A nature half transformed, with qualitiesThat oft betrayed each other, elementsNot blent, but struggling, breeding strange effectsPassing the reckoning of his friends or foes.George Eliot.High minds of native pride and forceMost deeply feel thy pangs, remorse!Fear for their scourge, mean villains have,Thou art the torturer of the brave.Scott.
This was what Sophie had done: she had invoked forces that she could not control, and she felt, as people are apt to feel when they watch their monster growing into strength, a little frightened and a little sorry. No doubt it had seemed to her a very small thing, to favor the folly of a girl of seventeen, fascinated by the voice and manner of a nameless stranger; it was a folly most manifest, but she had nothing to do with it, and was not responsible; a very small thing to allow, and to encourage what, doubtless, she flattered herself, her discouragement could not have subdued. It was very natural that she should not wish Richard to many any one; she was not more selfish than most sisters are. Most sisters do not like to give their brothers up. She would have to give up her home (one of her homes, that is,) as well. She did not think Richard's choice a wise one: she was not subject to the fascination of outline and coloring that had subjugated him, and she felt sincerely that she was the best judge. If Richard must marry (though in thinking of her own married life, she could not help wondering why he must), let him marry a woman who had fortune, or position, or talent. Of course there was a chance that this one might have money, but that would be according to the caprice of a selfish old man, who had never been known to show any affection for her.
But money was not what Richard wanted: his sister knew much better what Richard wanted, than he knew himself. He wanted a clever woman, a woman who would keep him before the world and rouse him into a little ambition about what people thought of him. Sophie was disappointed and a little frightened when she found that Richard did not give up the outline and coloring pleasantly. She had thought he would be disillusionized, when he found he was thrown over for a German tutor, who could sing. She had not counted upon seeing him look ill and worn, and finding him stern and silent to her; to her, of whom he had always been so fond. She found he was taking the matter very seriously, and she almost wished that she had not meddled with the matter.
And this German tutor--who could sing--well, it was strange, but he was the worst feature of her Frankenstein, and the one at which she felt most sorry and most frightened. Richard was very bad, to be sure, but he would no doubt get over it: and if it all came out well, she would be the gainer. As to "this girl for whom his heart was sick," she had no manner of patience with her or pity for her.
"She must suffer: so do all;" she would undoubtedly have a hard future, no matter to which of these men who were so absurd about her, Fate finally accorded her: hard, if she married Richard without loving him (nobody knew better than Sophie how hard that sort of marriage was); hard, if she married the German, to suffer a lifetime of poverty and ill-temper and jealous fury. But about all that, Sophie did not care a straw. She knew how much women could live through, and it seemed to be their business to be wretched.
But this man! And she could not gain anything by what he suffered, with his dangerous nature, his ungovernable jealousy, his possibly involved and unknown antecedents; what was to become of him, in case he could not have this girl of whom six weeks ago he had not heard? A pretty candidate to present to "mon oncle" of the Wall-street office, for the hand of the young lady trusted to their hospitality--a very pretty candidate--a German tutor--who could sing. If he took her, it was to be feared he would have to take her without more dowry than some very heavy imprecations. But could he take her, even thus? Sophie had some very strange misgivings. This man was desperately unhappy: was suffering frightfully: it made her heart ache to see the haggard lines deepening on his face, to see his colorless lips and restless eyes. She was sorry for him, as a woman is apt to be sorry for a fascinating man. And then she was frightened, for he was "no carpet knight so trim," to whom cognac, and cigars, and time would be a balm: this man was essentially dramatic, a dangerous character, an article with which she was unfamiliar. He was frantic about this silly girl: that was plain to see. Why then was he so wretched, seeing she was as irrationally in love with him?
"If it only comes out right," she sighed distrustfully many times a day. She resolved never to interfere with anything again, but it came rather late, seeing she probably had done the greatest mischief that she ever would be permitted to have a hand in while she lived. She made up her mind not to think anything about it, but, unfortunately for that plan, she could not get out of sight of her work. If she had been a man, she would probably have gone to the Adirondacks. But being a woman she had to stay at home, and sit down among the tangled skeins which she had not skill to straighten.
"If it only comes out right," she sighed again, the evening of that most uncomfortable drive, "If it only comes out right." But it did not look much like it.
I had gone directly in to tea, and so had Richard. Richard's face silenced and depressed everybody at the table; and Mr. Langenau did not come.
"There is going to be a terrible shower," said some one, and before the sentence was ended, there was a vivid flash of lightning that made the candles pale.
"How rapidly it has come up," said Sophie. "Was the sky black when you came in, Richard?"
"I do not know," said Richard, and nobody doubted that he told the truth.
"It had begun to darken before we came up from the river." said Charlotte Benson. "The clouds were rising rapidly as we came in. It will be a fearful tempest."
"Are the windows all shut?" said Sophie to the servant.
"I should think so," exclaimed Kilian. "The heat is horrid."
"Yes, it is suffocating," said Richard, getting up.
As he went out of the dining-room, some one, I think Henrietta, said, "Well, I hope Mr. Langenau will get in safely; he was out on the river when we were on the hill."
The storm was so sudden and so furious that everybody was concerned at hearing this; even Kilian made some exclamation of alarm.
