CHAPTER XIV.
MUDDY LITTLE YORK.
If the course of true love could be persuaded to forsake its ancientuncomfortable method in favour of a single harrassed lover, surely thetrials of Allan Dunlop might soften its harsh turbulence, and move itto a gentler flow. Rose was devoted to her father, and the tie betweenthem, made stronger by her mother's death, was not of a nature to beaffected by the sighing breath of a mere lover. Then she was aslovable as she was lovely, and there was nothing in the cordial likingof a host of friends to encourage the growth of any morbid desire forthe affection of a poor and insignificant outsider. There were otherinsurmountable points on the mountain chain of circumstance that laybetween him and his heart's dearest wish. The Commodore's inherentreverence for birth and breeding, and his comparative indifference tobrain, was one of them. The obstinate pride of Allan's undistinguishedand ambitious self was another.
Of all sorts of pride the sort that goes with inferiority, not ofperson, or behaviour, or talents, but of mere social position, is themost inveterate. This unreasonable feeling was the mightiest of allthe obstructions that, mountain-like, lay between them; but on itsrough sides--flowers on an arid rock--grew the yearning affections,seemingly rootless, yet continuing to bloom in secret, scarcediscovered beauty. Of what use was it, he asked himself in bitterness,to brood over these impassable barriers, to cultivate a faith in thepower of his own affection strong enough to remove them, to cherishthe vain imagination that this incomparably sweet girl and his ownplain self were made for each other, and that no earthly obstaclecould suffice to separate them? Upon his soul had fallen the edict ofsociety, "What man hath put asunder let no higher power join together!"
And so he hardened his heart and closed his eyes to the heavenlyvision of girlish beauty and purity that shone forever in the upperskies of his consciousness, as clear as the star of evening, andalmost as far away. But tears flow as easily beneath closed lids aswhen the eyes are wide open, and to the hardest heart come moments ofreverie, of sudden waking from sleep, or involuntary lapsing into daydream, when, like a sword in the heart, comes the thought of one toodearly loved. Do his best he could not escape these moments ofexquisite torture. The poem he was reading fell fantastically into thetune of the last waltz down which he and Rose had drifted together.The prose--and very prosy--work he impatiently seized in the hope ofbanishing that witching melody from his brain, simply followed theperverted feet of the poem. Down the dull page danced the meaninglesssyllables, keeping time to the delicious strain in a way that wassimply appalling to a mind whose intellectual processes were, as arule, thoroughly well regulated. If he walked the street there wassmall chance but that some half-turned head or fluttering robe amongthe women he met would remind him of the sweetest head and prettiestdrapery in the world.
Always along the misty aisles of his consciousness sped this littlelovely vision, now hasting, now delaying, now bending with meltingtenderness toward him, now mockingly eluding his grasp, never out ofsight, never within reach. No wonder he grew pale and heavy-eyed and_distrait_. But no one of those who noticed that he ate little andspoke little, and walked with weary footsteps, knew that he was ahaunted man--haunted not by any pale spectre, but by veritable fleshand blood, gold crowned, pink tinted, and illumined by the bluest eyesthis side of the blue heavens. It is useless for those who aretroubled in this way to say they _will not_ be haunted. Celestialvisits are planned with reference to anything but the convenience oftheir recipient.
Allan Dunlop was spoken of as 'a pushing young man,' but in affairs ofthe heart he did not push--he simply waited. Not that he had any faithin the so-called beneficent influences of time--for what young loveris willing to believe that the slow drag of months and years over hispassion will crush all life from it at last?--but he had the delicacyof nature which forbids the gross intrusion of personal wishes anddesires upon unwilling ears. He had, besides, a spark of thatold-world loyalty which is prone to uphold the claim of the father inthe face of despairing aspirants for the daughter's hand.
This unwillingness to take an advantage, or to push it when it wasthrust upon him, was not without a certain allurement for Rose. Shewas accustomed to be sought after; but the man who unconsciouslyoccupied a higher place in her estimation than any by whom she wassurrounded, held himself aloof. Probably he despised her and thefrivolous society in which she moved. It was a depressing reflection,for the regard of those whom we believe to be our superiors isinfinitely more precious than the adoration of those who are not.
