This event, which set me completely free, caused a repetition of certain formalities. The doctor visited me, and regaled me with doleful words and sighs. In the course of conversation I endeavoured to extract from him some information as to the peculiar form of illness from which my mother had been so long a sufferer, but all the satisfaction I could obtain from him was that she had always been "weak, very weak," and always "low, very low," and that she had for years been "gradually wasting away." She suffered from "sleeplessness," she suffered from "nerves," her pulse was too quick, her heart was too slow, and so on, and so on. His speech was full of feeble medical platitudes, and threw no light whatever upon the subject.
"In such cases," he said, "all we can do is to sustain, to prescribe strengthening things, to stimulate, to invigorate, to give tone to the constitution. I have remarked many times that the poor lady might go off at any moment. She had the best of nurses, the best of nurses! Mrs. Fortress is a most exemplary woman. Between you and me she understood your mother's ailments almost as well as I did."
"If she did not understand them a great deal better," I thought, "she must have known very little indeed."
In my conversations with the lawyer Mrs. Fortress's name also cropped up.
"A most remarkable woman," he said, "strong-minded, self-willed, with iron nerves, and at the same time exceedingly conscientious and attentive to her duties. Your lamented father entertained the highest opinion of her, and always mentioned her name with respect. The kind of woman that ought to have been born a man. Very tenacious, very reserved--a very rare specimen indeed. Altogether an exception. By the way, I saw her a few minutes ago, and she asked me to inform you that she did not consider she had any longer authority in the house, and that she would soon be leaving."
At my desire the lawyer undertook for a while the supervision of affairs, and sent a married couple to Rosemullion to attend to domestic matters.
Three days after my mother's funeral Mrs. Fortress came to wish me good-bye. Although there had ever been a barrier between us I could not fail to recognise that she had faithfully performed her duties, and I invited her to sit down. She took a seat, and waited for me to speak. She was wonderfully composed and self-possessed, and had such perfect control over herself that I believe she would have sat there in silence for hours had I not been the first to speak.
"You are going away for good, Mrs. Fortress?" I said.
"Yes, sir," she answered, "for good."
It was the first time she had ever called me "sir," and I understood it to be a recognition of my position as Master of Rosemullion.
"Do you intend to seek another service?" I asked.
"No, sir; it is not likely I shall enter service again. You are aware that your father was good enough to provide for me."
"Yes, and I am pleased that he did so. Had he forgotten, I should have been glad to acknowledge in a fitting way your long service in our family."
"You are very kind, sir."
"Where do you go to from here?"
"I have a home in Cornwall, sir."
"Indeed. I do not remember that you have ever visited it."
"It is many years since I saw it, sir."
"Not once, I think, since you have been with us."
"Not once, sir."
"Your duties here have been onerous. Although we are in mourning you must be glad to be released." I pointed to her dress; she, like myself, was dressed in black; but she made no comment on my remark. "Will you give me your address, Mrs. Fortress?"
"Willingly, sir."
She wrote it on an envelope which I placed before her, and I put it into my pocket-book.
"If I wish to communicate with you, this will be certain to find you?"
"Yes, sir, quite certain."
"Circumstances may occur," I said, "which may render it necessary for me to seek information from you."
"Respecting whom, or what, sir?"
"It is hard to say. But, perhaps respecting my mother."
"I am afraid, sir, it will be useless to communicate with me upon that subject."
"Mrs. Fortress," I said, nettled at the decisive tone in which she spoke, "it occurs to me that during the many years you have been with us you have been unobservant of me."
"You are mistaken, sir."
"Outwardly unobservant, perhaps I should have said. When you entered my father's service I must have been a very young child. I am now a man."
"Yes, sir, you will be twenty-two on your next birthday. I wish you a happy life, whether it be a long or a short one."
"And being a man, it is natural that I should desire to know something of what has been hidden from me."
"You are assuming, sir, that somethinghasbeen hidden."
"I have not been quite a machine, Mrs. Fortress. Give me credit for at least an average amount of intelligence. It is not possible for me to be blind to the fact that there has been a mystery in our family."
"It is you who say so, sir, not I."
"I know, and know, also, that of your own prompting you will say little or nothing. To what can I appeal? To your womanly sympathies, to your sense of justice? Until this moment I have been silent. As a boy I had to submit, and latterly as a man. My parents were living, and their lightest wish was a law to me. But the chains are loosened now; they have fallen from me into my mother's grave. Surely you cannot, in reason or injustice, refuse to answer a few simple questions."
"Upon the subject you have referred to, sir, I have nothing to tell."
"That is to say, you are determined to tell me nothing."
She rose from her chair, and said, "With your permission, sir, I will wish you farewell."
"No, no; sit down again for a few minutes. I will not detain you long, and I will endeavour not to press unwelcome questions upon you. In all human probability this is the last opportunity we shall have of speaking together; for even supposing that at some future time you should yourself desire to volunteer explanations which you now withhold from me, you will not know how to communicate with me."
"Is it your intention to leave Rosemullion, sir?"
"I shall make speedy arrangements to quit it for ever. It has not been so filled with light and love as to become endeared to me. I shall leave it not only willingly but with pleasure, and I shall never again set foot in it."
"There is no saying what may happen in the course of life, sir. Have you made up your mind where you are going to live?"
"In no settled place. I shall travel."
"Change of scene will be good for you, sir. It is altogether the best thing you could do."
"Of that," I said impatiently, "I am the best judge. My future life can be of no interest to you. It is of the past I wish to speak. Have you any objection to inform me for how long you have been in my mother's service?"
"You were but a little over two years of age, sir, at the time I entered it."
"For nearly twenty years, then. You do not look old, Mrs. Fortress."
"I am forty-two, sir."
"Then you were twenty-three when you came to us?"
"Yes, sir."
"We were poor at the time, and were living in common lodgings in London?"
"That is so, sir."
"My father's means were so straitened, if my memory does not betray me, that every shilling of our income had to be reckoned. You did not--excuse me for the question, Mrs. Fortress--you did not serve my parents for love?"
"No, sir; it was purely a matter of business between your father and me."
"You are--again I beg you to excuse me--not the kind of person to work for nothing, or even for small wages."
"Your father paid me liberally, sir."
"And yet we were so poor that until we came suddenly and unexpectedly into a fortune, my father could never afford to give me a shilling. Truly your duties must have been no ordinary ones that you should have been engaged under such circumstances. It is, I suppose, useless for me to ask for an explanation of the nature of those duties?"
"Quite useless, sir."
"Will you tell me nothing, Mrs. Fortress, that will throw light upon the dark spaces of my life?"
"I have nothing to tell, sir."
To a man less under control than myself this iteration of unwillingness would have been intolerable, but I knew that nothing was to be gained by giving way to anger. I should have been the sufferer and the loser by it.
"Looking down, Mrs. Fortress, upon the dead body of my mother, you made the remark that it was a happy release."
"Death is to all a happy release, sir."
"A common platitude, which does not deceive me."
