CHAPTER XI
"_The future seemed barred By the corpse of a dead hope._"
OWEN MEREDITH
So, then, after these long years he had seen her again. Having seen her,he wondered how he had lived without her. If the wearisome months seemedendless in passing, the morning hours were an eternity. "Thisafternoon?" he had said. "Be it so," she had answered. He did not dareto go till then.
Thinking over the scene of the morning, he scarcely dared go at all. Shehad not offered her hand; she had expressed no pleasure, either by lookor word, at meeting him again. He had forced her to say, "Come": shecould do no less when he had just interfered to save her insult, and hadbegged the boon.
"Insult!" his arm ached to strike another blow, as he remembered thesentence it had cut short. Of course the fellow had been drinking, butoutrage of her was intolerable, whatever madness prompted it. The verysun must shine more brightly, and the wind blow softly, when she passedby. Ah me! were the whole world what an ardent lover prays for hismistress, there were no need of death to enjoy the bliss of heaven.
What could he say? what do? how find words to speak the measuredfeelings of a friend? how control the beatings of his heart, the passionof his soul, that no sign should escape to wound or offend her? She hadbade him to silence: was he sufficiently master of himself to strike thelighter keys without sounding some deep chords that would jar upon herear?
He tried to picture the scene of their second meeting. He repeated againand again her formal title, Miss Ercildoune, that he might familiarizehis tongue and his ear to the sound, and not be on the instant betrayedinto calling the name which he so often uttered in his thoughts. He saidover some civil, kindly words of greeting, and endeavored to call up,and arrange in order, a theme upon which he should converse. "I shallnot dare to be silent," he thought, "for if I am, my silence will tellthe tale; and if that do not, she will hear it from the throbbings of myheart. I don't know though,"--he laughed a little, as he spokealoud,--bitterly it would have been, had his voice been capable ofbitterness,--"perhaps she will think the organism of the poor thing hasbecome diseased in camp and fightings,"--putting his hand up to histhroat and holding the swollen veins, where the blood was beatingfuriously.
Presently he went down stairs and out to the street, in pursuit of somecut flowers which he found in a little cellar, a stone's throw from hishotel,--a fresh, damp little cellar, which smelt, he could not helpthinking, like a grave. Coming out to the sunshine, he shook himselfwith disgust. "Faugh!" he thought, "what sick fancies and sentimentalnonsense possess me? I am growing unwholesome. My dreams of the othernight have come back to torment me in the day. These must put them toflight."
The fancy which had sent him in pursuit of these flowers he confessed tobe a childish one, but none the less soothing for that. He hadremembered that the first day he beheld her a nosegay had decorated hisbutton-hole; a fair, sweet-scented thing which seemed, in some subtleway, like her. He wanted now just such another,--some mignonette, andgeranium, and a single tea-rosebud. Here they were,--the verycounterparts of those which he had worn on a brighter and happier day.How like they were! how changed was he! In some moods he would havesmiled at this bit of girlish folly as he fastened the little thing overhis heart; now, something sounded in his throat that was pitifully likea sob. Don't smile at him! he was so young; so impassioned, yet gentle;and then he loved so utterly with the whole of his great, sore heart.
By and by the time came to go, and eager, yet fearful, he went. It wasa fresh, beautiful day in early June; and when the city, with its heat,and dust, and noise, was left behind, and all the leafy greenness--thesoothing quiet of country sights and country sounds--met his ear andeye, a curious peace took possession of his soul. It was less thewhisper of hope than the calm of assured reality. For the moment,unreasonable as it seemed, something made him blissfully sure of herlove, spite of the rebuffs and coldness she had compelled him to endure.
"This is the place, sir!" suddenly called his driver, stopping thehorses in front of a stately avenue of trees, and jumping down to openthe gates.
"You need not drive in; you may wait here."
This, then, was her home. He took in the exquisite beauty of the placewith a keen pleasure. It was right that all things sweet and fine shouldbe about her; he had before known that they were, but it delighted himto see them with his own eyes. Walking slowly towards thehouse,--slowly, for he was both impelled and retarded by the conflictingfeelings that mastered him,--he heard her voice at a little distance,singing; and directly she came out of a by-path, and faced him. He neednot have feared the meeting; at least, any display of emotion; she gaveno opportunity for any such thing.
A frankly extended hand,--an easy "Good afternoon, Mr. Surrey!" That wasall. It was a cool, beautiful room into which she ushered him; a roomfilled with an atmosphere of peace, but which was anything but peacefulto him. He was restless, nervous; eager and excited, or absent andstill. He determined to master his emotion, and give no outward sign ofthe tempest raging within.
At the instant of this conclusion his eye was caught by an exquisiteportrait miniature upon an easel near him. Bending over it, taking itinto his hands, his eyes went to and fro from the pictured face to thehuman one, tracing the likeness in each. Marking his interest, Francescasaid, "It is my mother."
"If the eyes were dark, this would be your veritable image."
"Or, if mine were blue, I should be a portrait of mamma, which would bebetter."
"Better?"