To the lover, as to the good general, the knowledge of when not toapproach is of inestimable importance. Scarce are the girls upon whosehearts a tender impression can be made in the middle of an ordinarywork-a-day forenoon, or who can give sigh for sigh immediately after ahearty dinner. Very few are those who, at all times, are equallyapproachable and appreciative. Allan's stern, self-denying course ofaction, to which he considered himself forced, could not have beenbetter chosen had he had nothing at heart but the aim of furtheringhis own interests. In Rose's imagination he had always formed anadmirable contrast to the purposeless, objectless young men of heracquaintance, and his wise withdrawal after he had roused herinterest, she interpreted as indifference. So let it be, thought theyoung lady, assuming a feeling of entire content. But assumed feelingsare not lasting. She who had been the life of society now grew veryweary of it. She yawned secretly in rooms of entertainment, orinvented lame excuses for her non-appearance there. "I can't thinkwhat is the matter with me," she said to herself. "I never cared forsolitude, and I don't now; but I care less for common people andcommonplace talk."
It was perfectly consistent with this state of feeling that, on one ofthe most disagreeable of all disagreeable March days, she should goout alone for a long walk which had no definite direction nor object.There was a certain satisfaction in matching her restless mood withthe restless weather, in feeling herself now gently buoyed along, nowalmost lifted up and borne away on the strong wings of the rushingwind. Great soft flakes of snow were falling, and yielding up theirheavenly purity at the first touch of earth, and the dull sunless day,weary of its own existence, was with seeming relief dying into night.Rose walked very fast without being aware of the fact. It is apeculiarity of windy weather that it begets a mental exaltation, inwhich even the clumsiest body seems to partake of the immortal energyof the soul. Rose's trim figure moved as softly and swiftly as asail-boat before the wind. Nevertheless it was with a feeling ofdismay that she found herself at the edge of night and far from home.She had been dreaming as she walked, and now--the usual fate ofdreamers--she found herself abruptly brought face to face with reality.The big flakes were still falling, the wind still urging her forward,as she turned to retrace her steps. But now progress became difficult.The wind was in her face, and the snow blinded her eyes. She hadturned so suddenly that the broad-shouldered, heavily-coated youngpedestrian, who had been following in her wake, was astounded to seeher, with down-bent head, swiftly advance and abruptly fling herselfupon him with an impetuosity born of sightless but determinedresistance to the rampant breezes. The next instant, with a movementequally impetuous, and a deeply drawn "oh!" she swept aside and lookedstraight into the eyes of Allan Dunlop. "I didn't know it was you,"she murmured, her cheeks turning to flame beneath his gaze.
"No, you usually treat me with more _hauteur_. I never expected you tomake all the advances in this way."
"Oh, shameless!" exclaimed Rose, clasping both daintily gloved handsfirst to her ears, then to her eyes. Then, mockingly, she responded,"I never expected to find you so approachable."
They were very glad to meet again. They did not say so, but whatnecessity existed for the verbal expression of a fact so apparent inthe face looking down and in the face that for more than a moment at atime was unable to look up. She laid her hand within his arm, and theyfaced the storm together. "What were you doing at this end of thetown?" she asked, fearing he would make the same inquiry of her.
"Following in your footsteps,"
he replied. "I was not sure who it was,but your gait reminded me so much of yourself."
What light words to make a little heart beat faster! The wind wouldhave blown them away if she had not caught them.
"Ah, yes, no doubt a moving spectacle, but," glancing at the roughpavement which had grown worse and worse, until in pure self pity itcame to an end, "I'm afraid that for the last half-hour I have led youa hard life of it."
"It was hard--very. This side-walk is a disgrace to the town, and itusually has a depressing effect on me to be out in windy, uncertainkind of weather, but I think"--the wind blew an end of her long silkenscarf caressingly about his neck--"I think it was worth while."
In his heart he added, "Little darling, what rough road would I nottravel in pursuit of you, if only you would turn at last to throwyourself in my arms."
They walked on for a little in silence. When love looks out of theeyes, and hesitates on the lips, and trembles in the arm that feelsthe confiding pressure of a tiny hand, it seems as though words were acrude, primitive method of communicating ideas. Nevertheless, sostrong is the power of habit, that there are few who can resist theimagined necessity to talk if one feels like it, and make talk if onedoes not. So presently Rose remarked upon the beauty of the town. Evenin his love wrapt state the idea struck Allan as slightly absurd.