"You cannot forget, sir, that your mother was a great sufferer."
"I forget very little. Mrs. Fortress, in this interview I think you have not behaved graciously--nay, more, that you have not behaved with fairness or justice."
"Upon that point, sir," she said composedly, "you may not be a competent judge."
Her manner was so perfectly respectful that I could not take exception to this retort. She seemed, however, to be aware that she was upon dangerous ground, for she rose, and I made no further attempt to detain her. But now it was she who lingered, unbidden, with something on her mind of which she desired to speak. I raised my head, and wondered whether, of her own free will, she was about to satisfy my curiosity.
"If I thought you were not angry, sir," she said, "and would not take offence, I should like to ask you a question, and if you answer it according to my expectation, one other in connection with it."
"I shall not take offence," I said, "and I promise to exercise less reserve than you have done."
"I thank you, sir," she said, gazing steadily at me, so steadily, indeed, as to cause me to doubt whether, in a combat of will-power between us I should be the victor. "My questions are very simple. Do you ever hear the sounds of music, without being able to account for them?"
The question, simple as it was, startled, and for a moment almost unnerved me. What she suggested had occurred to me, at intervals perhaps of two or three months, and always when I was alone, and had worked myself into a state of exaltation. I do not exactly know at what period of my life this strange experience commenced, but my impression is that it came to me first in the night when I awoke from sleep, and was lying in the dark. It had occurred at those times within the last two or three years, and had it not been that it had already become somewhat familiar to me in hours of sunshine as well as in hours of darkness, I should probably have decided that it was but the refrain of a dream by which I was haunted. In daylight I frequently searched for the cause, but never with success. Lately I had given up the search, and had argued myself into a half belief that it was a delusion, produced by my dwelling upon the subject, and magnifying it into undue importance. For the most part the mysterious strains were faint, but very sweet and melodious; they seemed to come from afar off, and as I listened to them they gradually died away into a musical whisper, and grew fainter and more faint till they were lost altogether. But it had happened on two or three occasions, instead of their dying softly away and leaving me in a state of calm happiness, that the sweet strains were abruptly broken by what sounded now like a wail, now like a suppressed shriek. This violent and, to my senses, cruel termination of the otherwise melodious sounds set my blood boiling dangerously, and unreasonably infuriated me--so much so that the power I held over myself was ingulfed in a torrent of wild passion which I could not control. The melodious strains were always the same, and the air was strange to me. I had never heard it from a visible musician.
Not to a living soul had I ever spoken of the delusion, and that the subject should now be introduced into our conversation, and not introduced by me, could not but strike me as of singular portent. As Mrs. Fortress asked the question I heard once more the soft spiritual strains, and I involuntarily raised my right hand in the act of listening; I hear them at the present moment as I write, and I lay aside my pen a while, until they shall pass away. So! They are gone--but they will come again.
I answered Mrs. Fortress briefly, but not without agitation.
"Yes, I have heard such sounds as those you mention."
"You hear them now?"
"Yes, I hear them now. Do you?"
"My powers of imagination, sir, are less powerful than yours," she said evasively, and passed on to her second question. "It is not an English air, sir?"
"No, it is not English, so far as I am a judge."
"It comes probably," she suggested, and I was convinced that she spoke with premeditation, "from a foreign source."
"Most probably," I said.
"Perhaps from the mountains in the Tyrol."
A Tyrolean air! I seized upon the suggestion, and accepted it as fact, though I was quite unable to speak with authority. But why to me, who had never been out of England, should come this melody of the Tyrol? I could no more answer this question than I could say why the impassive, undemonstrative woman before me was, as it were, revealing me to myself and probing my soul to its hidden depths.
"It may be so," I said. "Do you seek for any further information from me?"
"No, sir." But there was a slight hesitancy in her voice which proved that this was not the only subject in her mind which bore upon my inner life.
"And now," I said, "I must ask you why you put these questions to me, and by what means you became possessed of my secret, mention of which has never passed my lips?" She shook her head, and turned towards the door, but I imperatively called upon her to stay. "You cannot deal with me upon this subject as you have upon all others. I have a distinct right to demand an explanation."
"I can give you no explanation, sir," she said, with deference and respect.
"You refuse?"
"Imustrefuse," she replied firmly, and then she bowed, and saying, "With my humble duty, sir," was gone.
Had I yielded to passion, had I not in some small degree exercised wisdom, I should have coined out of this last meeting with Mrs. Fortress a most exquisite torture; but I schooled myself into the acceptance of what was entirely beyond my comprehension, and after an interval of agitated thought I set it down to a trick, the inspiration of which may have been derived from unguarded words escaping me while I slept, or while I was soliloquising--a habit into which I had grown--and she was watching me unobserved. It troubled me a great deal at first, but I was successful in diminishing instead of magnifying it, and it was fortunate for me that I had much to occupy my mind in other ways during the few following weeks. My lawyer demanded my time and attention. I was determined, without question as to whether a favourable market could be found for them, to dispose of the property and securities which my father had left, and which now were mine. I was determined to commence a new life, without any exact definition or idea as to what that life was to be; and to do this it was necessary, according to my view, that I should make a clearance. I was surprised to discover that my father had made a great number of investments, and it was to my advantage that they were mostly good ones. Had I possessed both the moral and the legal power I would have sold Rosemullion, but my father's will was so worded that the lawyer pointed out to me that there would be difficulties in the way, and after listening to his arguments I agreed to retain it as my freehold. But I was determined not to inhabit it, and I gave instructions that a tenant should be sought for it, and that, if one could not be obtained, it should remain untenanted.
"It had been unoccupied a great many years," the lawyer remarked, "when your father purchased it."
"For any particular reason?" I inquired.
"No," replied the lawyer, "except that there was a foolish idea that it was haunted."
"Whoever rents Rosemullion," I said, "must take his own ghosts with him if he wishes for ghostly company."
"We generally do that," said the lawyer, dryly, "wherever we go."
There were legal requirements to be attended to in the drawing up and signing of deeds, but otherwise there was no difficulty in carrying out my intention to the letter, and at the expiration of three months I found myself an absolutely free and unencumbered man, with my large fortune invested in English consols, the fluctuations of which caused me not a moment's uneasiness. During those three months I lived my usual life, read, studied, and often wandered through the adjacent woods at night. I think that the adventure I have elsewhere narrated of the tramps I befriended one stormy night had awakened my sympathies for the class, and I may say, without vanity, that it was not the only occasion on which my sympathies had taken a practical shape. A little while before I bade farewell to Rosemullion I was wandering through the woods an hour or so before the rising of the sun, when I came upon a woman sleeping on the ground. As usual, she had a child in her arms, and moans issued from the breasts of both the woman and the child. It was a pitiful sight, familiar enough in our overcrowded land. The woman was the picture of desolation. Suddenly, as I gazed, a mocking voice whispered that it would be merciful to kill her where she lay. "Do a good deed," said the silent voice, "and hasten home to bed. No one will know." I laughed aloud, and took from my pocket my purse, which was well supplied with money. The woman had an apron on. I wrapped the purse in it, and tied it securely, so that it should not escape her. Then I crept away, but scarcely knew whether to be glad or sorry that I had cheated fate once more.