"Yes." She was looking at the picture with weary eyes, which he couldnot see. "I had rather be the shadow of her than the reality of myself:an absurd fancy!" she added, with a smile, suddenly remembering herself.
"I would it were true!" he exclaimed.
She looked a surprised inquiry. His thought was, "for then I shouldsteal you, and wear you always on my heart." But of course he couldspeak no such lover's nonsense; so he said, "Because of the fitness ofthings; you wished to be a shadow, which is immaterial, and hence of thesubstance of angels."
Truly he was improving. His effort to betray no love had led him into aridiculous compliment. "What an idiot she will think me to say anythingso silly!" he reflected; while Francesca was thinking, "He has ceasedto love me, or he would not resort to flattery. It is well!" but thepang that shot through her heart belied the closing thought, and,glancing at him, the first was denied by the unconscious expression ofhis eyes. Seeing that, she directly took alarm, and commenced to talkupon a score of indifferent themes.
He had never seen her in such a mood: gay, witty, brilliant,--full of arestless sparkle and fire; she would not speak an earnest word, nor hearone. She flung about bonmots, and chatted airy persiflage till his heartached. At another time, in another condition, he would have beendelighted, dazzled, at this strange display; but not now.
In some careless fashion the war had been alluded to, and she spoke ofChancellorsville. "It was there you were last wounded?"
"Yes," he answered, not even looking down at the empty sleeve.
"It was there you lost your arm?"
"Yes," he answered again, "I am sorry it was my sword-arm."
"It was frightful,"--holding her breath. "Do you know you were reportedmortally wounded? worse?"
"I have heard that I was sent up with the slain," he replied,half-smiling.
"It is true. I looked for your name in the columns of 'wounded' and'missing,' and read it at last in the list of 'killed.'"
"For the sake of old times, I trust you were a little sorry to so readit," he said, sadly, for the tone hurt him.
"Sorry? yes, I was sorry. Who, indeed, of your friends would not be?"
"Who, indeed?" he repeated: "I am afraid the one whose regret I shouldmost desire would sorrow the least."
"It is very like," she answered, with seemingcarelessness,--"disappointment is the rule of life."
This would not do. He was getting upon dangerous ground. He would changethe theme, and prevent any farther s
peech till he was better master ofit. He begged for some music. She sat down at once and played for him;then sang at his desire. Rich as she was in the gifts of nature, hervoice was the chief,--thrilling, flexible, with a sympathetic qualitythat in singing pathetic music brought tears, though the hearerunderstood not a word of the language in which she sang. In the old timehe had never wearied listening, and now he besought her to repeat forhim some of the dear, familiar songs. If these held for her anyassociations, he did not know it; she gave no outward sign,--sang to himas sweetly and calmly as to the veriest stranger. What else had heexpected? Nothing; yet, with the unreasonableness of a lover, wasdisappointed that nothing appeared.
Taking up a piece at random, without pausing to remember the words, hesaid, spreading it before her, "May I tax you a little farther? I amgreedy, I know, but then how can I help it?"
It was the song of the Princess.
She hesitated a moment, and half closed the book. Had he been standingwhere he could see her face, he would have been shocked by its pallor.It was over directly: she recovered herself, and, opening the music witha resolute air, began to sing:--
"Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain and of cape; But, O too fond, when have I answered thee? Ask me no more.
"Ask me no more: what answer should I give? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye; Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live: Ask me no more."
She sang thus far with a clear, untrembling voice,--so clear anduntrembling as to be almost metallic,--the restraint she had put uponherself making it unnatural. At the commencement she had estimated herstrength, and said, "It is sufficient!" but she had overtaxed it, as shefound in singing the last verse:--
"Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed; I strove against the stream and all in vain; Let the great river take me to the main; No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield: Ask me no more."
All the longing, the passion, the prayer of which a human soul iscapable found expression in her voice. It broke through the affectedcoldness and calm, as the ocean breaks through its puny barriers when,after wind and tempest, all its mighty floods are out. Surrey hadchanged his place, and stood fronting her. As the last word fell, shelooked at him, and the two faces saw in each but a reflection of thesame passion and pain: pallid, with eyes burning from an inwardfire,--swayed by the same emotion,--she bent forward as he, stretchingforth his arms, in a stifling voice cried, "Come!"
Bent, but for an instant; then, by a superhuman effort, turned from him,and put out her hand with a gesture of dissent, though she could notcontrol her voice to speak a word.
At that he came close to her, not touching her hand or even her dress,but looking into her face with imploring eyes, and whispering,"Francesca, my darling, speak to me! say that you love me! one word! Youare breaking my heart!"
Not a word.
"Francesca!"
She had mastered her voice. "Go!" she then said, beseechingly. "Oh, whydid you ask me? why did I let you come?"
"No, no," he answered. "I cannot go,--not till you answer me."
"Ah!" she entreated, "do not ask! I can give no such answer as youdesire. It is all wrong,--all a mistake. You do not comprehend."
"Make me, then."
She was silent.
"Forgive me. I am rude: I cannot help it. I will not go unless you say,'I do not love you.' Nothing but this shall drive me away."
