THE SALE OF A SOUL.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume X, Issue 26, 1 July 1893, Page 616

THE SALE OF A SOUL.

A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE.

o IN FOUR PART S — By C. M. S. MCLENNAN.

SYNOPSIS. The story opens on a Saturday night in a back parlour of Terence Fitzgerald’s bar. The beautiful daughter of mine host. Maggie, is asked to sing. The performance is in'errupted by the entrance of two gentlemen in evening dress. One of them exclaims, addressing the singer. You are superb.’ which excites the wrath of some of the low-class frequenters of the place. The landlord comes in. and the strangers go off with him. One of them tells Fitzgerald that his daughter is simply magnificent. and that her proper place is in fashionable Society, (’hap er 11. shows how the bar-tender fights a slum admirer of Maggie s who threw a glass at her. Prescott—the gentleman who thinks the girl too good for her present social position-talks about her to Curzon, one of his club friends, who tries to reason him out of his idea, saying that the girl is happy where she is, and does not find her surroundings uncongenial. Prescott is, however, too much interested in the slend* r. elegant, and lovely Maggie to give up his plan of introducing her to society. Accordingly he again interviews her father, promises that his aunt, a maiden lady of the highest integrity and standing shall chaperone the girl, and finally persuades Fitzgerald to allow bis child to be made a great lady. Chapter 111. At a magnificent ball at Mrs Bensingham-Jones’, Prescott and his aunt introduce the beautiful Maggie—now known as Margaret Fitzgerald—to the best society in New York. She creates an immense sensation. Prescott leaves the dance, and he and Curzon—who is perfectly charmed with Margaret, though he does not know who she is—go for a stroll. Prescott parts from Curzon at his club. He meets Da venant, the man who admired Margaret in her old life. The two men quarrel, Prescott is shot. Chapter IV. In the Belie Vue Hospital, he slowly recovers, but pretends he does not know who his assailant is. Davenant sends Margaret a note threatening to reveal her fast life. The girl goes to see Prescott in the hospital and tells him she must return to her old life. He begs her to remain with Miss Prescott, but seems indifferent to her. She, loving him deeply, is so pained that she resolves to tell her chaperon of her intention at once. Finding on her return to Miss Prescott some lovely roses from Curzon, she changes her mind, clenches her fists viciously, and says, * I’ll not go home—not yet!’ Chapter V. The companion of Bryce Prescott the night he discovered Margaret and persuaded her father to turn her into a fine lady was a Mr Jack Morris. He suddenly returns from an English tour, knowing nothing of what Prescott has done. When he sees the new beauty he at once recognizes her. He finds Prescott, who has just recovered from his wound, and demands an explanation, saying that the girl’s engagement to Curzon has just been announced, and it is a shame to deceive a good old friend like that. Prescott turns deadly pale, but goes at once with Jack to tell Curzon all. He finds Margaret’s slum admirer has already told him ‘ But, Dick, you won’t marry her now.’ says Prescott. * I married her three hours ago, is the answer which reveals to Prescott that he himself deeply loves Margaret, and has now’ lost her. The Curzons go to London, where Margaret excites much admiration. In their opera-box one night. Prescott—on a tour round the world — joins them. Margaret tells him she married to revenge herself on him. She dares not think. The bad taint is in her. She can only go on living always despicable, but content and satisfied. ‘lf you could see into my heart!’ she says.

