“When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly”
The Fate of a Coquette of 1815
“When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?”
Goldsmith
Marian Fletcher was certainly beautiful enough to excuse the jealousy of any man who loved her,—which, by the way, most men who knew her did! She was sufficiently a woman also to realize her own beauty—indeed, did ever daughter of Eve possess a charm of which she lacked knowledge? Even the most absolute ingénue is conscious that she is an ingénue, and Marian Fletcher was by no means that. And her wit and humor were not the least of her charms. She was gayety personified, light-hearted, healthy and red-cheeked, and joyous—quite a new woman for 1815, in fact; and that, too, in an artificial age in which languor and pallor, megrims and vapors were the fashion, “Nice customs curt’sy to”—beautiful women, and Marian had a fashion of her own. One word described the sum of her qualities,—fascination!
Even her best friends were forced to admit that she was a bit of a coquette, however. Indeed, if the truth were told, from the crown of her black hair, which brought to mind the usual simile of the raven’s wing, down to her beautiful little feet, she was all of a coquette. She loved liberty, she loved love, she loved lovers. In addition to all of these things it might be said that, in her secret heart, she loved Robert Gardner. Whether she loved him more than she did the other three was a question which she had not settled to her own satisfaction, and about which Gardner himself was fearfully undecided.
She had said—but then she made many perjuries before the laughing Jove. She had permitted him to enjoy the fleeting and most unsatisfying pleasure of pressing his lips upon her brow. He believed that this was a step farther—he would have resented furiously any suggestion to the contrary—than any other suitor had gone. It was. She had allowed him to persuade her into a sort of an engagement, but the tie resulting was about as indefinite as could be imagined. With him—he was a sailor and his similes were nautical—it was a hempen cable which held him to her like a ship to a bower anchor. With her it was a daisy chain, ready to part at the first strain, and the strain was near at hand.
To celebrate the closing of the war of 1812, Colonel Fletcher, an old Revolutionary veteran and the father of the fair Marian, had assembled a house-party at his fine old place on the Hudson. He was a widower with a son and a daughter. The son had been an officer in Scott’s army—a major—who had greatly distinguished himself in the Niagara campaign. Among others who had gladly accepted the veteran colonel’s hospitality were two friends of young Major Fletcher, who had been college-mates with him at Harvard. One was Robert Gardner, a young lieutenant in the navy, and the other was John Mason, a young Virginian, who was a captain in the army. The young men had been guests of Colonel Fletcher before the war, and they had known Marian, whom they both loved, for several years. Their wooing, interrupted by the demands of the service, was at once renewed under the favorable circumstances of their meeting. Gardner was a gay, athletic, dashing young sailor,—blue-eyed, curly-haired, sunny in disposition; Mason, on the contrary, was tall and very slender, dignified and quiet, with a temper as dark as his complexion. One was impulsive, bold, impetuous; the other cool and determined, with an undercurrent of sleeping passion in his being; both were in the highest sense gentlemen.
The relations between the two men, at first friendly, had become markedly strained as their courtship proceeded, though no open rupture had yet occurred. Mason could not but be aware of Marian’s preference for Gardner; yet, as she had not allowed the latter to announce their engagement, with dogged persistency the Virginian continued to proffer his attentions. Truth to say, these latter were not so unwelcome to the fair Marian as might be imagined. She had entered into a quasi-engagement with Gardner, yet she was by no means averse to the devotion of her melancholy yet handsome suitor, and her conduct between the two was not altogether above reproach. It was a joyous and delightful game,—also a dangerous!
On the evening in question it seemed that she had gone quite too far, and that even the hempen cable would not stand the strain which tautened it. During the day a pretty little lover’s quarrel, which she had wilfully brought about to test her power, had culminated in an open rupture. Laughing at Gardner’s pleas, she had devoted herself to Mason,—or had allowed Mason to devote himself to her, rather,—raising that young man to the seventh heaven of delight. She had ridden with him in the afternoon, gone to supper with him at night, and danced with him most of the evening at the party which had been arranged.
Manœuvring her out on the porch toward the close of the evening, Gardner unwisely endeavored to take her to task. Goaded beyond his power of restraint by her flirtation, he assumed an authority over her for which he had no warrant. Where he should have pleaded and entreated, he threatened and commanded. Miss Marian snapped her fingers at him metaphorically—she was too well bred to do such a thing physically. Rendered desperate by her obduracy, his anger passed all bounds and his words followed suit. The mock quarrel on her part became a real one. She repudiated him entirely, broke her engagement flatly, declared frankly that she did not love him,—and in the act of declaration she was convinced that she did,—and with her head high in the air, a brilliant flush on her cheek, and a sparkle of defiance in her eye, left him. He leaped from the porch and disappeared under the trees; she ran right into the arms of John Mason coming out of the house to seek her.