A few days afterwards I turned my back on Rosemullion.
I had formed no definite plans; all that I had settled was that I would go abroad and see the world. It was open for me, and the flowers were blooming. Was I not rich, and had I not already had experience of the value of riches?
But although I travelled far, and saw the wonders of art and nature in foreign lands, my habits were much the same as they had been in England. What I enjoyed I enjoyed in solitude; the chance acquaintances who offered themselves, many of them travelling alone as I was travelling, received no encouragement from me; I did not respond to their advances. In this I was but repeating my boyish experiences when I was living with my parents in London attics. Truly, the child is father to the man.
It may appear strange to those who are fond of friendships, and who cling ardently to them, to learn that, despite my loneliness, I had not a dull moment. Nature was very beautiful to my soul, its forms and changes most entrancing. I cared little for the great towns and cities. The modes of life therein, especially those which were exemplified by the absurd lengths and extravagances to which fashion drives its votaries, excited in me a very sincere contempt, and I was amazed that people could be so blind to the sweetest joys of existence. I visited the theatres, but they had, for the most part, no fascination for me. I saw great actresses associated with buffoons, and often themselves buffooning; I followed, at first with interest, the efforts of a be-puffed actress, who rose to the terrors and the beauties of her part in one fine scene, and did not consider the rest of her mimic life, as depicted on the boards, worth the trouble of consistency; I was present at the performance of dramas which were absolutely false in their action and sentiment. What pleased me best were the short poetical episodes, occupying less than an hour in their representation, and in which two or three good actors sustained and preserved the unities in excellent style. But these were side dishes, and only served to bring into stronger relief the larger and grosser fare provided for the intellectual education of the masses. I went to the opera, and could only enjoy it by shutting my eyes, so many absurdities were forced upon my sight: and as this drew unpleasant attention upon me, I was compelled to deprive myself of the enjoyment. I strolled into the gambling saloons, and gazed in amazement upon the faces of men and women in which the lowest passions were depicted. Human nature in those places was degraded and belittled. "Is there some mysterious hidden sweetness in this many-sided frenzy?" I asked myself, and I staked my money, and endeavoured to discover it; but the game did not stir my pulses; I lost or won with indifference. I soon tired of it, and bade adieu to the rooms, with a sigh of compassion and contempt for the slaves who fretted their hearts therein.
My chiefest pleasures were experienced in small villages in mountain and valley, where there was so little attraction for the ordinary tourist that he seldom lingered there. I delighted in primitiveness and simplicity, where human baseness had the fewest opportunities to thrive, and where human goodness was the least likely to be spoilt by publicity. It was in these places that I came to the conclusion that the largest amount of happiness is to be found among small communities.
But although I was consistent, up to a certain period, in declining all offers of intimacy and friendship, it happened that I was to come into contact with a man for whom, in a short space of time, I grew to have a very close regard. His name was Louis, by profession a doctor, by descent a German.
We met in the woods near Nerac, in Gascony. I was fording a watercourse which intersected part of the forest when my foot slipped upon a round stone which I had supposed was fast embedded in the earth, but which proved to be loose. I made a spring upon the stone, and it rolled over, and landed me in the water. A wetting was of no account, but when I attempted to rise I uttered a sharp cry of pain. I had sprained my ankle.
With difficulty I crawled from the water to dry ground, upon which I sat, nursing my ankle, which already was swelling ominously. In a short time the pain became intolerable, and I endeavoured to draw the boot from my foot, and finding this was not possible, I cut it away bit by bit, and then cut my stocking loose. I experienced instant and delicious relief. The pleasure we derive from the relief of pain is the most exquisite of all physical sensations. I bathed my ankle with water from the cold stream, which somewhat reduced the swelling, but the relief was only temporary, for when I endeavoured again to rise, the torture produced by my attempt to sustain the weight of my body upon my foot was so keen that I fell prone to the ground in agony. There were no trees sufficiently near by the aid of which I might manage to walk a short distance, and in the intervals of relief afforded by further applications of cold water, I ruefully contemplated my position.
I had walked twenty miles during the day, and I was a stranger in the locality. The time was evening, and no person was in sight to assist me. From inquiries I made on the road earlier in the day I calculated that Nerac must be at least three miles distant from the spot upon which I lay. To crawl that distance was impossible. I looked upward to the sky. Heavy clouds charged with rain, were approaching in my direction, and the prospect before me of having to pass the night in the woods was by no means pleasant. I had learnt from experience that the storms in this region were violent and fierce; and, moreover, I had eaten nothing since the morning. Hunger was making strong demands upon me--all the stronger, as is the way of things, because of helplessness. I called aloud, and only a very fine echo--which I was not in the mood to admire and appreciate--answered me. Again and again I strove to rise, and again and again I sank to the ground, My ankle was getting worse, and had by this time swelled to double its usual girth. I turned my head in every direction, in eager quest of a human form, but none met my view. A squirrel sprang out of the woods, and stopped suddenly short at sight of me. It remained quite still, at a distance of a few paces gazing at me, and then it darted away, inspiring within me an absurd envy of its active movements. Birds, with cries both shrill and soft, flew to their nests; frogs croaked near the edges of the water. Evening fell, the sun descended; night was my enemy, and was eager to get at me, and soon its darkness fell around me like a shroud. This had ever been an enjoyment to me, but on the present occasion it served but to aggravate the mental disorder produced by my sufferings. The figures I conjured up in the gloom were the reverse of soothing, and I found myself occasionally labouring under a kind of delirium. One of my fancies was so peculiar that I will recall it. I saw on the left of me a deep cave, which as I gazed upon it grew to an enormous size. I had been looking in that direction only a moment before, and had seen nothing; the sudden vision of this great cave in the midst of black space was, therefore, the more surprising. Its roof and sides resembled a huge feathery disk, and deep back in the recess, embedded in the furthermost wall, were two strange-looking globes, surrounded by spots and curved lines of the colours of orange, brown, and soft grey. These globes were instinct with motion, and seemed to shrink and swell, while the coloured spots and curves around them contracted or expanded, in obedience to some mysterious law. The feathery roof and walls seemed also to contract and expand in sympathy, and these wave-like movements made it appear as if the cave were a living monster. I managed to raise myself upon my elbow for a moment, and as I did so I was terror-struck by beholding the monster cave rise and fly past me--in the shape of an owl that had wandered my way in search of food.
Fortunately the storm held off a while, but about midnight, as near as I could judge in an interval of reason, a few heavy drops of rain fell. I really felt as if this were to be my last night on earth. Soon the storm broke over the forest, and in a moment I was drenched to the skin. This, with the pain that was throbbing in every vein, and the hunger that was gnawing at me, completely exhausted me, and I became insensible.