VI.—CONTINUED. WYVERN and Curzon had left the box, and these two were alone. Prescott sat gazing tf3t straight back into Margaret’s eyes, trying to read the mystery of her most strange mind. • Why do you condemn yourself like this before me ’’ he asked. •I am not sitting in judgment over you. I have not even criticised y° u ’ ‘ No,’ she rejoined. * You are too generous •* a-.d too well bred. lam ill bred, and must talk excitedly and hysterically. I shall feel better if you know how base I think myself, and so I am confessing to you. I tell you that all my beauty and virtue are in my face. In my heart is an hypocrisy that frightens even me. They call me patient, gentle and unassuming. Why should I not be when I feel the whole world under my heel ? But when for one instant I thought of giving up all this triumph and going back to the saloon, I saw myself as what I am—a tigress who will have her way at any cost. Look into my eyes, Bryce Prescott, and hear me say that what I ought to be as a girl of the slums, 1 am. It only nee led different influence r to awaken the vulgarian within me. Nothing is sacred to me now. This man 1 have married is a saint, but I am ready—to deceive him—this very night.’ ‘ Sh,’ said Prescott, springing to his feet in alarm as Curzon re-entered the box. And Margaret, trembling like an aspen, looked away over the great auditorium and saw nothing but blackness. Curzon told Prescott that he must dine in Belgrave Square on the following night, and then as the curtain was up again, the young man made his adieux and left the box and the opera house. He walked forth into the night, his head throbbing, and those final words of Margaret’s ringing in his ears. He saw plainly now the fearful results of his wild and inexcusable act m attempting to contravene the laws of nature and society by revolutionizing the life and habits of this woman. It had been the same sort of fatuity that seeks to civilise and Christianise the Indian. The savage spirit continued to lurk under the smooth browand gentle gaze, ready and sure to burst forth in a wild tlame w hen the power of selfrepression was worn out. What a simpleton, what a ridiculous and contemptible dreamer he had been ! How the world, if it could learn the w hole truth, would laugh as it despised him ! I p to this moment his confidence in a possible grandeur of character in Margaret had been sustained. Her apparent heartlessness in turning her back upon him and his aunt, and marrying Curzon without explanation or decorous publicity, he could forgive. He could allow that she might be im|>etuous, unreasonable, thoughtless, lacking in a correct sense of the proper fitness of things, but even when she had gone away under these circumstances he still thought of her as being staunch in

her pride and virtue, and promised himself that if she had built a cross she would bear it without a murmur. And now, when he met her for the first time, when the whole earth was her playground, and that best and truest of men, who could find no word of blame for her or himself in their deception of him, was devoting his life to her happiness, he learned from her own lips that she was not only ungrateful, but false and shameless. And as bis heart turned against her the vision of her supreme beauty, her heavy, terrible eyes, her red, wreathing mouth, her broad, bare, snowy shoulders, came before him and filled his brain with furies. Like a fool, without rhyme or reason, he had put this woman in possession of endless power for evil. His best

friend bad become her victim, that great heart that must soon break was hers to despise, and he, the idiot, the cad, the everything detestable, was going mad nrw with love for her—not tor Zier—but for her lips, her arms, her infamous caresses ! He turned in at the Carlton Club, and the first voice he heard was uttering her name. Two young men were chattering together. • Wyvern is hard hit,’ said one. *He hasn’t left the beauty’s side since she arrived in town.’ He plunged into the streets again and walked, walked, with the cool night air fanning his burning cheeks. It mav not have been voluntary, bnt his footsteps led him to Belgrave Square, and he passed by the Curzon house. It was lighted, but silent. Evidently they had not returned. He paced about the deserted locality until at last a carriage rumbled into view and drew up to the curb. Curzon alighted and helped out his wife. Prescott stood at some distance in the shadow and watched them, feeling like a thief. The footman, instead of mounting to his seat again beside the driver, stood bolding the open door of the carriage, and after a moment Curzon descended the steps of the house, and, giving directions to the servant, was driven rapidly away. Prescott hurried forward and up to the house door, giving the bell a hard pull. The door was instantly opened by a butler, and as the interior light poured out into the darkness Prescott discovered Margaret, half way up the grand staircase, turning to see why her husband had returned. ‘ I’m sorry you missed Richard,’ she said for the servant’s benefit, as she descended and held out her hand to Prescott. * However, be will be back in half an hour, and you must wait for him.’

She led him into the drawing-room. When the footeteps of the butler bad died away down the marble coriidor, she tntned, in all her magnificence, and faced him, defiantly, grandly, but shamelessly, as Cleopatra might have faced Antony when they were first alone. He looked at her from head to foot, and as he trembled with fear he asked : ‘ Are you then so changed ?’ She smiled in a dreamy fashion. * Tt is only an awakening.’ she said. He turned his eyes from her and fought to control himself. He would go through one final scene with Margaret, abase himself before her, counsel her for her good, and then go from her and never see her again. He would sink no lower than he had in his own eyes ; he would at least be loyal to her husband, his poor, duped friend. • I have come here,’ he began, still keeping his gaze averted, • because your words in the theatre to night opened my eyes to the fact that I am not only a fool but a villain.’ He paused, but she did not speak. ‘You were once—a good woman,’ he went on. And in a bitter tone he heard her say : ‘I am still a good woman—in the way the world calls good. ’ He turned and looked upon her. He drew himself up, and a new strength coursed through him. ‘Yon are still good’’ be cried, holding out a hand appealingly to her. ‘ You have not yet—’