"Where do you find it?" he asked in amused perplexity, looking at thelittle wooden houses and shops, the meagre beginnings of a city thatas yet had no time to be beautiful, and noted the vile mud with whichthe streets were thickly overlaid. "Though, of course," he added,"there is scarcely anything to be seen save darkness, and that elementis strictly necessary to an appreciation of the beauties of 'MuddyLittle York.'"
"Oh," exclaimed Rose, "don't you see the lights flashing in thewindows, and in every little muddy pool on the street? Think of theconcentrated life in these little human nests set against the vastwilderness. Look at those faint yellow rays mingling with the slantinglines of snow, with the deep woods and dark sky in the distance. If itisn't beauty it is poetry."
Her foot slipped a little on an unexpected piece of ice, and his armfelt the momentary pressure of both hands. "It is everything heavenlyyou can mention," said Allan devoutly.
He noticed the slight instantaneous withdrawal, and was impelled to bepractical, if possible; so he began to dilate at length upon thefuture glories of York. "This will be a great city, some day," he said.
"Possibly, but who loves greatness? People may say what they pleaseagainst muddy little York. To me it is dear because it is so little."
"Yes, there is an unexplainable charm in littleness." He glancedthoughtfully down at the dainty figure beside him, while Rose wonderedif it would be possible for her to make a remark to which he could notgive a personal application. It was impossible for them to walk on insilence, as though this were a lover's idle stroll. Her face warmed atthe mere fancy. No, she must e'en try again.
"Particularly when it is a little breeze," she said. "Now, a huge,awkward, overgrown affair like this changes what ought to be a caressinto an assault."
"Yes; but you brave little creature, how blithely you face it. I wishI could shelter you from the storm. I wish I could defend you from allthe storms of life."
His voice broke, and the girl felt as though her heart would burst. Nobold, imperious, master spirit was this, demanding her love and lifeas if they were his by natural right. It was as though she had beennewly roused by a faint knock at the door; and now, before her footwas set upon the stair that led down to the entering guest, he hadturned away again.
"I like your way of meeting the tempest," he continued. "You face itfor a moment with mocking defiance, then you step aside to escape afierce gust, or turn your head to avoid at least half its violence.You seem to be coquetting with old Boreas. For me, I can't play withthe foe; I simply have to meet him and fight him till my strength isexhausted--then rest till I can get breath--then up and at it again.Do you remember those old lines:
"'A little I'me hurt but not yett slaine, I'le but lye down and bleed awhile, And then I'le rise and fight againe!'"
"Oh, heaven help me," thought poor Rose, "what _can_ I say now? Thereis nothing in the world to say." She fell to crying bitterly, as shesafely could under cover of the snow and the darkness; but after aminute she controlled herself, and was, to outward appearance,tranquil and buoyant as before.
They had reached the house. He stepped inside the warmly-lighted halljust for a moment, as Rose, with a gesture of dismay, threw off herwraps, and disclosed an inappropriately elaborate little gown,partially soaked by the storm. "I suppose I need not have put onanything so fine as this to go out in on a wet day, but I am fond ofdressing, not for others, but for myself. I prefer feeling effects toproducing them. Do you think me very selfish?"
"Oh, yes; everything that is hard, unfeeling, and unlike your sweetlittle self."
She had already mounted a few steps of the stairway, as he had said hecould not stay. His outstretched hand held hers in a last good-by, butinstead of going he touched a fold of the damp edge of her gown. "Itis very wet," he said. "You are shockingly careless." And then,without daring to meet the divine eyes bent upon him, he lifted herhand reverently to his lips, and so went forth into the night and thestorm.
"Rose," said the Commodore, interrupting her at the head of thestairs, "who is it that has just gone?"
"Mr. Dunlop," said his daughter hesitatingly; "he overtook--he met--Imet him on my way home, and he came with me." The young girl's facewas a flame, and her heart was a song. She felt that she wasaggressively, barbarously happy, and tried to modify the unrulyemotion out of deference to her father's anticipated anger. He lookedextremely annoyed.
"I am sorry to seem arbitrary," he said, "but in future, my dear, itwill greatly oblige me if you will so conduct yourself towards thatyoung man as to discourage him from meeting or overtaking you, oraccompanying you home."
"Very well, Papa." Not a ray of light faded from her eyes, not aparticle of warmth from her smile. She had heard him make similarremarks before, and they affected her the same as if he had said: "Itis yet winter; don't be deceived into supposing that spring-time iscoming." Ah! but under the snows of winter, what power can hinder thecountless delicate roots of spring flowers from thrilling into life?