There was no being in the world to whom young Savage was so much attached as his mother. There was something chivalric in his admiration of her talent, and in the loving pride that he felt in her womanliness. He saw her by the graceful force of a superior will governing other women, and charming strong men into her service. He knew that she was grand in her magnanimity when it was once aroused; but sometimes more disposed to be generous than just, when the tide of her strong prejudices set in against the truth. She was, indeed, a woman of whom any son might well have been proud—full of faults, and rich in magnificent virtues. For the world he would not have given this woman pain; for he, above all others, knew what a cruel thing pain was to her. For this reason he had, perhaps, unconsciously kept his knowledge of Anna Burns a secret from her until quite assured that this feeling, which seemed so like love, was an enduring passion; he would not disturb his mother by confessing it. There was nothing like domestic treason in this. The young man was not quite sure of himself. Refined, fastidious, and over-educated as he was, the feelings which sprang up in his heart regarding this girl were a wonder to his own mind. They were so opposed to all his relations in life that he could not believe in them; yet they were there strong as his life.

About the time that he learned of Ward’s residence in the same house with Anna Burns, he had resolved to open his heart to his mother, and tell her all. Savage had at this time resolved to make Anna Burns his wife. The first step he took in that direction was to seek Georgiana Halstead, and ask her aid in removing the object of his love to a less revolting home, and in surrounding her with associates kindred to her character rather than her position. This done, he fully intended to make that proud mother his next confidant.

A single hour had swept all these honorable projects from his mind. He had listened with scornful incredulity to the charges made against the lady of his love by Miss Eliza. But his own eyes were not to be disbelieved; the evidence of that roughly honest landlady had been complete. He had been about to sacrifice himself to an artful, unprincipled girl, who could share love, true and generous as his, with a creature like that Ward. He had seen them together; he had seen her hand in his. He knew that they dwelt under the same squalid roof. It was enough. Never, in this world, would he mention that girl’s name to his mother. She had wronged him too cruelly.

Savage, stung to the soul with these feelings, sent a note to his mother that he was going into the country for a few days—and went away, in what direction he neither knew nor cared. He had been humiliated, wounded in his love and in his pride beyond bearing; so much as he had been willing to give up for the sake of that girl’s love—and she knew it. The infatuation must have been coarse and deep which could have led her from the prospects his love would have secured, to the evil fortunes of that gambler.

Mrs. Savage received her son’s note just after Eliza Halstead left the house. She was glad to know that he had left town. In her present state of feeling she could not have met him with the equanimity which her pride demanded. While he was gone, she would see this girl, and sweep away the temptation that had beset him, if eloquence or money could do it.

It was honorable to the mother, and most honorable to the son, that Mrs. Savage never once imputed a dishonorable thought to the visits that had been described to her—proud, generous women like her are not apt to think the worst of human nature. She would have felt as much degraded by an immoral or dishonorable act in her son, as if it had fastened upon her own person.

“If I do not prevent it, he will marry this girl,” she said; “and I, fool that I was, have cast her in his way. There is poor Georgiana wronged and deserted. Not that he ever said much to her; but I had so set my heart on it, that every word I said to the dear child was a promise. Heaven bless that vicious old maid for warning me in time! What a character she is—how silkily she kept down the venom of her tongue. I wonder Halstead can endure her in the house.”

Thus Mrs. Savage wandered in her thoughts as she closed her son’s note. She had received a hard blow, but women like her do not spend much time in recrimination when work is to be done.

“I will go at once,” she thought. “This may be nothing serious, after all; Horace is so generous, and he knew of their poverty. This may only be one of his private charities, which the old maid has tortured into a love romance.”

Mrs. Savage followed out these thoughts by ringing for her maid, and ordering her shawl and bonnet to be brought down; but the girl had hardly left the room when a servant came from the hall, and inquired if Mrs. Savage could spare a minute to the young person who came so often about the fine sewing?