‘ T have not yet sinned,’ she replied. ‘ But your words to-night ?’ She gazed back at him. • What were they ?’ she asked, still looking into his eyes. The fatal words again rang through his brain, and he fell back frightened as Margaret advanced like a panther toward him. He pnt out his bands and found hers, warm and clinging, within them. ‘ Margaret—Margaret,’ he gasped. ‘ let me save myself and yon I did not understand. I thought—l was too late —but you say lam not. I will save you ’ —this through his clenched teeth —* I have wrought misery enough, and I—listen to me. 1 loathe you as you now are—no, no ! not that, for I made you so ; but let me at least retain a few shreds of my manhood. It was a mistake, Margaret, a fearful mistake for me to make ; but it you will only conquer this madness now, you will still be the noble woman 1 hoped to see you. Your husband is a man for you to honour, and he is my friend. Be true to him and worthy of yourself. Do not give up, Margaret. It is not, a failure yet. You are still the best and greatest of women, Margaret. ’ She never once took her searching gaze from his. She heard his words and responded to them as he went along, with impatient tosses of the head and an angry sound in her throat. •It is too late,’ she replied when he had finished. ‘ Life is hopeless now. lam married to him— and you drove me to it.’

‘ Yon ! I loved you and you despised me.’ ‘ Margaret !’ ‘lt is true. It never occurred to you that I could l>e your wife. You used me as a puppet in a mere experiment that amused you. And why do you think I was willing to become such a puppet? For the sake of being gaped at in a ballroom ’ Ah, if you only knew how little I cared for all that—until after I had learned that you were indifferent to me, that I was not good enough for you. It was then, and not until then, that the devil took control of me. From that moment I went my own way like an adventuress and sold my soul. I did not have to hunt for a victim. Your friend was rich, very rich, and with great influence everywhere. I married him, and so good an actress am I that he has never guessed my indifference to him. No one ever can guess anything of me. You cannot. I have to lay my heart bare before you, or else you, too, are blind. You are still anxious to believe in my goodness and high character, and force me to tell you deliberately as I stand here looking through your eyes and deep into your heart that in spite of my husband, in spite of yourself, I love you, love you, love you !’ Her arms had reached his neck, and she hung heavily back, gazing into his eyes. He felt helpless and weary, like a man suddenly flung into raging waters. He closed his eyes to shut out her face, and bis heart cried out for

strength to cast her oil. It might have come ; indeed, he felt stealing into him as he stood motionless there a power to loathe this frenzied woman. He opened his eyes, hoping that the sight of her countenance would disgust him, and as he opened them he looked first at her and then beyond her; and there, holding the curtain aside, and staring straight at him, stood Curzon, like a ghost, the despair of death in his eyes, the pain of eternity sealed upon his face. For an instant that seemed hours there was not a movement. Then Margaret, noticing the fixed horror-stricken gaze of Prescott, turned and discovered her husband. She drew away from Prescott, caught her breath convulsively, and after a moment said : ‘ Well, this is what you should have expected of me.’ Her husband turned and looked upon her sadly, and advancing. took her hand and quietly put her behind him. Then, facing Prescott, who could no longer meet his gaze, but stood in an abject attitude, with head bowed, he said in clear tones : ‘ Your father was killed for stealing into another man’s home. The habit and fate may run in the family. At all events, we will see if this is true. You will leave my house now. and my friends will wait on von later.’ •He is not to blame,' broke out Margaret. ‘ The fault is mine.’ Curzon turned sharply upon her, and a quick fire lighted his gaze.