He saw her agitation, of course, and in her anger she let slip words which gave him a perfect clew to the cause of it. Before she realized what she did, she said that which she would have given worlds to recall—afterwards; then she was too much excited and indignant to care. Gardner had insulted her. She hated him.
“I hate him, too,” said Mason, bending his head, his black eyes aflame in the shadow of the porch, “and the depth of my hatred is proportioned by my love for you, Marian. Give me leave, dearest, to make your cause mine.”
His voice with its soft Southern tones was very persuasive and thrilling in the moonlight; there was such passion and yet such respect and adoration in its accents. He bent before her so deferentially and so pleadingly. There was such a contrast in his gentleness to the hectoring she had just undergone, that she yielded in spite of herself. With bent head she murmured words—she hardly knew what. Faintly resisting him, he swept her to his breast and pressed a kiss, not upon her forehead, but upon her lips.
At the instant a step on the porch interrupted them. Marian, already repentant, sprang from Mason’s encircling arms and turned to see Gardner coming toward them. He had wandered about the grounds miserably after they had parted and had returned to sue for pardon, but what he had just seen had changed his mind. His face was convulsed with passion. Disregarding Marian, he stepped toward Mason, his hand upraised as if he would strike him down. There was murder in his heart. The girl screamed and then turned and fled in dismay. She had broken her engagement with a man whom she now realized she loved with all her heart, and she had promised herself to a man whom she knew she did not love. She had been bitterly unjust, in her folly, to both men.
The dancing for the evening was already over. The women of the party were retiring to their rooms, and Marian, sick at heart, slipped away and sought her chamber also. Throwing herself dressed upon her bed, she thought it over. Nothing would happen until the morning, she reasoned, and then she would make a clean breast of it to her father. He would extricate her from her difficulties.
Mason on the porch was already master of himself.
“Don’t strike me!” he said to Gardner, “or I shall kill you where you stand! Besides, ’tis not necessary. I understand your feelings and I intend to give you satisfaction, but the cause of our quarrel must not be known. The reputation of the woman—I intend to make my wife must not be the subject of public comment. Control yourself, sir, I beg of you,” he added, smiling triumphantly, as the other stamped his foot. “Let us repair to the house. The ladies will have retired, and we can easily manufacture sufficient public cause for a quarrel. I will take it upon myself. Come no nearer!” he said, thrusting his hand into the pocket of his coat as Gardner swayed toward him. “I warn you that I am armed. On my word, I will shoot you like a mad dog! I will submit to nothing from you. I am giving you a chance for your life and affording you every satisfaction as it is.”
Gardner controlled himself with a mighty effort.
“You are right,” he gasped; “’tis not through fear that I do not strike you, but, as you say, Miss Fletcher’s name must not become the subject of gossip. You shall never marry her! I intend to kill you!”
“That’s as may be,” answered the other; “let us not come to blows about it. I am not used to such. ’Tis vulgar brawling. Control yourself. I take your arm, so. Though ’tis hateful to both of us, we must appear to be on friendly terms.”
Arm in arm the two rivals entered the hall and no one dreamed of the deadly hatred which sundered them. After the departure of the women Colonel Fletcher and his guests sat down to spend the rest of the evening—morning rather—between cards and the bottle. Chance, or their own contrivance, made Mason and Gardner partners. Neither of the two partook of the wine. As the heat of Gardner’s passion abated, he realized the necessity for acquiring his wonted calmness. He was a famous shot with the pistol, a weapon with which Mason was not so familiar, and he believed that if he had an opportunity he could kill him. He fully intended to do so.
It was an age in which duels were common and life was cheap. Mason was to afford the provocation and give the challenge. He said he would do so and he was a man of his word. Then, as the challenged party, Gardner would have the choice of weapons. As the game proceeded, Mason, who had made several irritating remarks upon his partner’s playing, finally remarked, sneeringly:
“That’s a cowardly deal, Gardner. Why don’t you play more boldly, sir?”
“Cowardly!” cried Gardner, rising.
“That’s what I said. But then what could you expect from a man who had been an officer on the Chesapeake?”