"Does he know anything about a boat?" he asked of Richard, who had paused in the doorway, hearing what was said.
"I have no idea," said Richard, shortly, but he did not go away.
"It isn't the sail-boat that he has, of course," said Kilian, thoughtfully. "He always goes out to row, I believe."
"Why, no," said Charlotte Benson, "he's in the sail-boat; don't you remember saying, Henrietta, how bright the gleam of the sunset was on the sail, and all the water was so dark?"
Kilian came to his feet very suddenly at these words.
"That's a bad business," he said quickly to his brother. "I've no idea he can manage her in such a squall."
Sophie gave a little scream, and Charlotte and Henrietta both grew very pale, as a frightful shock of thunder followed. The wind was furious, and the unfastened shutters in various parts of the house sounded like so many reports of pistols, and in an instant the whole force of the rain fell suddenly and at once upon the windows. Somewhere some glass was shattered, and all these sounds added to the sense of danger, and the darkness was so great and so sudden, that it was difficult to realize that half an hour before, the sunset could have whitened the sails of a boat upon the river.
"I'm afraid it's too late to do much now," said Kilian, stopping in front of his brother in the doorway.
"What's the use of talking in that way," returned Richard in a hoarse, low voice. "If you hav'nt more sense than to talk so before women, you can stay at home with them," he continued, striding across the hall, and picking up a lantern that stood in a corner near the door. Charlotte Benson caught up one of the candles from the table, and ran to him and lit the lamp within the lantern. Sophie threw a cloak over Kilian's shoulders, and Henrietta flew to carry a message to the kitchen. Richard pulled a bell that was a signal to the stable (the stable was very near the house), and in almost a moment's time two men, beside Kilian, were following him out into the tempest. We saw their lanterns flicker for an instant, and then they were swallowed up in the darkness. The fury of the storm increased every moment. The flashes of lightning were but a few seconds apart, and the roll of thunder was incessant. Every few moments, above this continued roar, would come an appalling crash which sounded just above our heads. The children were screaming with fear, the servants had come into the hall and seemed in a helpless sort of panic. Sophie was very pale and Mary Leighton clung hysterically to her. Charlotte Benson was the only one who seemed to be self-possessed enough to have done anything, if there had been anything to do. But there was not. All we could do was to try to behave ourselves with fortitude in view of the personal danger, and with composure in view of that of others. Presently there came a lull in the tempest, and we began to breathe freer; some one went to the door and opened it. A gust of cold wind swept through the hall and put out the lamp, at which the children and Mary Leighton renewed their cries of fright.
The respite in the tempest was but temporary; before the lamp was relit and order restored, the storm had burst again upon us. This was, if anything, fiercer, but shorter lived. After fifteen or twenty minutes' rage, it subsided almost utterly, and we could hear it taking itself off across the heavens. I suppose the whole storm, from its beginning to its end, had not occupied more than three quarters of an hour, but it had seemed much longer.
We were very glad to open the door and let the cool, damp air into the hall. The children were taken up-stairs, consoled with the promise that word should be sent to them when their uncles should return. The servants went feebly off to their domain; one was sent to sweep the piazza, for the rain had beaten in such torrents upon it that it was impossible to walk there, till it should be brushed away. Wrapped in their shawls, Henrietta and Charlotte Benson walked up and down the space that the servant swept, and watched and listened for a long half-hour. I took a cloak from the rack and, leaning against the door-post, stood and listened silently.
From the direction of the river there was nothing to be heard. There was still distant thunder, but that was the only sound, that and the dripping of the rain off the leaves of the drenched trees. The wind was almost silent, and in the spaces of the broken clouds there were occasional faint stars. A fine, young tree, uprooted by the tempest, lay across the carriage-way before the house, its topmost branches resting on the steps of the piazza: the grass was strewed with leaves like autumn, and the paths were simply pools of water. Sophie, more than once, came to the door, and begged us to come in, for fear of the dampness and the cold, but no one heeded her suggestion. Even she herself came out very often, and looked and listened anxiously. Finally my ear caught a sound: I ran down the steps, and bent forward eagerly. There was some one coming along the garden-path that led up from the river. I could hear the water plashing as he walked, and he was coming rapidly. In a moment the others heard it too, and starting to the steps, stood still, and waited breathlessly. He had no lantern, for we could have seen that; he was almost at the steps before I could recognize him. It was Richard. I gave a smothered cry, and springing forward, held out my hands to stop him.
"Tell me what has happened." He put aside my hands, and went past me without a second look.
"There has nothing happened, but what he can tell you when he comes," he said, as he strode past me up the steps, and on into the house. Then he was alive to tell me: the reaction was a little too strong for me, and I sat down on the steps to try and recover myself, for I was ill and giddy.
In a few moments more, more steps sounded in the distance, this time slowly, several persons coming together. I started and ran up the steps, I don't exactly know why, and stood behind the others, who were crowding down, servants and all, to hear what was the news. Kilian came first, very drenched, and spattered, and subdued looking, then Mr. Langenau, leaning upon one of the men, very pale, but making an attempt to smile and speak reassuringly to Sophie, who met him with looks of great alarm. It evidently gave him dreadful pain to move, and when he reached the house he was quite faint. Charlotte Benson placed a chair, into which they supported him.