* Perhaps that is the reason,’ he said, • that I do not kill him where he stands.’ Without lifting his head, without a glance at either Curzinor Margaret, Prescott passed from the room and out into the night. VII. The sun beat down on the white, dreary beach, the waves tumbled along the shingle with a lazy boom, and the gulls swimming overhead looked out of their clear brown eyes upon the strange group of men that paced to and fro on the usually deserted shore. It was a radiant day. and the Channel shimmered and danced under a sky of unblemished blue. Prescott gazed over the surface of the sea and fell to thinking of the treachery that was hidden in the smiles of the silvery waters. Like her, they appealed to the soul with their dazzling and placid beauty, but within their depths lurked utter cruelty, as it lurked in her wicked heart. It was at a point a few miles from Boulogne. Prescott was waiting to be killed by the man he fancied he had wronged. His seconds, two young officers of the English army whose services he bad called in, walked arm-in-arm np and down the beach, talking together in subdued tones. Prescott looked out at the sparkling waves as he stood alone, and did not speak.

Presently another figure appeared over the brow of the low sunburnt hill just back of the beach, and Prescott’s seconds advanced towards the newcomer. The latter lifted his hat and delivered some speech in a punctilious manner. Prescott’s friends listened, and after a moment of consulta tion approached him. ‘ There will be no duel, Mr Prescott,’ said one. Prescott turned an inquiring gaze upon the speaker. ‘ No duel ?’ he echoed. But he—Curzon—what ’— He stopped, awaiting an explanation. ‘Your opponent,’ said the young officer, ‘was found dead in his room early this morning. ft is believed he committed suicide.’ Prescott turned his face away and looked out over the sea again. The waves murmured a reproach to him, like a voice coming from another world, like his voice. This last news conld not deepen his misery, however. He had been thoroughly abased, utterly broken before. He had determined to allow Curzon to kill him. ami actually dreaded lest an accident should save him. Now he, the noble, upright, true friend had found life so appalling that he hail—— Pre-scott paused in his thoughts. Suicide was cowardly lie had heard Curzon say that often. Why should he, at the moment he was planning to avenge bis honour, have turned the weapon upon himself ? Ami at that moment a wave broke angrily far up the beach, and somehow it recalled the fierce sound, that sor of animal’s growl, that had come from Margaret, when h