The allusion, of course, was to the capture of the American frigate Chesapeake by the British frigate Shannon, which was almost the solitary instance of English naval success in the war, but for which Gardner was in no way responsible.
“By gad, sir!” shouted Gardner, “if I play like a coward, you play like a booby! Your tactics are what one would naturally expect from a soldier whose chief exploit was in leading the flying troops from Bladensburg!” another American defeat and a disgraceful one at that, although Mason had there fought bravely until wounded.
“You shall wipe out this insult, sir!” responded Mason, rising in his turn.
“Yes,” said the other, “in the only possible way.”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” interrupted some of the others.
“What’s this?” exclaimed the colonel, leaving his table and approaching them. “Brawling in my house among my guests? I will have none of it!”
“Sir,” cried Gardner, “you are a soldier. You are all soldiers here; I alone am a sailor. This person called me a coward, taunted me with the loss of the Chesapeake. By heavens, he shall apologize!”
“What?” said the colonel. “Did you make use of such intemperate language, Captain Mason?”
“I did, sir,” responded the other, coolly, “and I may add that he accused me of leading the retreat at Bladensburg, which is a damnable lie, sir! I challenge him instantly!”
“He but anticipates my own desire,” said Gardner. “You see, sir, the matter must be arranged. As the challenged party I name pistols, and if the time is agreeable I appoint this moment for the encounter. Major Fletcher will perhaps honor me by acting as my second.”
“And Captain Lee,” said Mason, turning to one of the others, “will, I am sure, act for me.”
“Gentlemen,” said the colonel, retiring with the seconds, “cannot this unhappy affair be arranged?”
“It is impossible, sir,” replied Lee and his son, who had consulted a moment or two with their respective principals.
“There must be more behind this than appears.”
“That’s as may be, colonel; there is enough on the surface, anyway; the two men have deliberately insulted each other, and the duel must go on,” replied Captain Lee.
“I entirely agree with Lee, father,” assented Major Fletcher.
The preliminaries were soon arranged. The party had assembled in the dining-room. The long table was pushed to one side of the room. The colonel’s duelling pistols had been loaded under the supervision of the seconds and each contestant had received his weapon. At one side of the apartment the men of the party were gathered; one of them held a lighted candelabrum high in the air to light both men equally. All other lights in the room had been extinguished. Pistol in hand at the table stood Colonel Fletcher. Six paces were measured in the centre of the room by the seconds, and marked off by two playing-cards laid on the floor. Mason and Gardner were placed opposite each other, each one with his right foot touching the card marking his station. It had been agreed between the seconds that the colonel should pronounce the words “one, two,” and then “fire!” and that after the word “fire!” the combatants should fire at pleasure.
As is often the case, in the moment of danger Gardner’s coolness came back to him. He believed that Marian had permitted herself to be inveigled into an engagement to Mason because of the quarrel and his behavior toward her. He felt confident that she loved him, and he intended to solve the dilemma in which she had placed herself by killing the other man. No feeling of pity, no intention to spare his rival, found even a momentary lodgment in his heart. As he stood thinking hard while the arrangements were being completed, he marked the very spot where the lace of Mason’s coat crossed his heart, into which he intended to send his bullet. The soldier wore his usual uniform, and the frock coat loosely buttoned about his spare form gave him a stouter appearance than his proportions warranted.
It was Gardner’s purpose to fire instantly upon the giving of the word, trusting to his quickness of movement and his accuracy of aim to kill his opponent before he had time to pull the trigger. As he looked at Mason standing so cool and so quiet before him, he felt that he would have need of all his skill and address to win the game, in which not only love, but life, were the stakes.
On Mason’s part, while his desire to kill his opponent was as great as Gardner’s, his tactics were different. Though ordinarily familiar with his weapon and able to give a good account of himself if he had his own time for firing, he knew that he would be at a tremendous disadvantage in a quick exchange of shots. He realized also that with his usual impetuosity Gardner would fire instantly the word was given. He determined, therefore, to submit to the fearful risk of receiving the hasty shot which he felt would come, and if he were then unharmed, deliberately take his time in returning it. He had no suspicion but that the acceptance of his suit had been genuine, and he longed to live with a double intensity on account of the depth of his passion.
All preparations having been made, the colonel took his place. The seconds removed a little distance away from their principals to be out of range.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said the colonel.
“Ready, sir!” answered both men, promptly.
They both stood slightly turned, their right sides presented, their arms depending, with the cocked pistol in the right hand.