"Run, Pauline, and get some brandy," said Sophie, putting a bunch of keys into my hand without looking at me.
When I came back with the glass of brandy, he was conscious again, and looked at me and took the glass from my hand. The other man had been sent for the doctor from the village, who was expected every moment, and Mr. Langenau, who was now revived by stimulants, was quite reassuring, and attempted to laugh at us for being so much frightened. Then the young ladies' curiosity got the better of their terror, and they clamored for the history of the past two hours. This history was given them principally by Kilian. I cannot repeat it satisfactorily, for the reason that I don't know anything about jibs, and bowsprits, and masts, and centre-boards, and I did not understand it at the time; but I received enough out of the mass of evidence presented in that language, to be sure that there had been considerable danger, and that everybody had behaved well. In fact, Kilian's changed manner toward the tutor of itself was quite enough to show that he had behaved unexpectedly well.
The unvarnished and unbowspritted and unjib-boomed tale was pretty much as follows: Mr. Langenau had found himself in the middle of the river, when the storm came on. I am afraid he could not have been thinking very much about the clouds, not to have noticed that a storm was rising; though every one agreed that they had never known anything like the rapidity of its coming up. Before he knew what he was about, a squall struck him, and he had great difficulty to right the boat. (Then followed a good deal about luffing and tacking and keeping her taut to windward; that is, I think that was where he wanted to keep her.) But whatever it was, he didn't succeed in doing it, and Kilian vouchsafed to say nobody could have done it. Then something split: I really cannot say whether it was the mast, or the bowsprit, or the centre-board, but whatever it was, it hurt Mr. Langenau so much that for a moment he was stunned. And then Kilian cannot see why he wasn't drowned. When he came to himself he was still holding the rudder in his hand.
The other arm was useless from the falling of--this thing that split--upon it. And so the boat was floundering about in the gale till it got righted, and it was Mr. Langenau's presence of mind that saved him and the boat, for he never let go the rudder, and controlled her as far as he could, though he did not know where he was going, the blackness was so great, and the flashes did not show him the shore; and he was like one placed in the midst of a frightful sea wakened out of a dream, owing to the blow and the unconsciousness which followed.
Then Richard came upon the stage as hero; he and one of the men had gone out in the only boat at hand, a very small one, toward the speck, which, by the flashes of lightning, he saw out upon the river. It was almost impossible to overhaul her, and it could not have been done at the rate she was going, of course; but then occurred that accident which rendered Mr. Langenau unconscious, and which brought things to a standstill for a moment. Kalian said we did not know anything about the storm up here at the house; that more than one tree had been struck within a few feet of him on the shore. The river was surging; the wind was furious; no one could imagine what it was who had not witnessed it, and he, for his part, never expected to see Richard come back to land. But Richard did come back, and brought back the disabled sail-boat and the injured man. That was the end of the story; which thrilled us all very much, as we knew the heroes, and had one of them before us, ghastly pale but uncomplaining.
It seemed as if the doctor never would come! We were women, and we naturally looked to the coming of the doctor as the end of all the trouble. It was impossible to make the poor fellow comfortable. He could not lie down, he could not move without excruciating pain, and very frequently he grew quite faint. Charlotte Benson and Sophie administered stimulants; endeavored to ease his position with pillows and footstools; and did all the nameless soothing acts that efficient and good nurses alone understand; while I, paralyzed and mute, stood aside, scarcely able to bear the sight of his sufferings. I am sorry to say, I don't think he cared at all to have me by him. He was in such pain that he cared only for the attendance of those who could alleviate it in a measure; and the strong firm hand and the skilled touch were more to him than the presence of one who had nothing but excited and unavailing sympathy to offer. It was rather a stern fact walking into my dreamland, this.
By and bye Kilian went away to take off his wet clothes, and he did not come back again, but sent down a message to his sister that he was very tired and should go to bed, but if he were wanted for anything he could be called. This was not heroic of Kilian, but, after the manner of men, he was apt to keep away from the sight of disagreeable things.
After all, he could not do much good, but it was something to feel there was a man to call upon, besides Patrick, who was stupid; and I saw Charlotte Benson's lip curl when Kilian's message was brought down.
Richard was in his room: we all thought he had done enough for one night, and had a right to rest.
At last, after the most weary waiting, wheels were heard, and the doctor drove up to the door. The servants had begun to look very sleepy. Mary Leighton had slipped away to her room, and Sophie had told Henrietta and me to go, for we were really of no earthly use. We did not take her advice as a compliment, and did not go. Henrietta opened the door for the doctor, which was doing something though not much, as two of the maids stood prepared to do it if she did not.
The doctor was a reassuring, quiet man, and became a pillar of strength at once. After talking a few moments with Mr. Langenau, and pulling and twisting him rather ruthlessly, he walked a little away with Sophie, and told her he wanted him got at once to his room, and he should need the assistance of one of the gentlemen. Would not Patrick do? Besides Patrick. Mr. Langenau's shoulder was dislocated, badly, and it must be set at once. It was a painful operation and he needed help. I was within hearing of this, and I was in great alarm. Sophie looked so too, and I don't think she liked disagreeable things any better than her brother, but she was a woman, and could not shirk them as he could.