had pleaded with her to respect her husband and be true to him. Could she One of the young officers took Prescott's arm, and softly said that the boat left for Folkestone in an hour, and they had better depart. A carriage was waiting in the road back of the hill. The party entered it, and were soon rattling along toward Boulogne. Arriving in London Prescott went at once to his lodgings. He had left no word when be departed the day before, having commissioned hie seconds to arrange all matters for him after the meeting in France. Therefore when he entered his rooms he found them entirely undisturbed, with his own things in their accustomed places. On the centre table in his parlour was a letter. He broke it open, and read : Thursday morning. Will you not come to me 1 Please, please, come. Margaret. He fiercely tore the paper into bits and Hung them from him. With Curzon lying dead in the room with her, she had written thus to him ! What a bloodless viper she was ! He glared down upon the fragments of the letter and ground his heel over them viciously. A faint perfume from the paper lingered in the air. It reminded him of her when she wore violets on her breast. And be tried to think that it nauseated him, and, hurrying to the window, he threw them violently wide open, while the blood Hooded bis face and he trembled with rage. Hours passed, and he remained in his rooms. The servant came to light the lamps when it grew dark, but Prescott stopped him, saying he would light them later himself. He sat by the window with eyes closed and head bowed, motionless in his torture. The moon ascended to the centre of the sky and cast a pale, cool light over the apartment. From the quiet street below only the sound of an occasional footstep on the sidewalk or the soft pad of a passing cab horse on the moist wooden pavement came to his ear. The house preserved its customary stillness, the gentle closing of a door or the shuttle of a servant’s step in the hall being the sole signs of lite in the place. There was the vague hum and murmur of the real, raging London life away beyond there, but Prescott felt as though he sat alone in a desert, without friends, without hope. At last his hand fell from his eyes and he raised his head quickly. For a long time he gazed straight ahead into space, but finally he turned, slowly, and as though he were struggling to resist some terrible fascination. As he turned he rose gradually to bis feet and stretched forth his hand to push something away. He had felt a presence in the room, and it had struck terror to his heart. His gaze was drawn steadily and surely round to meet those eyes that glowed there in the shadow. There was no escape. He was standing face to face with her. How she had got there he could not say, and it did not matter. Theie she stood, pale as maible, her eyes shining luminously, engulfing him in their light. The uppermost thought in Prescott’s mind broke from his lips in a tone of ineffable scorn and loathing. * You killed him,’ he said. She winced as though he had struck her in the face ; then recovered herself. * I did not kill him,’ she replied. And then, after a pause. ‘ But I am not sorry he killed himself.’ He believed her. He believed that in her mood she would have proudly confessed, had she murdered her husband. She would be as magnificent in sin and crime as she had first appealed to him in her virtue. And she would hardly have seemed more of a fiend to him than she did now, had her hand really shed Curzon’s blood. She had killed him far more cruelly than if she had sent a bullet into his brain. And without pity, without a pang of regret, she could stand there in a halo of moonlight and say that she was not sorry she was free of him. She was a monster. Prescott took a step towards her and raised his hand above her head. ‘ Go out of my presence,’ he muttered fiercely ; ‘ go, or I will strike you down, and stamp yon out of existence, as all snakes deserve. Go ; and as you go, hear me say that I hate you. Do yon understand ’ I hate yov.' She only looked steadily into his eyes, and murmured : ‘ I love you.’ He drew back, quelled by the tenderness of her voice, and, sinking into a chair, Hung bis arms over the table and buried his face in them, uttering a groan of despair and weakness. There was a long silence, and then her voice stole whisperingly to his ear. She seemed very near to him, perhaps on her knees by his side. ‘There is a world,’ she began, ‘a beautiful world, somewhere, far away, where there are only roses and sunshine and love, and where all wickedness fades out of the heart, leaving peace and affection in its place. I know there is. such a world, and if I could only reach it the madness that has ruled me for so long would vanish, and I would be as you once saw me—good and worthy. 1 cannot find that world alone. Only one hand can guide me there —yours. I have been weak, irresolute, cruel, but in that other life I shall find strength, and I cannot err in ever so small a way, for my love will always lead me in the path of duty. I know myself now. There has been a demon in my heart, but the mere hope of seeing that brighter world has killed it, and so long as I shall breathe the purity and sweetness of that world the demon can never live again. Behind me is darkness and despair, before me the radiance and joy of heaven. Oh, pity me for what I have been—and take me to that better life. I wish to forget all, from this moment ; never even to go back to that house where he now lies; Ido not wish to look on his face. From this moment 1 want to live in that new world—with you. Take me away—far away—where there are only roses and sunshine and love.’ Prescott rose to his feet, and stood with his back turned to the kneeling woman. * The words you have uttered,’ he said presently, ‘ are the words of a woman who is still weak, still heartless. You said the other night that you were bad by instinct. We will allow that confession to stand. You have no realization of your duty at the present moment, so I will tell you what it is. You will go back to the house where your husband lies dead, and remain there until he is taken out. You should give him decent burial, and with a veil screening your face—to hide its lack of sympathy from the onlookers—you should stand by his grave while he is lowered into it. This is your immediate duty. After that 1 have no advice to give.’