I was awakened by the touch of hands, by the sound of a human voice. I languidly opened my eyes, and saw a man bending over me. The storm had passed away, and the sun was just rising. I had barely strength to note these signs, for my condition was pitiable. The man addressed me first in French, then in German; but although I could speak both languages my senses were so dazed that I had no understanding of them at the moment. I murmured faintly a few words in my native tongue.
"Ah," said the man, quickly and cheerfully, answering me in my own language, which he spoke well, but with a foreign accent, "you are English?"
I murmured "Yes."
"Of course," he said, "I should have known without asking. You are faint and exhausted. I perceive how it is. You crossed the stream, and fell, and sprained your ankle."
I nodded, dreamily and vacantly. All the time he spoke he was busy binding my ankle with some linen he had taken from a leather bag which hung by a strap from his shoulders.
"How long have you been lying here? But to give me that information just now is not imperative. You wish to tell me. Well?"
"I have been here at least since yesterday--perhaps longer."
"That is bad, very bad; I can judge from the sprain that you must have been here a great many hours. It is a very severe sprain; there is inflammation, great inflammation; you will not be able to walk for weeks. But what does that matter? These are the smallest ills of life. Were you on your way to Nerac? Do not answer me in speech. Nod, or shake your head. Rally your strength--for a few moments only--so that I may know how to deal by you. Come, you are a strong man. Compel yourself not to swoon. Stupid that I am! I have generally a flask with me; but I have forgotten it, and just when it is most needed. It shall not occur again; but that resolve will not help us now, will it? Were you on your way to Nerac? A nod. Yes, then. Have you friends there? A shake. No, then. Travelling for pleasure? Yes. An English gentleman? Yes. It is fortunate for you, friend, that, warned by the signs of a coming storm last night, I delayed my return home till this morning, and that, to prevent my people being for too long a time uneasy about me, I took a short cut, which is seldom used. The path is so little frequented that you might have lain here for another weary day. I am from Nerac; my home is there, and my family. Attend. I am going to lift you upon my horse; I call it, and it comes to me. See, it kneels at my bidding. We are friends, my horse and I; and it understands me; it can do anything but speak. Observe that I shorten the left stirrup, so that your sprained foot may find a fairly easy resting-place, and that I slightly lengthen the right stirrup, In order that leaning to the right, with your sound foot firmly planted, you may throw all your weight on that side. Now, I place my arm under your left shoulder--thus, and I have a firm hold of you. Do not fear; I am very strong, and my dear dumb brute will keep very still. I place your arm round my neck--thus. Clasp me as closely as your strength will permit. That is right--it is cleverly done. Now, resolve to bear a little sharp pain for a moment, only for a moment. Englishmen are not only proverbially but actually brave and stout-hearted. There--it is accomplished, and my dumb comrade is ready for the journey home. Are you comfortably placed? Here is my shoulder on the right of you, to rest your hand upon. Don't be fearful that you might lean too hard; I am made of iron. What a glorious sunrise! There is a subdued beauty in the colours of the sky after a great shower which is very charming. If you can manage not to faint for a little while it will be of assistance to us. The storm has cooled the air; you must feel it refreshing to your hot skin. We will nurse you well again, never fear. There will be a slight fever to grapple with, in addition to the healing of the ankle. Do not be disturbed by doubts that you may not be in friendly hands. I am a physician, and my name is Louis--Doctor Louis. Nerac is a most lovely spot. When you are well, we will show you its beauties. You are a brave young fellow to smile and keep your eyes open to please your doctor. There--that is a rabbit darting through the sunlight--and the birds, do you hear them? They are singing hymns to the Creator. Yonder, high up in the distance, winging its way to the rosy light, is a skylark. 'Hail to thee, blithe spirit!' It is better for me to take you home in this way than to leave you lying by the stream yonder, while I went to Nerac to fetch assistance. You might have thought I was never coming back, and the torture of suspense would have been added to your other discomforts. Then, we shall reach Nerac a good many minutes earlier by this means. There are times when minutes are of serious importance. We are on an eminence, and are about to descend the valley which leads straight to Nerac. If you were quite yourself you would be just able to catch a glimpse of the roofs of the houses in our pretty village. There are few prettier--none in my opinion. We shall jolt a little going down hill. Bear up bravely; it will soon be over."
With such-like words of encouragement, most kindly and sympathetically uttered, in tones soothing and melodious, did Doctor Louis strive to lighten the weary way, but long before we came to the end of our journey everything faded from my sight.
When I became conscious of surrounding things I found myself in a large airy room, the pervading characteristics of which were space and light. I was lying in a bed, all the coverings of which were white; there were no curtains to it, and no hangings in the apartment to mar the deliciously cool and refreshing air which flowed in through the open folding windows. These windows, which stretched from ceiling to floor, faced the foot of the bed; my head was almost on a level with my body, and I could not obtain a level view of the gardens which bloomed without. But I had before me in the heights a delightful perspective of flowering trees, stretching upwards into the clouds. These clouds, of various shades of blue and white, filled all the spaces between the lovely network of leaves and branches. It was like gazing upwards instead of downwards into the waters of a clear and placid lake. A sense of blissful repose reigned within my soul. I had not the least desire to move; so perfect and so sweet was the peace in which I lay, as it were, embalmed, that I felt as if I were in a celestial land. There were trees with great clusters of red blossoms hanging in the clouds; a soft breeze was playing among them, and as they swayed gently to and fro fresh peeps of fairyland were continually disclosed to my contented eyes. There were nests in the trees, and the cloud-scapes of fleecy blue and white were beautifully broken now and again by the fluttering flight of birds as they came and went. The pictures I gazed upon, idealised and perfected by my mind's eye, have always abided with me. It is seldom given to man to enjoy what I enjoyed as I lay, then and for some time afterwards, in my white and healthful bed. It was a foretaste of heaven.
So fearful was I that the slightest movement might destroy the lovely pictures that I did not even turn my head at the sound of my bedroom door being softly opened and closed. A light footstep approached the bed, and I beheld a young girl whose form and face I silently and worshipfully greeted as the fairest vision of womanhood in her spring that ever blessed the sight of man. Observing that my eyes were open, she gazed at me for a moment of two in wondering and glad surprise, and then, with her finger at her smiling lips, trod softly from the room as lightly as she had entered it. I closed my eyes, so that this fair picture, in its dress of pale blue, with lace about the neck and arms, might not be entirely lost to me, and when another sound in the room caused me to open them, in the hope that she had returned, I saw standing at my bedside a grave and kindly man.
"So," he said in a quiet tone, "you are at length in the land of conscious life. You remember me?"
"First enlighten me," I said, and I was surprised to hear my voice so weak and wavering. "I am really awake? I am really in the land of the living?"
"So far as we know," was his reply. "There are those who say this life is but a dream, and that when we yield up our breath it is simply that our dream is ended, and that we are awaking to reality. For myself, I have not the least doubt that life is life, and death death, and that pain and joy are just what those words are intended to convey to our understanding."
"So fair and peaceful is the scene before me," I said, "so calm was my soul when I awoke, that it is difficult to realise that I am in the land of the living."