"Pauline," she said, finding me at her side as she turned, "run up and tell Richard that he must come down, quick. Tell him how it is, and that he must make haste."
I ran up the stairs breathlessly, but feeling all the time that it was rather hard that I must be sent to Richard with this message. Sophie did not want to ask him to come down herself, and she thought me the most likely ambassador to bring him, but it was not a congenial embassy. Perhaps, however, she only asked me because I happened to be nearest her, and she was rather upset by what the doctor said.
I knocked at Richard's door.
"Well?"
"Oh, they want you to come down-stairs a minute. There's something to be done," panting and rather incoherent.
"What is to be done?"
"The Doctor's here, and he says he must have help."
"Where's Kilian?"
"Gone to bed."
Some suppressed ejaculation, and he pushed back his chair, and rose, and came across the room: at least it sounded so, and I ran down the stairs again. He followed me in a moment. The Doctor came forward and talked to him a little while, and then Richard called Patrick, and told Sophie to see that Mr. Langenau's room was ready.
"How can he get up two pairs of stairs," said Charlotte Benson, "when he cannot move an inch without such suffering?"
"That's very true," the Doctor said. "I doubt if he could bear it. You have no room below?"
"Put a bed in the library," said Charlotte Benson, and in ten minutes it was done; the servants no longer sleepy when they had any definite order to fulfill.
"In the meantime," said Richard to his sister, "send those two to bed," pointing out Henrietta and me.
"I've told them to go, but they won't," said Sophie, somewhat sharply.
Henrietta walked off, rather injured, but I would not go.
Mr. Langenau had another faint attack, and I was quite certain he would die. Charlotte was making him breathesal volatileand Sophie ran to rub his hands. The Doctor was busy at the light about something.
"The room is all ready," said the servant.
"Very well; now Mr. Richard, if you please," the Doctor said.
"Pauline," said Richard, coming to me as I stood at the foot of the balusters, "You can't do any good. You'd better go up-stairs."
"Oh, Richard," I cried, "I think you're very cruel; I think you might let me stay."
I suppose my wretchedness, and youthfulness, and folly softened him again, and he said, very gently, "I don't mean to be unkind, but it is best for you to go. You need not be so frightened: there isn't any danger."
I moved slowly to obey him, but turned back and caught his hand and whispered, "You won't let them hurt him, Richard?" and then ran up the stairs. No doubt Richard thought I went to my own room; but I spent the next hour on the landing-place, looking down into the hall.
It was rather a serious matter, getting Mr. Langenau even into the library, and it was well they had not attempted his own room. Patrick was called, and with his assistance and Richard's, he began to move across the hall. But half-way to the library-door, he fainted dead away, and Richard carried him and laid him on the bed, Patrick being worse than useless, having lost his head, and the Doctor being a small man, and only strong in science.
Pretty soon the library-door closed, and Sophie and Charlotte were excluded. They walked about the hall, talking in low tones, and looking anxious. Later, there came groaning from within the closed door, and Charlotte Benson wrung her hands and listened. The groans continued for a long while: the misery of hearing them! After a while they ceased: then Richard opened the door, hastily, it seemed, and called "Sophie."
Sophie ran forward, and the door closed again. There was a long silence, time enough for those who were outside to imagine all manner of horrid possibilities. Then the Doctor and Richard came out.
"How is he, Doctor?" said Charlotte Benson, bravely, going to meet them, while I hung trembling over the landing-place.
"Oh better, better, very comfortable," said the Doctor, in his calm professional tone.
I could not help thinking those groans had not denoted a very high state of comfort; but maybe the Doctor knew best how people with dislocated shoulders and broken ribs are apt to express their sentiments of satisfaction.
I listened with more than interest to their plans for the night: the Doctor was going away at once; two of the servants and Patrick were to relieve each other in sitting by him, while Richard was to throw himself on the sofa in the hall, to be at hand if anything were needed.
"Which means, that you are to be awake all night," said Charlotte Benson. "You have more need of rest than we. Let Sophie and me take your place."
Richard looked gratefully and kindly at her, but refused. The Doctor assured them again that there was no reason for anxiety; that Richard would probably be undisturbed all night; that he himself would come early in the morning. Then Richard came toward the stairs, and I escaped to my own room.
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead,Were better mate than I!Scott.Fools, when they cannot see their way,At once grow desperate,Have no resource--have nothing to propose--But fix a dull eye of dismayUpon the final close.Success to the stout heart, say I,That sees its fate, and can defy!Faust.
Two weeks later, and things had not stood still; they rarely do, when there is so much at hand, and ripe for mischief; seventeen does not take up the practice of wisdom voluntarily. I do not think I was very different from other girls of seventeen, and I cannot blame myself very much that I spent all these days in a dream of bliss and folly; how could it have been otherwise, situated exactly as we were? This is the way our days were passed. Mr. Langenau was better, but still not able to leave his room. He was the hero, as a matter of course, and little besides his sufferings, his condition, and his prospects, was talked of at the table; which had the effect of making Kilian stay away two nights out of three, and of alienating Richard altogether. Richard went to town on Monday morning after the accident occurred, and it was now Friday of the following week, and he had not come back.