He ceased speaking, but made no movement The silence prolonged itself interminably. 1 here was no end to it. At hist he turned. He was alone. A new agony overwhelmed him. He stretched out his hands towards the door, his lips moved, but only bis heart knew what they tried to say. ******* It requires a very large character to pursue the truly noble course when the soul is tortured. No matter what the cause of one’s torture may be, more or less cowardly means are adopted in battling against it. Nine men out of ten, when they are overcome by the despair of living, plunge into dissipation to obtain relief from the pain. It is, indeed, an almost universal habit to seek nepenthe for acute sorrow in momentary degradation. The few large characters are exalted at such a time, but Prescott, as has been seen, was not of this class. He went to Paris, that ever-blooming garden of splendid wickedness, and sought to lose sight of his misery in the urious fascinations abounding there. For days, for weeks, he wandered about the boulevards, in the cafes and through the corridors of the theatres, like a spectre. When the cold weather arrived he arranged again for the trip to Africa that had been interrupted by the tragic occurrence in London. In Algiers he met men that he knew in England, and for the first time heard her name spoken. She had disappeared, he learned, and no one knew of her whereabouts. It was believed that Lord Wyvern was sufficiently fascinated to want to marry her, but even he could not say whither she had Hown. It bad been decided in London that she was a very mysterious woman, and perhaps a dangerous one. The unmarried girls were glad she was out of the way, and nearly all society, with the exception of Wyvern, breathed more easily. Prescott found no interest in his trip up the Congo, and after a few months returned to Algiers and thence went back to Paris. He could not remain in one place now any length of time, and in a purposeless way he took the ship from Havre to New York. On his arrival he was driven to a hotel far uptown, where he expected to avoid everyone that he knew. The next morning he started out, not without a vague and thrilling hope that he might find some trace of Margaret. He believed she would have returned to New York, and gone to live in some secluded part of the town. He took the elevated road down town as far as Bleeckerstreet, and then, descending to the Bowery, walked along until he neared Terence Fitzgerald’s saloon. His heart was beating violently in his breast, for he was coming to the spot where his eyes first rested on that splendid figure of girlhood, on the beauty that had since commanded the adoration of two capitals, on the face that had lived before his eyes from that great moment, and would continue to do so until death veiled it from view and from memory. As he drew near he could read the big sign over the door of the saloon. A group of men were gathered about the front of the place, and Prescott, on coming closer, noticed that the curtains were drawn. Upon gaining the door he found it shut and locked, and a card was stuck on the glass inside. On the card was written : Closed on account of a death in the family. Prescott wandered round the corner into the cross street. Several hacks were assembled there, and a crowd of curious, wretched looking women and children with a few men were gathered about the small door that led into the house over the saloon. From the windows in the neighbourhood women with dirty shawls over their heads leaned tar out, their eyes fixed on the little door-way, before which stood a faded hearse. Prescott pushed his way into the group. The people eyed him inquisitively, wondering why a man of such appearance should join them. He turned to a fellow who looked like a lazy labourer out of work, and asked him who was dead. • It’s Terence’s girl, Maggie,’ was the reply. • She had the consumption.’ Like the beating of the sea on a desolate shore the din of the city and shuHle of the crowd came to the benumbed sense of Prescott after bearing these words. He stood dazed and helpless in the centre of the vulgar mob, looking at the doorway, as all the others looked, waiting for—the coffin. Dead ! The cruelty, the weakness, the eyes of her shut forever away where they could harm no one. The power for hating, for loving, for weeping, extintinguished, the voice—the slow, pleading voice—silent through eternity. Margaret—the woman before whom London bent a reverent knee, would presently be borne through that narrow door—and would not know he was there. A man in black pushed the crowd gently aside. There was a Hutter of excitement in all the windows, and some truckmen that were passing pulled up their teams to witness the entertainment. A man without a hat appeared in the narrow entrance. His face was very red and he held one end of the coffin, which, with the men on both sides, was with difficulty got through the door. Prescott looked once at the polished, heavy silvered thing, and then turned his eyes away until it was put out of sight. When he looked back again the people were entering the carriages. Most of them he had never seen before, but there was Conroy, the bartender, hanging his head and casting furtive glances up at the crowd with eyes that were red and swollen from weeping. And looking toward the hearse, which was of that sad sort that has glass sides, Prescott was startled for a moment to see gazing through at the coffin, the ferret-eyes and waxy face of Bill Davenant. Davenant the next moment entered a carriage with three others, including Mr Conroy. At last Prescott saw Margaret’s father coming out of the house. He pushed through the crowd and met the saloon keeper at the door of his carriage. ‘ Mr Fitzgerald,’ he said. Fitzgerald looked round at him inquiringly. There was a helpless expression in his face, as though he had been weakened by grief and his brain dulled. He did net recognise Prescott at first. He thought for a moment, and then said : • Oh, yes. You are Mr Prescott. I must see you—yes, I must see you.’ • I want to go—with her.’ said Prescott. • May I’’ • Yes, yes,’ murmured Fitzgerald. • With me—you’ll go with me. She would want you—yes, I must see you, Mr Prescott.’ He urged Prescott into his own carriage, and, together, in utter silence, they followed Margaret to the grave.

In the room of an uptown hotel a man whose heart had broken was bent across a table, hi* face buried in his arms. Clutched close to his lips was a sheet of paper, and could one have read the writing on it, there would have been seen in faint, feminine lines, the following words :— Sometime you may hear these words that just before I go I breathe out to you. I love you. Through all the pain, through all the weariness, through all and all that hurt and killed me. I could only say, I love you. Good-bye. good-bye. lam going to that other world where there are only roses and sunshine and love. Listen as you read this, and you will hear me say, I love you. Good-bye, a last good bye. Margaret. [the end.]