"You will realise it very vividly," he said gaily, "in an hour or two, when you are hungry. There is nothing so convincing as our grosser passions. You have not answered my question. Do you remember me?"
"Yes, I remember you. I had sprained my ankle in crossing the stream that runs through the woods, and not being able to walk, was doomed to lie there all night with a fine storm playing pranks upon my helpless body. It was a wild night, and I had wild fancies. What would have become of me had you not providentially come to my assistance is easy enough to guess. I should really by this time have been in possession of the grand secret."
"When did this occur?"
"Yesterday."
"My friend," said Doctor Louis, with a light laugh, "what you have so faithfully described took place four weeks ago. If you have any doubt of it, you have only to pass your hand over your beard."
The statement bewildered me. Accepting it as fact--and it was not possible for me to doubt it--I must have lain during those four weeks in a state of delirium. What perplexed me was the consciousness that I had been so well cared for by strangers, and that something more than a friendly interest had been taken in me. The evidences were around and about me. The sweet-smelling room, the beautiful scene through the open folding windows, the entrance of the fair girl, the smile on whose lips seemed to speak of innocent affection, the presence of Doctor Louis, and the friendliness and sympathy with which he was conversing with me--all these might be construed into evidences even of love. Still it would not do to take things too much for granted.
"Am I in an inn?" I asked.
"You are in my house," replied Doctor Louis courteously, "my guest, in whom we are all very much interested."
"All?"
"Myself--who should properly be mentioned last--my wife, who is first, as she deserves to be--and my daughter, who is our Home Rose."
Our Home Rose! The mere utterance of the words conveyed a sense of spiritual sweetness to me, who had never known the meaning of Home.
"It pleases us to call her so," said Doctor Louis.
"The young lady," I said, in a musing tone, "I saw in the room shortly before you entered, and whose appearance so harmonised with the peace and loveliness of the view of cloud and flower I see from my bed, that I should not have been surprised to hear she was spirit or angel."
"An angel in a blue dress," said Doctor Louis, with pleasant nods; "but it is agreeable to me, her father, to hear you speak so of her. She is, as I have said, the rose of our home. If there is an angel in our house, it is her mother. Lauretta, as yet, is but a child; she has to prove herself in life. But I ask your pardon. These details can scarcely interest you."
"They more than interest me," I said earnestly; "they do me good. Although you are a physician, your friendly confidence--which I accept as a privilege--is better than the most potent medicine you could administer to me. Pray continue to speak of your home and family. I beg of you!
"A wise doctor," said Doctor Louis, "and such, of course, I account myself, occasionally humours his patient. But I must not give you all the credit; the theme is agreeable to me; it is, indeed, closest to my heart. I used to think, when Lauretta was a little child, and we were deriving an exquisite happiness from her pretty ways, that no happier lot could be ours than that she should always remain a child. But that would never do, would it? A world inhabited by children is not in Nature's scheme. Fit theme for a fairy story. It behoves us, however, of necessity, to be to some extent practical. I have no fear for Lauretta. Children who are not violently wrenched from their natural bent inherit and exhibit their parents' qualities. I, we will say, am negative. I have my opinions, strong ones and deeply planted, but there is no positive vice in me, so far as I am aware, and it is pleasing to me to reflect that I have transmitted to my child neither moral nor physical hurt. But Lauretta's mother possesses qualities of goodness which proclaim her to be of a rare type of womanhood. She is not only benevolent, she is wise; she is not only strong, she is tender; and she has taught me lessons, not in words, but by the example of her daily life, which have strengthened my moral nature. You see, I am in love with my wife--of which I am not at all ashamed, though I am an old married man. If Lauretta's life resemble her mother's, if she follow in her footsteps, I shall be more than content--I shall continue to be truly happy. There are so many foolish, vicious children born in the world that it is something to be proud of to add to its millions one who will instinctively tread in the straight path of duty, and who, if it is her lot to suffer, will 'suffer and be strong.' Once more, forgive me for being so garrulous about my household treasures; it is a weakness into which it is not difficult to lead me. A few words concerning yourself, in explanation of what has occurred. Learning from your own lips, on the morning we first met in the forest yonder, that you were a stranger, and perceiving that you were a gentleman, I brought you straight to my house--with no settled intention, I must frankly own, of keeping you here for any length of time. After thoroughly studying your case I saw that you would be ill for weeks, and for a great part of that time that you would be not exactly in your right senses. To tell you the truth, I was puzzled, and while I was debating what to do with you, who should introduce herself into the matter but my estimable wife. She can invariably tell, by a certain puckering of my brows, when I am in a brown study, and she inquired what troubled me. I told her, You--yes, you, my friend. 'He will not be able to get about for a month,' I said. 'Poor young gentleman!' said my wife. 'And in spite of my undoubted skill,' I continued, 'I may not be able to save him!' She clasped her hands, and the tears gathered in her eyes. She has always a heartful of them ready to shed for those who are in sickness and trouble. A foolish woman, a very foolish woman indeed. 'He may die on our hands,' I said. 'Heaven forbid!' she cried. 'Heaven's forbidding it,' I sagely remarked--occasionally I say a good thing, my friend--'will not save him, if I cannot. There is healing by faith, certainly, but this hapless gentleman is not in a condition to bring faith to bear. I know what I will do. I will take him to an inn, where they will run him up a fine fat bill. His accident shall do some one good. There is the inn of the Three Black Crows. The landlord is a worthy fellow, and has a large family of round bright eyes and small red cheeks. To be sure, his wine is execrable, and he cannot cook a decent meal. But what of that? Our friend here will care little for either, and is not likely to complain of the quality. Yes, to the inn of the Three Black Crows he shall go.' My wife did not interrupt me; she never does; but she kept her eyes fixed earnestly upon my face while I was speaking, and when I had finished, she said, 'Louis, you are not in earnest.' 'Nonsense, nonsense,' said I; 'here, help me to carry this troublesome gentleman to the Three Black Crows.' 'You are not in earnest,' she repeated, and the foolish woman smiled at me through her tears; 'you know well that you have made up your mind that he shall stop here, and that I shall nurse him, with your assistance, into health and strength. His room is ready for him.' My friend, it is a rule with me never to create dissension in my home. Therefore, what could I do? Break through my rule, and cause my wife sorrow? And for you, a stranger? It was not to be thought of. That is how it has happened you have become my guest."
"How can I thank you?" I murmured, much moved. "How can I thank your good wife?"
"Thank me!" exclaimed Doctor Louis. "Have I not told you I had nothing to do with it? As to thanking my wife, she is never so happy as when she is nursing the sick. We really ought to pay you for the pleasure you have afforded us by spraining your ankle in the woods, and falling into a dangerous fever. Heavens, how you raved! What is the meaning of the expression I see in your eyes? Are you going to rave again?"
"No; I am wondering whether the sounds of music I hear are created by my imagination."
"The sounds are real sounds. It is my wife who is playing."
"But the instrument?"