“You know the conditions. I shall count ‘one, two,’ and then give the word ‘fire!’” continued the colonel. “After the order is given you may discharge your weapons at will.”
The colonel had a third pistol in hand, for what purpose no one quite understood. The silence was absolutely breathless.
“One!” said the old soldier, his voice ringing hollow through the apartment.
“Two!” he said, more strongly.
“Fire!” he snapped out at last.
Instantly there was a flash of light, a cloud of smoke, a crashing report from Gardner’s pistol. Mason’s second, closely watching his principal, thought he saw a flick of dust rise from his coat. The Virginian staggered slightly, raised his left arm and laid it across his breast, but still stood erect, his pistol in his half-extended hand.
“Great God!” cried Gardner, hoarsely, as he saw his rival standing before him apparently unharmed. “Have I missed him?”
He put his hand in bewilderment to his head and staggered back from his position.
“Back to the card, sir!” thundered the colonel, cocking and raising his pistol and pointing it directly at Gardner.
“Of course, sir,” returned the sailor, dauntlessly, stepping back to the card as he spoke. “I trust no gentleman here will think I shrank from the return bullet. ’Twas but surprise. Take your shot, I beg of you, Captain Mason.”
His face was deadly pale, yet he forced a smile to his lips.
“You still have a shot, Captain Mason. Take it. We acquit Lieutenant Gardner of any timidity whatever,” said the colonel, lowering his weapon.
Mason, who had grown as white as his rival, deliberately raised his pistol and took long and careful aim. The men in the room gazed breathlessly. They shifted about uneasily. Gardner stood with the smile petrified upon his face. Mason at last pressed the trigger, but the pistol missed fire and there was no discharge. The soldier lowered his arm and recocked his weapon.
“By heavens, it looks like murder!” burst forth one of the men.
“Silence, gentlemen!” shouted the colonel, handling his pistol again; “the man is entitled to his shot, and he shall have it. I’ll kill the first man that interferes!”
“I beg him to take it,” cried Gardner, with splendid courage, for if ever man could read his death-warrant in another’s face, he saw it in the countenance of his antagonist.
Once more Mason raised his pistol. This time nothing prevented the discharge. His deliberate aim had been successful, and Gardner fell dead instantly, the bullet in his heart.
Mason, with the smoking pistol clenched in his hand, and with his left arm still pressed against his heart, walked over to the table and stood by it, leaning heavily upon it as he stared at the little group bending over his dead rival. At that moment the door was flung open and Marian, dressed as she had been at the dance, but with tear-stained face, frightened looks, and dishevelled hair, burst into the room. She happened to face Mason, and, her back being turned to the other end of the room, she did not see the body of Gardner.
“I heard shots,” she cried; “have they—where is he?”
“Colonel and gentlemen,” said Mason, faintly, coming forward with that left hand still pressed against his breast, “’tis an unseemly moment to announce it, but Miss Fletcher has honored me with a promise of herself to me to-night. We are——”
The girl turned to him with a look of abject horror and repulsion. She screamed faintly. The man was half blind apparently; he did not seem to realize.
“Have no fear for me, Marian dear,” he went on, softly, “I am——”
“What have you done?” she shrieked. “Where is Robert Gardner? ’Tis he I love, not you!”
Her eyes instinctively followed the glances of those about her.
“Oh!” she cried. “What is that? Robert! Oh, my God, and I have killed you!”
Her voice rang through the room in such an awful note of agony that every man’s heart stood still. The colonel moved toward her, but her living lover was quicker. He caught her arm.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried, shrinking away from him. “There is blood on your hand! His blood! You are a murderer!”
Her bitter words recalled him in a measure to himself.
“No, madam,” he answered, smiling faintly, “’Tis my own.”
He tore open his coat, showing the bosom of his shirt and waistcoat stained with blood. He had been hit, but the loose coat had deceived his opponent’s aim, and the bullet had missed the heart. He had so controlled himself that no one suspected that he was wounded, and he had almost bled to death in the effort.
The woman, the roses all shuddered out of her cheeks, a ghastly picture, stared from the dead to the living with dazed, terrified glances.
“You,” continued Mason, swaying as he spoke,—“you have trifled with two honest men, and from your cursed coquetry one lies dead yonder and one—and one—dies—at your feet!”
He suddenly collapsed before her, caught feebly at her white satin skirt with his bloody hands as he lay upon the floor and strove to carry it to his lips.
“He loved you,” he murmured, “and I, too—we were fools—for a woman.”
That was all.