CHAPTER IV
"_'Tis an old tale, and often told._"
SIR WALTER SCOTT
That evening some people who were near them were talking about it, andthat made Tom ask Clara if her friend was in the habit of doingstartling things.
"Should you think so to look at her now?" queried Clara, looking acrossthe room to where Miss Ercildoune stood.
"Indeed I shouldn't," Tom replied; and indeed no one would who saw herthen. "She's as sweet as a sugar-plum," he added, as he continued tolook. "What does she mean by getting off such rampant discourses? Shenever wrote them herself,--don't tell _me_; at least somebody else puther up to it,--that strong-minded-looking teacher over yonder, forinstance. _She_ looks capable of anything, and something worse, in thedenouncing way; poor little beauty was her cat's-paw this morning."
"O Tom, how you talk! She is nobody's cat's-paw. I can tell you she doesher own thinking and acting too. If you'd just go and do somethinghateful, or impose on somebody,--one of the waiters, forinstance,--you'd see her blaze up, fast enough."
"Ah! philanthropic?"
Clara looked puzzled. "I don't know; we have some girls here who are allthe time talking about benevolence, and charity, and the like, and theyhave a little sewing-circle to make up things to be sold for the churchmission, or something,--I don't know just what; but Francesca won't gonear it."
"Democratic, then, maybe."
"No, she isn't, not a bit. She's a thorough little aristocrat: soexclusive she has nothing to say to the most of us. I wonder she evertook me for a friend, though I do love her dearly."
Tom looked down at his bright little sister, and thought the wonder wasnot a very great one, but didn't say so; reserving his gallantries forsomebody else's sister.
"You seem greatly taken with her, Tom."
"I own the soft impeachment."
"Well, you'll have a fair chance, for she's coming home with me. I wroteto mamma, and she says, bring her by all means,--and Mr. Ercildounegives his consent; so it is all settled."
"Mr. Ercildoune! is there no Mrs. E.?"
"None,--her mother died long ago; and her father has not been here, so Ican't tell you anything about him. There: do you see thatelegant-looking lady talking with Professor Hale? that is her aunt, Mrs.Lancaster. She is English, and is here only on a visit. She wants totake Francesca home with her in the spring, but I hope she won't."
"Why, what is it to you?"
"I am afraid she will stay, and then I shall never see her any more."
"And why stay? do you fancy England so very fascinating?"
"No, it is not that; but Francesca don't like America; she's foreversaying something witty and sharp about our 'democratic institutions,' asshe calls them; and, if you had looked this morning, you'd have seenthat she didn't sing The Star-Spangled Banner with the rest of us. Hervoice is splendid, and Professor Hale wanted her to lead, as she oftendoes, but she wouldn't sing that, she said,--no, not for anything; andthough we all begged, she refused,--flat."
"Shocking! what total depravity! I wonder is she converting Surrey toher heresies."
No, she wasn't; not unless silence is more potent than words; for afterthey had danced together Surrey brought her to one of the great windowsfacing towards the sea, and, leaning over her chair, there was stillnessbetween them as their eyes went out into the night.
A wild night! great clouds drifted across the moon, which shone outanon, with light intensified, defining the stripped trees and desolatelandscape, and then the beach, and
"Marked with spray The sunken reefs, and far away The unquiet, bright Atlantic plain,"
while through all sounded incessantly the mournful roar of buffetingwind and surging tide; and whether it was the scene, or the solemnundertone of the sea, the dance music, which a little while before hadbeen so gay, sounded like a wail.
How could it be otherwise? Passion is akin to pain. Love never yetpenetrated an intense nature and made the heart light; sentiment has itssmiles, its blushes, its brightness, its words of fancy and feeling,readily and at will; but when the internal sub-soiling is broken up, theheart swells with a steady and tremendous pressure till the breast feelslike bursting; the lips are dumb, or open only to speak upon indifferentthemes. Flowers may be played with, but one never yet cared to toy withflame.
There are souls that are created for one another in the eternities,hearts that are predestined each to each, from the absolute necessitiesof their nature; and when this man and this woman come face to face,these hearts throb and are one; these souls recognize "my master!" "mymistress!" at the first glance, without words uttered or vowspronounced.
These two young lives, so fresh, so beautiful; these beings, in manythings such antipodes, so utterly dissimilar in person, so unlike, yetlike; their whole acquaintance a glance on a crowded street and thesefew hours of meeting,--looked into one another's eyes, and felt theirwhole nature set each to each, as the vast tide "of the bright, rockingocean sets to shore at the full moon."
These things are possible. Friendship is excellent, and friendship maybe called love; but it is not love. It may be more enduring and placidlysatisfying in the end; it may be better, and wiser, and more prudent,for acquaintance to beget esteem, and esteem regard, and regardaffection, and affection an interchange of peaceful vows: the result, awell-ordered life and home. All this is admirable, no doubt; an owl is abird when you can get no other; but the love born of a moment, yet bornof eternity, which comes but once in a lifetime, and to not one in athousand lives, unquestioning, unthinking, investigating nothing,proving nothing, sufficient unto itself,--ah, that is divine; and thisdivine ecstasy filled these two souls.
Unconsciously. They did not define nor comprehend. They listened to thesea where they sat, and felt tears start to their eyes, yet knew notwhy. They were silent, and thought they talked; or spoke, and saidnothing. They danced; and as he held her hand and uttered a few words,almost whispered, the words sounded to the listening ear like a part ofthe music to which they kept time. They saw a multitude of people, andexchanged the compliments of the evening, yet these people made no moreimpression upon their thoughts than gossamer would have made upon theirhands.
"Come, Francesca!" said Clara Russell, breaking in upon this, "it is notfair for you to monopolize my cousin Will, who is the handsomest man inthe room; and it isn't fair for Will to keep you all to himself in thisfashion. Here is Tom, ready to scratch out his eyes with vexationbecause you won't dance with him; and here am I, dying to waltz withsomebody who knows my step,--to say nothing of innumerable young ladiesand gentlemen who have been casting indignant and beseeching glancesthis way: so, sir, face about, march!" and away the gay girl went withher prize, leaving Francesca to the tender mercies of half a dozen youngmen who crowded eagerly round her, and from whom Tom carried her offwith triumph and rejoicing.
The evening was over at last, and they were going away. Tom had saidgood night.
"You are to be in New York, at my uncle's, Clara tells me."
"It is true."
"I may see you there?"
For answer she put out her hand. He took it as he would have taken adelicate flower, laid his other hand softly, yet closely, over it, and,without any adieu spoken, went away.
"Tom always declared Willie was a little queer, and I'm sure I begin tothink so," said Clara, as she kissed her friend and departed to herroom.