"The zither."
"Its tones are most beautiful."
"It is her favourite instrument. She has sometimes played on it while you were lying unconscious, in the belief that its soft tones would not be a bad medicine for you. My daughter plays also. To conclude my explanation. During your fever your ankle has been attended to, and it is now nearly well. The sprain was so severe that it would have confined you to your bed without the fever, and as you were to have it, the two evils coming together was a piece of positive good fortune. It saved time."
"As I was to have it!" I exclaimed.
"My friend," said Doctor Louis, "do not forget that I am a doctor. Either then, or now, or at some time within the next twelve months, you would have succumbed to the strain which you have lately been putting upon yourself. The fever was lying dormant in your veins, and needed but a chance to assert itself. Whether you are conscious of it or not, there is no doubt that there have been severe demands upon your nervous system. To speak plainly, you have over-taxed yourself, and have treated Nature unfairly. She is long-suffering, but, push her too far, she will turn upon you and exact the penalty. Too late then to repent; the mischief is done, and all that we can do thereafter is to patch up. Have you met with any misfortune lately--have you lost any one who was dear to you?"
"Within a short time," I said, "I have lost both my parents."
"That is sad; but you have brothers, sisters?"
"Not one; nor, so far as I am aware, a relative the wide world over. I am alone."
"I regret to hear it, and sincerely sympathise with you; but you are young, and have all your life before you. There are, however, persons with whom you wish to communicate, friends who will be anxious at your long silence. Now that you are conscious and sensible you will have letters to write. Do not flatter yourself that you are strong enough to write them. It will be another fortnight, at least, before you will be fit even for that slight exertion."
"I have no letters to write," I said, "and none to receive. I am without a friend."
I saw him look in pity at me, and he seemed to be surprised and disturbed.
"I am a new experience to you," I observed.
"I admit it, yes," he said thoughtfully, "but we have talked enough. Sleep, and rest."
As he uttered these words he passed his right hand with a soothing motion across my brows. I was disposed for sleep, and it came to me.
The days passed as in a blissful dream. There was always within me the same sense of perfect repose; there were always before me delightful panoramas of cloudland, moving through graceful foliage and bright blossoms. Sometimes Lauretta's mother came into the room, and sat by my bedside, and spoke a few gentle words. She was the embodiment of Peace; her voice, her movements, her graceful figure, formed a harmony. I did not see Lauretta during those days, nor was her name mentioned again by Doctor Louis. But when her mother was with me, and I heard the sound of the zither, I knew it was Lauretta who was playing. The music, in the knowledge that she was the player, produced upon me the same impression as when her mother played--for which I can find no apter figure of speech than that I was lying in a boat on the peaceful waters of a lake, with a heavenly calm all around me.
Doctor Louis came daily, and we indulged in conversation; and frequently before he left me made similar passes across my forehead, which had the effect of producing slumber. After a time I spoke of this, and we conversed upon the subject. I had read a great deal concerning mesmerism and clairvoyance, and Doctor Louis expressed surprise at the extent of my information on those subjects. He said he was glad to perceive that I was a student, and I replied that my chiefest pleasures had been derived from books.
At length I was convalescent, and, for the first time for many weeks, I enjoyed the open air. We sat in the garden, and I was enchanted with its beauties, which seemed all to radiate from Lauretta. It was she who imparted to surrounding things, to flowers, to trees, to grassy sward and floating cloud, the touch of subtle sweetness which made me feel as if I had found a heaven upon earth. On that day, for the first time, our hands met.
She gathered fruit, and we ate it slowly. Lauretta's mother sat nearest to me, engaged upon a piece of embroidery. Lauretta, waiting upon us, came and went, and my eyes followed the slight figure wherever she moved. When she disappeared into the house I did not remove my eyes from the door through which she had passed until she emerged from it again. Once or twice, meeting my gaze, she smiled upon me, and I was agitated by an exquisite joy. Doctor Louis, wearing a hat which shaded his brows, sat at a little distance, sometimes reading, sometimes contemplating me with attention.
"You must be glad to be well," said Lauretta's mother.
I answered, "No, I regret it."
"Surely not," she said.
"Indeed it is so," I replied. "I am afraid that the happiest dream of my life is drawing to an end."
"The days must not be dreamt away," she said, with grave sweetness; "life has duties. One's ease and pleasure--those are not duties; they are rewards, all the more enjoyable when they have been worthily earned."
"Earned in what way?" I asked.
"In administering to others, in accomplishing one's work in the world."
"How to discover what one's work really is?" I mused.
"That is not difficult, if one's nature is not wedded to sloth."
"And where," I continued, "supposing it to be discovered, should it be properly performed?"
"In one's native land," she said. "He belongs to it, and it to him."
"There have been missionaries who have done great good."
"They could have done as much, perhaps more, if they had devoted themselves to the kindred which was closest to them."
"Not that I have a desire to become a missionary," I said. "I have not within me the spirit of self-sacrifice. I have been travelling for pleasure."
"It is right," she said, quickly, "it is good. Do not think I mean to reproach you. Had I a son, and could afford it, I would bid him travel for a year or two before he settled down to serious labour."
"It was my good fortune that I resolved to see the world, for it has brought me to this happy home."
"It is happy," she said, "because it is home."
I asked Lauretta if she would play.
"In the house?" she inquired.
"No," I replied, "here, where Nature's wondrous works are closest to us."
The zithers were brought out, and mother and daughter played. I was not yet strong enough to bear the tension of great excitement, and I leant back in the easy chair they had provided for me, and closed my eyes. Whether I slept or not I should not, at the time, have been able to decide, nor for how long I lay thus, listening to the sweet strains. Awake or asleep, I was in a kind of dreamland, in which there was no discordant note; and even when I heard the music merge into the Tyrolean air which I had so often heard in fancy during my residence in Rosemullion, and concerning which Mrs. Fortress had questioned me, I did not regard it as strange or unusual. It was played by those to whom I had been spiritually drawn. I recognised now the meaning of the mysterious strains I used to hear in the silent woods. The players and I were one; our lives were one, I who had all my life scoffed at fate, suddenly renounced my faith. Chance had not brought us together; it was Destiny.
As I lay in this dreamy condition I became conscious that the music had ceased and that the players had departed. But I was not alone; Doctor Louis was with me.
These facts were made apparent by my inner sense, for I did not attempt to open my eyes. Indeed, without a determined effort I should not have succeeded. A wave of cold air passed over my eyelids; another; another. This did not proceed from an uncontrolled natural force; Doctor Louis had risen from his seat, and was now standing in close proximity to me. I did not pause to consider whether he had moved towards me stealthily, in order not to disturb me. I was content to accept certain facts without inquiry as to how they were produced. Again the wave of cold air across my eyelids; again; again.