It was a little dull for Mary Leighton and for Henrietta, perhaps; possibly for Charlotte Benson, but she did not seem to mind it much; and I had never found R---- so enchanting as that fortnight. Charlotte Benson liked to be Florence Nightingale in little, it was very plain; and naturally nothing made me so happy as to be permitted to minister to the wants of the (it must be confessed) frequently unreasonable sufferer. For the first few days, while he was confined to his bed, of course Charlotte and I were obliged to content ourselves with the sending of messages, the arranging of bouquets, the concocting of soups and jellies, and all the other coddling processes at our command. But when Mr. Langenau was able to sit up, Sophie (at the instance of Charlotte Benson, for she seemed to have renounced diplomacy herself,) arranged that the bed should be taken away during the daytime, and brought back again at night, and that Mr. Langenau should lie on the sofa through the day. This made it possible for us to be in the room, even without Sophie, though we began to think her presence necessary. That scruple was soon done away with, for it laid too great a tax on her, and restricted our attentions very much. The result was, we passed nearly the whole day beside him; Mary Leighton and Henrietta very often of the party, and Sophie occasionally looking in upon us. Sometimes when Charlotte Benson, as ranking officer, decreed that the patient needed rest, we took our books and work and went to the piazza, outside the window of his room.
He would have been very tired of us, if he had not been very much in love with one of us. As it was, it must have been a kind of fool's paradise in which he lived, five pretty women fluttering about him, offering the prettiest homage, and one of them the woman for whom, wisely or foolishly, rightly or wrongly, he had conceived so violent a passion.
As soon as he was out of pain and began to recover the tone of his nerves at all, I saw that he wanted me beside him more than ever, and that Charlotte Benson, with all her skill and cleverness, was as nothing to him in comparison. No doubt he dissembled this with care; and was very graceful and very grateful and infinitely interesting. His moods were very varying, however; sometimes he seemed struggling with the most unconquerable depression, then we were all so sorry for him; sometimes he was excited and brilliant; then we were all thrilled with admiration. And not unfrequently he was irritable and quite morose and sullen. And then we pitied, and admired, and feared himà la fois. I am sure no man more fitted to command the love and admiration of women ever lived.
Charlotte Benson with great self-devotion had insisted upon teaching the children for two hours every day, so that Mr. Langenau might not be annoyed at the thought that they were losing time, and that Sophie might not be inconvenienced. It was the least that she could do, she reasoned, after the many lessons that Mr. Langenau had given us, with so much kindness, and without accepting a return. Henrietta volunteered for the service, also, and from eleven to one every day the boys were caught and caged, and made to drink at the fountain of learning; or rather to approach that fountain, of which forty Charlottes and Henriettas could not have made them drink.
At that time Charlotte always decreed that Mr. Langenau should lie on the sofa and go to sleep. The windows were darkened, and the room was cleared of visitors. On this Friday morning, nearly two weeks after the accident, as I was following Sophie from the room (Charlotte having gone with Henrietta to capture the children), Mr. Langenau called after me rather imperiously, "Miss d'Estrée--Miss Pauline--"
It had been a stormy session, and I turned back with misgivings. Sophie shrugged her shoulders and went away toward the dining-room.
"What are you going away for, may I ask?" he said, as I appeared before him humbly.
"Why, you know you ought to lie down and to rest," I tried to say with discretion, but it was all one what I said: it would have irritated him just the same.
"I am rather tired of this surveillance," he exclaimed. "It is almost time I should be permitted to express a wish about the disposition of myself. As I do not happen to want to go to sleep, I beg I may be allowed the pleasure of your society for a little while."
"I don't think it would give you much pleasure, and you know you don't feel as well to-day."
"Again, may I be permitted to judge how I feel myself?"
"Oh, yes, of course, but--"
"But what, Miss d'Estrée?--No doubt you want to go yourself--I am sorry I thought of detaining you (with a gesture of dismissal). I beg you to excuse me, A sick man is apt to be unreasonable."
"Oh, as to that, you know entirely well I do not want to go. You are unreasonable, indeed, when you talk as you do now. I only went away for your benefit."
"Qui s'excuse, s'accuse."
"But I am not excusing myself; and if you put it so I will go away at once."
"Si vous voulez--"
"But I don't 'voulez'--Oh, how disagreeable you can be."
"You will stay?"
"Pauline!" called Sophie from across the hall.
"There!" I exclaimed, interpreting it as the voice of conscience. I left my work-basket and book upon the table, and went out of the room.
"You called me?" I said, following her into the parlor, where, shutting the door, she motioned me to a seat beside her. She had a slip of paper and an envelope in her hand, and seemed a little ill at ease.
"I've just had a telegram from Richard," she said. "He's coming home to-night by the eleven o'clock train. It's so odd altogether. I don't know why he's coming. But you may as well read his message yourself," she said with a forced manner, handing me the paper. It was as follows:
Send carriage for me to eleven-thirty train to-night. Remember my injunctions, our last conversation, and your promises."
