CHAPTER XVI.AT LAST.
There came a bright and perfect day, followed by a night quite its equal. Had a petition been sent to the portals above, where the weather angel sat, there could not have come from him more mellow, golden hours than those that dawned for the Cresent City that beautiful Wednesday of early March. All along the flower-clad streets men and women walked, sauntering, in their Southern fashion, stopping now and then to greet each other, or to gaze in the shop windows. The old peanut woman smiled upon her stores as she kept the lazy flies away; and the violet stands sold double their usual number of bunches. Every one was out. Every one seemed happy. Children, in white dresses and gay sashes, wandered hand in hand along the street, their sweet laughter mingling with the sounds around them.
In after years, how often came to those two the memory of that brief morn. Alone, with folded arms,Neil stood and watched the setting sun, as it went down across the waters at West End. The white sails of countless pleasure boats were framed against the sky. There came a strange, wild yearning in his heart to be upon the deep once more—to go forever from all this! And yet he could not leave her. He thought of taking her with him to foreign lands and beginning anew his life. But the end? What must it be?
All day he had thought to seek her, and all day he had not done so. He had walked the beautiful streets in fierce restlessness, and there would come again and again that feeling of solitude, impossible to describe; and though the sound of her last hurried whisper rang ever in his ear, still did he shrink away, hugging to his breast the memory of a treasure he longed yet dared not to look upon.
“Would that I might keep you pure, my love, pure as the children I pass in the mid-day beams!” and the man, stretching out his arms in the twilight gloom, surrendered himself to his fate.
All through those golden hours, she, too, had thought of him; she had spent the day across the lake, wandering on the sea shore, pausing, now andthen, in the shadow of some great tree to throw back her light veil that she might watch the distant ships go out into the ocean. She, too, had longed to be away from “all this,” and still, ever with each fleeting thought, came the heart cry, “I cannot leave thee, for I know thou wilt come again!”
Back to the city, when the night dews fell, they came; and, after she had rested a little, she went with her mother to the theatre. They did not think to look at the bills, before starting for the Grand, nor ask the name of the troupe, so when the curtain went up on the second act they were not a little surprised to see an old friend step to the footlights. Gwendoline whispered to her mother:
“Mamma, I am so glad we came. I have always enjoyed her acting so.”
Mrs. Gwinn put up her glasses.
“Why, yes!—and it really is Clovis! I thought she was in California!” said her mother.
“Excuse me, Madam,” remarked a stranger behind them. “She is not going there until after her engagement here; then, she leaves, never to return.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Mrs. Gwinn. “I had not heard that. Thanks for your kind information,” and she turned her face to the stage, as the curtain rose.
Like all Cassandra’s selections, the play was both tasty and beautiful. Gwendoline thought her quite as lovely as ever, only, perhaps, a little thinner, and a “wee bit” worn in face and figure. The story of the drama was one like unto her own life—the hopeless, passionate love of a woman for a man, who had given the best of his heart-treasures to another. Emory, standing in the shade of a column, saw all and felt her powerful language. Never had she acted as now—never had her voice rung o’er pit and gallery with such pathos. She never once saw him, or knew that he was there. As if alone, and unto an unseen world, did she pour forth the torrent of her affection, and other hearts besides his were touched. The last scene came. The dying footsteps of her departing lover were heard no longer, and in solitude the lonely, deserted woman stood, to speak in beauteous soliloquy her parting words—to breathe her parting prayer.
With those glorious eyes upturned to a face she seemed to see, while her white arms went out before her and around her clung her flowing robes of snow, stood the actress the people loved. Pale, and paler still, she grew; and, back, within the shade, where he sat, Emory saw the tears upon her cheeks andheard the sadness in the voice, as the soft roll of the falling curtain shut that face from his gaze forevermore!
And that other—where was she? Her name was not on the programme, but one woman behind the scenes had he caught a glimpse of—a frail thing, dressed in black lace, her head and shoulders enveloped in a fabric of the same kind. Several times had she passed in view, but his opera-glass told him nothing.
It was long past midnight when he sought his room. In spite of the lateness of the hour the lamps burned in the long parlor. Throwing his window open, he drew a chair to the railing of the veranda, so that he might sit for awhile and enjoy the coolness there. How clear seemed the skies above him, studded with those myriad stars! How sweet the soft winds of heaven!
The occasional roll of returning carriages was heard in the street beneath, in whose cushioned depths sat beautiful women, the glimpses of whose white hands resting on the sills of the open windows, as they caught the light from some street lamp, made his pulses thrill when he thought of those other hands as fair.
Like threads of gold came the light from the parlor windows into the gloom outside, and a little way along another streamed, faintly dying against the railing of the veranda. Turning his head, he saw it, and wondered if she had come home.
“I must see her to-morrow,” he thought; “yes, let the end be what it will! To-morrow, to-morrow, Gwendoline! I will come again to-morrow!”