"To seal them," was the expression of my thought. "So be it--but this learned doctor shall not quite succeed. He is endeavouring to magnetise me to his will, but my power is no less than his; it may be greater. Hidden force shall meet hidden force in friendly and amiable contest. He will not be aware that I am resisting him, and the advantage will be on my side. I will play with him as one skilled in fence plays with an apprentice. My dear doctor's power is the product of cultivation; he has learnt the art he practises. To me it is natural, born in my birth without a doubt. What matter how transmitted? That I am I is the potent fact; and being I, and of and in the world, I am, to myself, supreme. What to me would be the marvels of nature, the genius of centuries, the memorials of time from the first breath of creation, were I not in existence? Therefore am I, to myself, supreme. The present lives; the past is at rest. The future? A grey veil spreads itself before me, shutting out from my view the years of mortal life through which I have yet to pass. But I possess a talisman. I breathe upon the veil the form of a rose, white and most lovely, with just a tinge of creamy pink, and it dissolves into a vision of flowers, amidst which I walk, clasping a hand which, but that it is flesh and blood, might be the hand of an angel. It is an angel's hand--mine, and no other man's; mine, to gladden my hours, and to be for ever creative of joy, of peace, of beauty. How fair the view! I will have no other.
"I am not fearful that the doctor has evil intentions towards me; and truly I have none towards him. As regards our relations to each other, spiritual and temporal, nothing is yet fixed.
"I see him as he stands by my side waiting his turn. A grave, courteous, and kindly man, whose native instinct it must be to shrink from evil. Goodness and nobility are inherent in his nature. Not that he is devoid of cunning. Indeed, is he not practising it at the present moment? But it is cunning which must always be used to a just or good end. I do not unite the terms 'just' and 'good,' for the reason that they are sometimes at war with each other. What is a blessing to one man is frequently a curse to another. The doctor's cunning is just now weakened by the fact that it is as much the cunning of the heart as of the head that he is bringing to bear upon me. Mixed motives are rarely entirely successful. In enterprises upon which momentous issues hang, one dominant idea must be the supreme guide.
"He is not inimical to me, yet is he secretly disturbed--and I am the cause. Well, doctor, you picked me up in the woods and saved my life. Who, then, is the responsible one--you or I?
"Between us, for sympathy or repulsion, are a being and an influence which soon shall become resolved into a bridge or a chasm. I prefer that it shall be a bridge, but it may be that it will not depend upon me to make it this or that. Only, I will have my way. No power on earth shall mar the dearest wish of my heart.
"What being stands between you and me, dear doctor, to unite or sever? Ah, the fragrant air playing about my face, whispering of spring, of youth, of joy! Lying back in my chair, with eyes fast closed, I see the pink and white blossoms growing upwards into the clouds, kissing heaven. I am lifted heavenward. Delicious and most sweet! If death bear any resemblance to this state of beatitude, it were good to die. But I must live--I must live! A heaven awaits me in mortal life. Dear doctor, whom, unconscious to yourself, I am dominating even as you would dominate me, which is it to be--a bridge to join our hearts, or a chasm to hold them apart? The influence is Love, the being, Lauretta. You cannot quite see into my heart, nor can I quite see into yours, but the secret which includes love and Lauretta is yours for the asking. Also, for the asking, my resolve to win both love and her.
"But your inquisitiveness may travel beyond this point; you may seek to know too much, and I am armed to resist you. Nothing shall you glean from me that will be to my hurt, that will step between me and Lauretta. You shall obtain from me no pathognomonic sign which will enable you to lay your finger upon the secret of my midnight musings, and of my love for solitude. You shall not make me a witness against myself. True, I have heard silent voices and have seen invisible shapes. You would construe the bare fact to my disadvantage. You would be unable to understand that they are my slaves and have no power over me. All the dark thoughts they have suggested, all the temptings and instigations, will presently be slain by love, and will fall into a deep grave, to lie there for ever still and dead. I am as others are, human; my life, like the lives of other men, is imperfect. The purifying influence is at hand. I thank Thee, Creator of all the harmonies in the wondrous world, that Thou hast sent me Lauretta! Now, doctor, I am ready for you."
He spoke upon the instant.
"You and I have certain beliefs in common--as that we are not entirely creatures of chance. There is in all nature a design, down to its minutest point."
"So far as creation goes," I answered, "so far as this or that is brought into existence. There ends the design."
"Because the work is done," said Doctor Louis.
"Not so," I said. "Rather is it because nature's part is done. Then the true work commences, and man is the master."
"Nature can destroy."
"So can man; and, of the two, he is the more powerful in destruction. His work also is of a higher quality, because of the intelligence which directs it. He can go on or turn back. Nature creates forces which, apart from their creator, produce certain results--some beautiful and harmonious, some frightful and destructive. For these results nature is only indirectly responsible; the forces she creates work independently to their own end. When a great storm is about to burst, it is not in nature's power to will that it shall dissolve into gentleness. Hence, nature, all powerful up to a given point, is powerless beyond it."
"And man?"
"Isall powerful. He wills and executes. He aspires to win, and he works to win. He desires, and he schemes to gratify his desire." I paused, and as Doctor Louis did not immediately reply, continued: "If there is not perfect accord between us in large contentious matters upon which the wisest scientists differ, that is no reason why there should not be between us a perfect friendship."
"I am pleased to hear you say so; it means that you desire to retain my friendship."
"I earnestly desire it."
"And would make a sacrifice to retain it?"
"Sacrifice of what?"
"Of some wish that is dear to you," replied Doctor Louis.
"That depends," I said. "In entering upon a serious obligation it behoves a man to be specific. Doctor, we are drifting from the subject which occupies your mind. Concentration would be of advantage to you in any information you wish to obtain from me."
"The flower turns towards the sun," said Doctor Louis, after a pause, during which I knew that he was bringing himself back to the point he was aiming at, "and closes its leaves in the darkness. My view has been that man, though the highest in the scale, is not his own master; he is subject to the influences which affect lower grades of life. At the same time he has within him that with which no other form of life is gifted--discernment, and, as you have said, the power to advance or recede. It sometimes happens that an impulse, as noble as it is merciful, arrests his foot, and he says, 'No, I may bruise that flower,' and turns aside. You follow me?"
"Yes--but you are still generalising. Question me more plainly upon what you desire to know."
"You are a stranger among us?"
"I was; I do not look upon myself as a stranger now. Here have I found peace and fitness. Do not forget that, out of your goodness and generosity, you have treated me with affection."
"I do not forget it, and I pray that it may not lead to unhappiness."
"It is also my prayer--though you must remember that one man often enjoys at another man's expense."
"You have already told me something of yourself. Again I ask, what are you?"
"An English gentleman."
"Your father?"
"He was the same."
"Your mother?"
"A lady."
"Were you educated at a public school?"
"No; my studies were conducted at home by private tutors. We lived a life of privacy, and did not mix with the world."
"For any particular reason?"
"For none that I am aware of. It suited my parents so to live; it suited me also. Since the death of my parents I have seen much of the world, and derived but small enjoyment from it until destiny led me to Nerac."
"Destiny?"
"It is the only word, doctor, by which I can express myself clearly."