"Well?" I said, looking up, bewildered and not violently interested, for I was secretly listening to the quick shutting of the library-door.
"Why, you see," she returned, with a forced air of confidence that made me involuntarily shrink from her; I think she even laid her hand upon my sleeve, or made some gesture of familiarity which was unusual--
"You see, that last conversation was--about you. Richard is annoyed at--at your intimacy with Mr. Langenau. You know just as well as I do how he feels, for no doubt he's spoken to you himself."
"He never has," I said, quite shortly.
"No?" and she looked rather chagrined. "Well--but at all events you know how he feels. Girls ar'nt slow generally to find out about those things. And he is really very unhappy about it, very. I wish, Pauline, you'd give it up, child. It's gone quite far enough; now don't you think so yourself? Mr. Langenau isn't the sort of man to be serious about, you know. It's all very well, just for a summer's amusement. But, you know, you mustn't go too far. I'm sure, dear, you're not angry with me: now you understand just what I mean, don't you?"
No: not angry, certainly not angry. She went on, still with the impertinent touch upon my arm: "Richard made me promise that I would look after you, and not permit things to go too far. And you see--well--I'll tell you in confidence what I think his coming to-night means, and his message and all. I think--that is, I am afraid--he's found out something against Mr. Langenau since he's been away. I know he never has felt confidence in him. But I've always thought, perhaps that was because he was--well--a little jealous and suspicious. You know men are so apt to be suspicious; and I was sure, when he went away that last Monday morning, that he would not leave a stone unturned in finding out everything about him. It is that that's kept him, I am sure. Don't let that make you feel hardly toward Richard," she went on, noticing perhaps my look; "you know it's only natural, and besides, it's right. How would he answer to your uncle?"
"It is I who should answer to my uncle," I returned, under my breath.
"Yes, but you are in our house, in our care. You know, my dear child, you are very young and very inexperienced; you don't know how very careful people have to be."
"Why don't you talk that way to Charlotte and Henrietta and Mary Leighton? Have I done anything so very different from them?" I answered, with a blaze of spirit.
"No, dear," she said, with a little laugh, "only there are one or two men very much in love with you, and that makes everything so different."
I blushed scarlet, and was silenced instantly, as she intended.
"Now, maybe I am mistaken about his having discovered something," she went on, "but I can't make anything else out of Richard's message. He is not one to send off such a despatch without a reason. Evidently he is very uneasy; and I thought it was best to be perfectly frank with you, dear, and I know you'll do me the justice to say I have been, if Richard ever says anything to you about it. You mustn't blame me, you know, for the way he feels. I wish the whole thing was at an end," she said, with the first touch of sincerity. "And now promise me one thing," with another caressing movement of the hand, "Promise me, you won't go into the library again till Richard comes, and we hear what he has to say. Just for my sake, you know, my dear, for you see he would blame me if I did not keep a strict surveillance. You won't mind doing that, I'm sure, for me?"
"I shall not promise anything," I returned, getting up, "but I am not likely to go near the library after what you've said."
"That's a good child," she said, evidently much relieved, and thinking that the affair was very near its end. I opened the door, and she added: "Now go up-stairs, and rest yourself, for you look as if you had a headache, and don't think of anything that's disagreeable." That was a good prescription, but I did not take it.
Of course, I did not go near the library; that was understood. After dinner, the servant brought in Mr. Langenau's tray untouched, and Charlotte Benson started up, and ran in to see what was the matter. Sophie went too, looking a little troubled. I think they were both snubbed: for ten minutes after, when I met Charlotte in the hall, she had an unusual flush upon her cheek, and Sophie I found standing at one of the parlor-windows, biting her lip, and tapping impatiently upon the carpet. Evidently the affair was not as near its placid end as she had hoped. She started a little when she saw me, and tried to look unruffled.
"How sultry it is this afternoon!" she said. "Are you going up to your room to take a rest? stop in my room on your way, I want to show you those embroideries that I was telling Charlotte Benson of last night."
"I did not hear you, and I do not know anything about them," I said, feeling not at all affectionate.
"No? Oh, I forgot: it was while you and Henrietta were sitting in the library, and Charlotte and I were walking up and down the piazza while it rained. Why, they are some heavenly sets that I got this spring from Paris--Marshall picked them up one day at theBon Marché--and verily they arebon marché. I never saw anything so cheap, and I was telling Charlotte that some of you might just as well have part of them, for I never could use the half. Come up and look them over."
Now I loved "heavenly sets" as well as most women, but dress was not the bait for me at that moment. So I said my head ached and I could not look at them then, if she'd excuse me; and I went silently away to my room, not caring at all if she were pleased or not. I disliked and distrusted her more and more every moment, and she seemed to me so mean: for I knew all her worry came from the apprehension of what she might have to fear from Richard, not the thought of the suffering that he or that any one else endured.
It was a long afternoon, but it reached its end, after the manner of all afternoons on record, even those of Marianna. When I came down-stairs they were all at tea and Kilian had arrived. A more enlivening atmosphere prevailed, and the invalid was not discussed. A drive was being canvassed. There was an early moon, and Kilian proposed driving Tom and Jerry before the open wagon, which would carry four, through the valley-road, to be back by half-past nine or ten o'clock.