“Let her come up—let her come up,” answered the lady, in eager haste. “Mary, you need not get the things; I shall not go out just now.”

Anna Burns came into the room softly as a tear falls. She was pale, and a sad sweetness made her face touchingly lovely.

“I have brought the work home,” she said, laying a roll of embroidered muslin on the table, and leaning against the marble for support. “And—and I have come to say that grandmother does not think it best that I should take any more.”

Anna’s voice shook, and the woman who listened knew that it trembled through suppressed tears.

“Why do you give up work?” she inquired, with unconscious sympathy in her voice.

“I—I——Because grandmother thinks it best. Carrying home the work takes me a good deal into the street, and she does not think that good for me.”

“Your grandmother is a prudent woman. But how are you to live without work?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I can find something to do that wont take me away from home just at present, at least.”

Mrs. Savage took up the roll of work and began to examine it. Woman of the world as she was, something gentle and good about that girl prevented her speaking out as she had proposed do. The sad, wistful look turned upon her bespoke too much sorrow for ungentle handling.

“Sit down,” she said, gently, as if she had been addressing a naughty child, “I wish to speak with you.”

Anna sat down with a frightened look, and trembling a little as the lady could see.

“You know my son, Anna Burns?”

“Yes; yes, madam, a little—that is, I did.”

“He has been to your house?”

“To our rooms you mean, lady? Yes, he has been there.”

“More than once?”

“Oh, yes! more than once. We—we did not think there was any harm in it.”

Anna’s eyes were filling with tears; her lips quivered like those of a grieved child just before it bursts into a cry.

“Did he help you——”

“Madam!”

“Did he give you money? Was it for that he came?”

“Money? Oh! he would not do that. Grandmother is a lady; and no one ever offers her money, most of all, Mr. Savage.”

There was no deception here. Those eyes were lifted to the proud woman’s questioning, clearly and purely as the stars of heaven shine on earth. Mrs. Savage hesitated and looked down, there was too much of the woman in her heart not to shrink from the task she had imposed on herself.

At last she took the girl’s hand in her own, and felt that it trembled there like a frightened bird.

“Anna Burns, has my son ever said that he loved you?”

Anna struggled to free her hand.

“Oh, madam! Oh, lady! this is punishing me too much!”

“Answer me, Anna, I mean nothing unkind; but I must know. Has my son ever said that he loved you?”

Anna sat upright. Her face had been scarlet a moment before; now it was white as snow.

“Yes,” she said, with gentle firmness. “He has said that he loved me more than once.”

“And you believed him?”

“Believed him? Oh, yes!”

“One question more, Anna. Do you love him?”

“Lady, I am a very young girl, and hardly know what love is. But I hope God will forgive me if it is wrong to think so often and so much of Mr. Savage!”

“This is very sad,” murmured the lady; and she held the little hand in hers closer when she spoke again.

“Has he ever said any thing about marrying you, Anna?”

“I think so. It seemed to me that it was what he meant; but that was before—”

“Before what, Anna?”

“I don’t know. I would rather not talk any more about it, madam, if you please.”

“Anna, let me talk seriously with you. There is a great distinction between you and my son.”

“I know it—I know it. Grandmother said exactly those words.”

“He cannot marry you.”

“Oh! madam.”

“You must save him from the ruin such a step would bring upon him.”

“Ruin?”

“Yes, ruin! I, his mother, never would consent. He would lose his high place in society. He would regret the step within a month after it was taken.”

Anna grew paler and paler, the quivering of her lips became convulsive.

“That is the reason—that is why he would not speak to me. Oh! madam, my heart is breaking.”

“Better the pain now than when it is too late, child. Give him up—give him up, and I will see that neither you nor yours shall ever want.”

“It is too late—too late, lady. He has given me up. I understand it all now. Let me go home. I am faint—so, so fain——”

The sentence died out in a murmur on those white lips. Anna had fainted at the proud woman’s feet.