"During your illness you gave utterance to sentiments or ideas which impel me now to inquire whether, in the lives of either of your parents, there was that which would cause an honourable man to pause before he yields to a temptation which may draw an innocent being to destruction?"
"I would perish rather than destroy the flower in my path."
"You adopt my own figure of speech, but you do not answer my question--which proves that I have not complete power over you. Your sense of honour will not allow you to commit yourself to anything distinctly untruthful. Say there is that in your inner life which warns you that to touch would be to wither, would you stoop to gather the flower which it may be awaits your bidding?"
A glow of ineffable delight warmed my heart. "Do you know," I asked, "that it awaits me?"
"I know nothing absolutely. I am striving to perform a duty. An ordinarily wise man, foreseeing a storm, prepares for it; and when that storm threatens one who is dearer to him than life itself, he redoubles his precautions."
"As you are doing."
"As I am doing--though I am sadly conscious that my efforts may be vain."
"You are not my enemy?"
"On the contrary. I recognise in you noble qualities, but there is at the same time a mystery within you which troubles me.
"May you not be in error there?"
"It is possible. I speak from inward prompting, based upon observation and reflection."
"Dear doctor," I said, with a sense of satisfaction at the conviction that I was successfully probing him, "if I thought that my touch would blast the flower you speak of, I would fly the spot, and carry my unhappiness with me, so that only I should be the sufferer. But no need exists. Nothing lies at my door of which I am ashamed. No man, so far as I am aware, is my enemy, and I am no man's. I have never committed an act to another's hurt. You speak of my inner life. Does not every human being live two lives, and is there not in every life something which man should keep to himself. Were we to walk unmasked, we should hate and loathe each other, and saints would be stoned to death. We are maculate, and it is given to no man to probe the mystery of existence. There are pretenders, and you and I agree upon an estimate of them. If in private intercourse we were absolutely frank in our confession of temptations, gross thoughts, and uncommitted sins, it would inspire horror. The joys of life are destroyed by seeking too far. We are here, with all our imperfections. The wisest and truest philosophy is to make the best of them and of surrounding circumstances. Therefore when I see before me a path which leads to human happiness, I should be mad to turn from it. Will you not now ask questions to which I can return explicit answers?"
"You love?"
"Yes."
"Whom?"
"Lauretta."
"In honour?"
"In perfect honour. So pure a being could inspire none but a pure passion."
"You would make a sacrifice to render her happy?"
"I can make her happy without a sacrifice."
"But should the need arise?"
"If I were convinced of it, I would sacrifice my life for her. It would be valueless to me without her; it would be valueless with her did not her heart respond to the beating of mine."
"You have not spoken to her?"
"Of love? No."
"You will not, without my consent?"
"I cannot promise."
"You believe yourself worthy of her?"
"No man can be worthy of her, but I as much as any man."
"She is young for love."
"Those words should be addressed to nature not to me."
"Aspiring to win her, you would win her worthily?"
"It shall be my endeavour."
"I do not say she is easily swayed, but she is simple and confiding. She must have time to question her heart."
"What is it you demand of me?"
"That you should not woo her hastily. I am her father and her natural guardian. It would not be difficult for me to keep you and her apart."
"Do you contemplate an act so cruel?"
"Not at the present moment seriously, but it has suggested itself to me as the best safeguard I could adopt to save an inexperienced child from possible unhappiness."
"She would suffer."
"Less now than at some future time, when what is at present a transient feeling may become a faith, from which to tear her then would be to tear her heartstrings. You are, or would be, her lover; I am her father. Were you in my place and I in yours, you would act towards me as I am acting towards you. I repeat, you are a stranger among us; you must give us time to know more of you before I can take you by the hand and welcome you as a son. You must give my daughter time to know more of you before you ask her to take the most important step in a woman's life. It is in my power to-day to make my conditions absolute, and I intend to use my power.
"You require a guarantee from me?" I said.
"Yes."
"And if I give it, will it be the means of separating me from Lauretta?"
"No."
The fears which had begun to agitate me vanished. What guarantee could Doctor Louis demand which I would refuse to give, so long as I was permitted to enjoy Lauretta's society?
"State what you require," I said.
"I require a sacred promise from you, to be repeated when you are in full possession of your faculties, that, until the expiration of twelve months from this day, you will not seek to obtain from my daughter any direct or indirect pledge of love by which she will be likely to deem herself bound."
"On the understanding that I am a free agent to stay in Nerac or leave it, and that you will not, directly or indirectly, do anything to cause Lauretta and me to be separated, I give you the promise you demand."
"I am satisfied," said Doctor Louis.
"A moment," I said, a sudden vague suspicion disturbing me; "there is something forgotten."
"Name it."
"You will bind yourself not to use your parental authority over Lauretta to induce her to enter into an engagement with, or to marry, any other man than me."
"I willingly bind myself; my desire is that she shall be free to choose."
Those were the last words which passed between us on that occasion; and soon afterwards Doctor Louis left me to my musings. They were not entirely of a rosy hue. At first I was in a glow of happiness at what it seemed to me I had learnt from between the lines of Doctor Louis's utterances. If he had not had good reason to suppose that Lauretta loved me, he would not have sought the interview. What had been said was like a question asked and answered, a question upon which the happiness of my life depended. And it had been answered in my favour. Lauretta loved me! What other joys did the world contain for me? What others were needed? None. Blessed with Lauretta's love, all sources and founts of bliss were mine. It did not immediately occur to me that the probation of twelve months' delay before heart was joined to heart was a penance, or that there was danger in it. But certain words which Doctor Louis had uttered presently recurred to me with ominous significance: "My desire is that she shall be free to choose." To choose! Were there, then, others who aspired to win Lauretta? The thought was torture.
To debate the matter with myself in hot blood I felt would be unwise; therefore I schooled my mind to a calmer mood, and then proceeded to review the position in which I stood with respect to the being who was all the world to me.
It was not to be supposed that Lauretta had grown to womanhood without forming friendships and acquaintances, but I had seen nothing to lead to the belief that her heart had responded to love's call before I appeared. She was sweet and tender to all, but that it was in her nature to be, and I had allowed myself to be strangely self-deceived if the hope and the belief were false that in her bearing towards me there was a deeper, sweeter tenderness than she exhibited to others. That she was unconscious of this was cause for stronger hope. But did it exist, or was it simply the outcome of my own feelings which led the word of promise to my ear?
To arrive at a correct conclusion it was necessary that I should become better informed with respect to the social habits of Doctor Louis's family. I had been until this day confined to a sick room, but I was growing strong, and I had looked forward with tranquil satisfaction to the prospect of recovering my usual health by slow stages. This was no longer my desire. I must get well quickly; I would will myself into health and strength. I was sure that even now I could walk unaided. By a determined effort I rose to my feet, and advancing three or four steps forward, stood upright and unsupported. But I had overtaxed myself; nature asserted her power; I strove to retrace my steps to the chair, staggered, and would have fallen to the ground had it not been that a light form glided to my side and held me up. Lauretta's arm was round me.