"But what am I to do," cried Kilian, "when there are five angels, and I have only room for three?"
"Why, two will have to stay at home, according to my arithmetic," said Charlotte, good-naturedly, "and I've no doubt I shall be remainder."
"If you stay, I shall stay with you," said Henrietta, dropping the metaphor, for metaphors, even the mildest, were beyond her reach of mind.
Everybody wanted to stay, and everybody tried to be quite firm; but as no one's firmness but mine was based on inclination, the result was that Sophie and I were "remainder," and Mary Leighton, Charlotte, and Henrietta drove away with Kilian quite jauntily, at half-past seven o'clock. But before she went, Charlotte, who was really good-natured with all her sharpness and self-will, went into the library to speak to Mr. Langenau, and to show she did not resent the noonday slight, whatever that had been. But presently she came back looking rather anxious, and said to Sophie, ignoring me (whom she always did ignore if possible),
"Do go and see what you can do for Mr. Langenau. He is really very far from well. His tea stands there, and he hasn't taken anything to eat. He looks feverish and excited, and I truly think he ought to see the Doctor. You know he promised the Doctor to stay in his room, and keep still all the rest of the week. But I am sure he means to come out to-morrow, and he even talks of going down to town. It will kill him if he does; I'm sure he's doing badly, and I wish you'd go and see to him."
"Does he know Richard is coming up to-night?" asked Sophie,sotto voce, but with affected carelessness.
"I do not know; oh yes, he does, I mentioned it to him at dinner-time, I remember now."
"Well, I'll see if I can do anything for him; now go, they're waiting for you. Have a pleasant time."
After they were gone, Sophie went into the library, but she did not stay very long. She came and sat beside me on the river-balcony, and talked a little, desultorily and absent-mindedly.
Presently there was a call for "mamma," a hubbub and a hurry--soon explained. Charley, who had been running wild for the last two weeks, without tutor or uncle to control him, had just fallen from the mow, and hurt himself somewhat, and frightened himself much more. The whole house was in a ferment. He was taken to mamma's room, for he was a great baby when anything was the matter with him, and would not let mamma move an inch away from him. After assisting to the best of my ability in making him comfortable, and seeing myself only in the way, I went down-stairs again, and took my seat upon the balcony that overlooked the river.
The young moon was shining faintly, and the air was soft and balmy. The house was very still; the servants, I think, were all in a distant part of the house, or out enjoying the moonlight and the idleness of evening. Sophie was nailed to Charley's bed up-stairs, trying to soothe him; Benny was sinking to sleep in his little crib. It seemed like an enchanted palace, and when I heard a step crossing the parlor, it made me start with a vague feeling of alarm. The parlor-window by me, which opened to the floor, was not closed, and in another moment some one came out and stood beside me. It was Mr. Langenau. I started up and exclaimed, "Mr. Langenau, how imprudent! Oh, go back at once."
He seemed weak, and his hand shook as he leaned against the casement, but his eyes were glittering with a feverish excitement. He did not answer. I went on: "The Doctor forbade your coming out for several days yet--and the exertion and the night-air--oh, I beg you to go back."
"Alone?" he said in a low voice.
"No, oh no, I will go with you. Anything, only do not stay here a moment longer; come." And taking his hand (and how burning hot it was!) and drawing it through my arm, I started toward the hall. He had to lean on me, for the unusual exertion seemed to have annihilated all his strength. When we reached the library, I led him to a chair--a large and low and easy one, and he sank down in it.
"You are not going away?" he asked, as he gasped for breath, "For there is something that must be said to-night."
"No, I will not go," I answered, frightened to see him so, and agitated by a thousand feelings. "I will light the lamp, and read to you. Let me move your chair back from the window."
"No, you must not light the lamp; I like the moonlight better. Bring your chair and sit here by me--here." He leaned and half-pulled toward him the companion to the chair on which he sat, a low, soft, easy one.
I sat down in it, sitting so I nearly faced him. The moon was shining in at the one wide window: I can remember exactly the pattern that the vine-leaves made as the moonlight fell through them on the carpet at our feet. I had a bunch of verbena-leaves fastened in my dress, and I never smell verbena-leaves at any time or place without seeing before me that moon-traced pattern and that wide-open window.
"Pauline," he said, in that low, thrilling voice, leaning a little toward me, "I have a great deal to say to you to-night. I have a great wrong to ask pardon for--a great sorrow to tell you of. I shall never call you Pauline again as I call you to-night. I shall never look into your eyes again, I shall never touch your hand. For we must part, Pauline; and this hour, which heaven has given me, is the last that we shall spend together on the earth."
I truly thought that his fever had produced delirium, and, trying to conceal my alarm, I said, with an attempt to quiet him, "Oh, do not say such things; we shall see each other a great, great many times, I hope, and have many more hours together."