Rising, he walked slowly back and forth, in front of his open window, with folded arms and stately mien. Long he paced, till a little wearied; he paused at last, and sank into a seat, with a sigh. Why, at that moment, did he think of his wife Cecile, and why did those thoughts assume a more kindly nature than they had ever done before? Only the best of her seemed to find an echo in the heart that loved her not.
Would that he might see her once more, and, having met, part from her in peace!
Where was that wandering one, who bound him with so heavy a bond, to break which he strove in vain? Why would she not, in mercy, stretch forth her frail hands and unlink it, that his bark might go where’er he guided it and not drift to unknown seas,where, at times, the softest winds foretell the coming storm, the gentlest waves carry you on towards the shore, where, finally, they become terrible breakers, which wreck you among the reefs of despair! So he must drift, drift ever on, “even unto death,” at whose gloomy portals there was no respite.
Like a tired boy, he laid his head upon his arms, thrown above the railing, against which he sat. At that moment, he heard some one enter the parlor; and, presently, a few chords on the piano reached him, and then a voice arose in song—a sweet, low voice, not strong, but clear and true. It stole out into the midnight air and thrilled his throbbing breast. His wife used to sing, but not like that. Her voice was rich and full, soaring away, in high, passionate tones, when such a mood was on her, or filled with witchery at other times.
But this woman’s notes partook of neither of these sentiments. Almost a wail in its witching music did it sound; high and clear, soft and low—dying—dying—and then it ceased, and she began to cough two or three times, then convulsively. Emory stood up to listen. Would this never end? Would she sing again? No, for at that moment a man came out from theparlor, half supporting a woman, her head and shoulders enveloped in black lace, with a handkerchief to her face. There was no other chair, and Neil offered his. As she sank into the seat, she took the cambric from her mouth and looked at it—there were a few dark spots on its folds.
“Ouch!” she said, “it looks like blood,”—and then she began to cough again; a rattling sound smote the listener’s ear, as a deep red stream issued from her lips, finding its way to the floor. In a moment, she fell back in her companion’s arms, quite insensible. He supported her gently, and, turning to Neil, asked where he could take her.
“In here,” and, drawing aside the curtains of his own window, he motioned to the man to enter. He did so at once, advancing to the bed, upon which he placed the still insensible form of the woman, whose dark dress streamed around her like a pall.
“Will you have a physician?” asked Emory.
“No,” replied the gentleman; “I do not think he could do anything. Have you some ice water?”
Neil handed him a glassful from the table near by.
The man saturated his handkerchief and bathed the blood-stained lips.
“She has been subject to hemorrhages lately,” he said, addressing himself to Emory. “We were on our way home from the theatre, and, seeing the hotel lights up here, stopped for a moment for her to rest a little, and then she tried to sing. Poor little woman—her work is almost over now.” Then after a pause he said: “I fear she is dying; have you no wife, no sister to call?”
“I will call some friend;” but, before he could leave the room, the form before them stirred, turning the haggard, withered face to the light. Something illumined the room—two glorious eyes, with the shadow of death upon them. And then she spoke:
“Neil, it is I—it is Cecile!” and again she lay quite motionless.
Through the door, which he had just opened, came the sound of passing feet; he looked up, and, at that moment, saw Gwendoline and her mother go by. He ran into the passage, and overtook them as they were about entering their apartments.
“Come with me!” he cried, excitedly.
Gwendoline gave a little cry at the suddenness of his appearance, the oddity of his request, the strangeness of his manner, and all at such an hour.
“Come with you? I do not understand! What ails you?”
“Come, come!” he cried, excitedly. “Cecile is here—Cecile is dying! Do come!”
“What mean you?” she gasped. “Cecile here—dying? Oh, mother, let us go!”
He led the way, assuring them that no harm awaited them, and that he did but wish them to render service to a dying soul.
The man had lifted the fainting woman; her emaciated form rested against his shoulder, as he supported her on the side of the bed.
Emory moved in front of them, followed by his trembling companions, who dared not speak. The dying woman put out her hands, groping as if in darkness, and as she felt Neil’s hands touch her own a smile quivered over her lips, while, slowly and with difficulty, she spoke:
“Neil, forgive!”
He bowed his head upon his breast, as the stranger laid her down, and her eyes closed,—forever.
A cold hand touched his, and Gwendoline was beside him. He drew her out upon the long piazza, and they stood for a little while in silence beneaththe stars. Then, opening his arms, he clasped her to his heart, holding her there, as he had never held her before.
Over the distant hills of Tennessee, a horse, feeding, softly neighed, as he lifted his head to the night breeze, and echo answered:
“Cliquot! Cliquot! my beautiful!Thou hast won for me!”
“Cliquot! Cliquot! my beautiful!Thou hast won for me!”
“Cliquot! Cliquot! my beautiful!Thou hast won for me!”
“Cliquot! Cliquot! my beautiful!
Thou hast won for me!”
THE END.