Francesca's training in her childhood had been by a Catholic governess;she never quite lost its effect. Now she raised her hand to a littlegold cross that hung at her neck, her fingers closing on it with adespairing clasp. "Ah, Christ, have pity!" her heart cried. "BlessedMother of God, forgive me! have mercy upon me!"
Her face was frightfully pale, but her voice did not tremble as she gavehim her hand, and said gently, "Go, then, my friend. I do not love you."
He took her hand, held it close for a moment, and then, without anotherlook or word, put it tenderly down, and was gone.
So absorbed was he in painful thought that, passing down the long avenuewith bent head, he did not notice, nor even see, a gentleman who, comingfrom the opposite direction, looked at him at first carelessly, and thensearchingly, as he went by.
This gentleman, a man in the prime of life, handsome, stately, andevidently at home here, scrutinized the stranger with a singularintensity,--made a movement as though he would speak to him,--and then,drawing back, went with hasty steps towards the house.
Had Willie looked up, beheld this face and its expression, returned thescrutiny of the one, and comprehended the meaning of the other, whilememory recalled a picture once held in his hands, some things nowobscured would have been revealed to him, and a problem been solved. Asit was, he saw nothing, moved mechanically onward to the carriage,seated himself and said, "Home!"
This young man was neither presumptuous nor vain. He had been oncerepulsed and but now utterly rejected. He had no reason to hope, andyet--perhaps it was his poetical and imaginative temperament--he couldnot resign himself to despair.
Suddenly he started with an exclamation that was almost a cry. What wasit? He remembered that, more than two years ago, on the last day he hadbeen with her, he had begged the copy of a duet which they sometimessang. It was in manuscript, and he desired to have it written out by herown hand. He had before petitioned, and she promised it; and when hethus again spoke of it, she laughed, and said, "What a memory it is, tobe sure! I shall have to tie a bit of string on my finger to refreshit."
"Is that efficacious?" he had asked.
"Doubtless," she had replied, searching in her pocket for a scrap ofanything that would serve.
"Will this do?" he then queried, bringing forth a coil of gold wirewhich he had been commissioned to buy for some fanciful work of hismother.
"Finely," she declared; "it is durable, it will give me a wide margin,it will be long in wearing out."
"Nay, then, you must have something more fragile," he had objected.
At that they both laughed, as he twisted a fragment of it on the littlefinger of her right hand. "There it is to stay," he asserted, "till yourpromise is redeemed." That was the last time he had seen her tillto-day.
Now, sitting, thinking of the interview just passed, suddenly heremembered, as one often recalls the vision of something seeminglyunnoticed at the time, that, upon her right hand, the little finger ofthe right hand, there was a delicate ring,--a mere thread,--in fact, awire of gold; the very one himself had tied there two years ago.
In an instant, by one of those inexplicable connections of the brain orsoul, he found himself living over an experience of his college youth.
He had been spending the day in Boston with a dear friend, some score ofyears his senior; a man of the rarest culture, and of a most sweet andgentle nature withal; and when evening came they had drifted naturallyto the theatre,--the fool's paradise it may be sometimes, but to them onthat occasion a real paradise.
He remembered well the play. It was Scott's _Bride of Lammermoor_. Hehad never read it, but, before the curtain rose, his friend hadunfolded the story in so kind and skilful a manner as to have imbued himas fully with the spirit of the tale as though he had studied the book.
What he chiefly recalled in the play was the scene in which Ravenswoodcomes back to Emily long after they had been plighted,--long after hehad supposed her faithless,--long after he had been tossed on a sea oftroubles, touching the seeming decay in her affections. Just as she isabout to be enveloped in the toils which were spread for her,--just asshe is about to surrender herself to the hated nuptials, and submit tothe embrace of one whom she loathed more than she dreadeddeath,--Ravenswood, the man whom Heaven had made for her, presentshimself.
What followed was quiet, yet intensely dramatic. Ravenswood, wrought tothe verge of despair, bursts upon the scene at the critical moment,detaches Emily f
rom her party, and leads her slowly forward. He isunutterably sad. He questions her very tenderly; asks her whether she isnot enforced; whether she is taking this step of her own free will andaccord; whether she has indeed dismissed the dear, old fond love for himfrom her heart forever? He must hear it from her own lips. When timidlyand feebly informed that such is indeed the case, he requests her toreturn a certain memento,--a silver trinket which had been given her asthe symbol of his love on the occasion of their betrothal. Raising herhand to her throat she essays to draw it from her bosom. Her fingersrest upon the chain which binds it to her neck, but the o'erfraughtheart is still,--the troubled, but unconscious head droops upon hisshoulder,--he lifts the chain from its resting-place, and withdraws thetoken from her heart.
Supporting her with one hand and holding this badge of a lost love withthe other, he says, looking down upon her with a face of anguish, and ina voice of despair, "_And she could wear it thus!_"
As this scene rose and lived before him, Surrey exclaimed, "Surely thatmust have been the perfection of art, to have produced an effect solasting and profound,--'and she could wear it thus!'--ah," he said, asin response to some unexpressed thought, "but Emily loved Ravenswood.Why--?" Evidently he was endeavoring to answer a question that baffledhim.