"No, Pauline, you do not know so well as I of what I speak. This is no delirium; would to heaven, it were, and I might wake up from it. No, the parting must be said to-night, and I must be the one to speak it. We may spend days, perhaps, under the same roof--we may even sit at the same table once again; but, I repeat, from this day I may never look into your eyes again, I may never touch your hand. Pauline, can you forgive me? I know that you can love. Merciful Heaven! who so well as I, who have held your stainless heart in my stained hand these many dreamy weeks; and Justice has not struck me dead. Yes, Pauline, I know you've loved me; but remember this one thing, in all your bitter thoughts of me hereafter: remember this, you have not loved me as I have loved you. You have not given up earth and heaven both for me as I have done for you. For you? No, not for you, but for the shadow of you, for the thought of you, for these short weeks of you. And then, an eternity of absence, and of remorse, and of oblivion--ah, if it might be oblivion for you! If I could blot out of your life this short, blighting summer; if I could put you back to where you were that fresh, sweet morning that I walked with you beside the river! I loved you from that day, Pauline, and I drugged my conscience, and refused to heed that I was doing you a wrong in teaching you to love me. Pauline, I have to tell you a sad story: you will have to go back with me very far; you will have to hear of sins of which you never dreamed in your dear innocence. I would spare you if I could, but you must know, for you must forgive me. And when you have heard, you may cease to love, but I think you will forgive. Listen."
Why should I repeat that terrible disclosure? why harrow my soul with going back over that dark path? Let me try to forget that such sins, such wrongs, such revenges, ever stained a human life. I was so young, so innocent, so ignorant. It was a strange misfortune that I should have had to know that which aged and changed me so. But he was right in saying that I had to know it. My life was bound involuntarily to his by my love, and what concerned him was my fate. Alas! He was in no other way bound to me than by my love: nor ever could be.
I don't know whether I was prepared for it or not: I knew that something terrible and final was to come, and I felt the awe that attends the thoughts that words are final and time limited. But when I heard the fatal truth--that another woman lived to whom he was irrevocably bound--I heard it as in a dream, and did not move or speak. I think I felt for a moment as if I were dead, as if I had passed out of the ranks of the living into the abodes of the silent, and benumbed, and pulseless. There was such a horrible awe, and chill, and check through all my young and rapid blood. It was like death by freezing. It is not so pleasant as they say, believe me. But no pain: that came afterward, when I came to life, when I felt the touch of his hand on mine, and ceased to hear his cruel words.
I had shrunk back from him in my chair, and sat, I suppose, like a person in a trance, with my hands in my lap, and my eyes fixed on him with bewilderment. But when he ceased to speak--and, leaning forward on one knee, clasped my hands in his, and drew me toward him, then indeed I knew I was not dead. Oh, the agony of those few moments--I tried to rise, to go away from him. But he held me with such strength--all his weakness was gone now. He folded his arms around my waist and held me as in a vise. Then suddenly leaning his head down upon my arms, he kissed my hands, my arms, my dress, with a moan of bitter anguish.
"Not mine," he murmured. "Never mine but in my dreams. O wretched dreams, that drive me mad. Pauline, they will tell us that we must not dream--we must not weep, we must be stocks and stones. We must wear this weight of living death till that good Lord that makes such laws shall send us death in mercy. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years of suffering: that might almost satisfy Him, one would think. Pauline! you and I are to say good-bye to-night. Good-bye! People talk of it as a cruel word. Think of it: if it were but for a year, a year with hope at the end of it to keep our hearts alive, it would be terrible, and we should need be brave. The tears that lovers shed over a year apart; the days that have got to come and go, how weary. The nights--the nights that sleep flies off from, and that memory reigns over. Count them--over three hundred come in every year. One, you think while it is passing, is enough to kill you: one such night of restless torture, and how many shall we multiply our three hundred by? We are young, Pauline. You are a child, a very child. I am in the very flush and strength of manhood. There is half a century of suffering in me yet: this frame, this brain, will stand the wear of the hard years to come but too, too well. There is no hope of death. There is no hope in life. That star has set. Good God! And that makes hell--why should I wait for it--it cannot be worse there than here. Don't listen to me--it will not be as hard for you--you are so young--you have no sins to torture you--only a little love to conquer and forget. You will marry a man who lives for you, and who is patient and will wait till this is over. Ah, no: by Heaven! I can't quite stand it yet. Pauline, you never loved him, did you--never blushed for him--never listened for his coming with your lips apart and your heart fluttering, as I have seen you listen when you thought that I was coming? No, I know you never loved him: I know you have loved me alone--me--who ought to have forbidden you. Forgive--forgive--forgive me."
A passion of tears had come to my relief, and I shook from head to foot with sobs. I cannot feel ashamed when I remember that he held me for one moment in his arms. He had been to me till that shock, strength, truth, justice:the man I loved. How could I in one instant know him by his sin alone, and undo all my trust? I knew only this, that it was for the last time, and that my heart was broken.
I forgave him--that was an idle form; in my great love I never felt that there was anything to be forgiven, except the wrong that fate had done me, in making my love so hopeless. He told me to forget him; that seemed to me as idle; but all his words were precious, and all my soul was in his hand. When, at that moment, the sound of wheels upon the gravel came, and the sound of laughter and of voices, I sprang up; he caught me in his arms and held me closely. Another moment, the parting was over, and I was kneeling by my bed up-stairs, weeping, sobbing, hopeless.