Immagini della pagina
PDF
ePub

THE CRISIS

A WOMAN'S RIGHT.

AGAIN the Summer holds the hills in splendor. Her cloud-fleets sail down the infinite ocean as peacefully as they did one year ago; her forests sway and murmur in as deep content; her apples redden in the hill-side orchard; her corn waves its tassels; her tobacco holds up its cups of amber in the sun, just the same. Again Eirene sits by the window; but she does not watch the clouds, or count the tobacco-stalks, or build palaces in dreams. Her eyes are fixed upon the road where it emerges from the woods. Where is the horse with the arching neck, and the gallant rider, of one year ago? Sustaining the drooping spirits of Miss Prescott, probably. Yet Eirene's gaze does not wander till the white road fades in the evening shadow. With the coming morning she renews her watch, saying, “Paul, you will come to-day." So hard is it for youth and truth to let go of its faith. How many times her heart has fluttered like a bird's, at the sight of Fleetfoot and his handsome rider, coming eagerly along that road to her! How many times, with lingering, loving looks, that rider has turned reluctantly away! How could she believe that he would never come again? How could she make it seem that she should never hear more the thud of Fleetfoot's feet upon the little bridge? The scene in the garden, the last week of neglect, seems a dream-here in the spot where she has been so happywhere he once enveloped and glorified her with his love! Thus each morning she said again, "This day will bring a letter, or he will come." But the days wore on; no letter came, and no Paul. At last she unlocked the little box that held every letter he had ever written her. How well she knew each one, and

X.

just at what time he had written this, or this! Here was one in which he told her that, although surrounded by the brilliant and the beautiful, he was solitary and miserable because she was not there. Here was another, in which he wrote her that every pulse in his being trembled with joy because he was coming to be happy in her presence. She read them over, and tried to make them seem true once more. Her mind was as troubled as her heart, for its essence was truth. If these words were true-and she felt them to be true when he uttered them-how could they mean nothing now? If he loved her enough to seek her as he did, how could he forsake her to-day? This child, with her affections rooted in constancy, could realize nothing of the moods of a man moved by every fluctuating circumstance. She had not grown to that knowledge of the heart where she could say, "He had many natures. I think he loved me well with one." Soon the slender fingers began to untie the ribbon which bound the precious packet, then tremble and fail and at last falteringly tie them up again, and, without reading a word, put them back. Ardent, passionate, and tender, how would they seem to her now, in the desolation in which she sat! Herein he had said, over and over again, that he never could be happy when she was not near. Yet this very moment, while she sat thinking of him, missing, needing him, as in all her life she had never missed or needed any one before, was he not entirely occupied and absorbed by another? Already she felt through her being the keenest suffering which can come to a perfectly truthful nature-distrust of the one loved best. Believe me, there is no pang like this. More than happiness was taken from her, more than love

-faith in the man who had represented to her all that was highest and brightest in manhood.

She could not utter one word in the presence of her family that might cast the faintest reproach upon Paul. They knew her trouble was in some way connected with him; for he did not come, and they could not forget the last summer, nor that the time had arrived when he had promised to claim Eirene as his wife. But they saw the white and watchful face, and respected its sorrow too much to ask questions. Each one said, silently, "Can this be our Eirene?" and, by constant, nameless little acts of love, sought to prove the depth and tenderness of their sympathy.

Two weeks had gone by-two weeks in which every day had been a long, loving watch for one who did not come.

"She must be gone now," said Eirene. "He too, perhaps, has gone with her. I must go back; I have been idle too long!" As she said these words, she felt an infinite weariness, as if she could never take up her work again.

Yet, amid all, a faint hope awoke into life. If he was still there, waiting for her, he would explain all. Had he not begged her, whatever happened, to believe in him, to love him, and to wait for him? She would.

Never before had Muggins looked so forlorn; never before had she moved quite so slowly. Apparently she bad taken on the dejection of her dearest friend; and every dragging step which she took forwards seemed a protest against bringing Eirene back to the scene of her troubles. The impulse which impelled Muggins to do it cannot be explained; but just as she reached Mr. Mallane's gate, she stood perfectly still. Lowell Vale jerked the reins and implored her to "get up," but she would not stir. A light laugh from the veranda, in the mocking tones which she knew too well, gave Eirene a fainty feeling about her heart, as if it were going to stop beating. Before they reached the house, she had seen Bella and Grace sitting there, and it seemed all that she could do to live through

[ocr errors]

going past them. To be stopped, to sit there helpless, an object for them to gaze upon and to laugh at, seemed more than could be borne. "Get up, Muggins!" Muggins only stuck her feet firmer and deeper in the dust, and stirred not.

"I am paid for coming to Busyville, if it were only to see such a horse! Where, where did it come from? I know it lived before Noah!" And as she uttered these words, in a penetrating tone which she knew reached the occupants of the buggy, Isabella Prescott laughed again, more mockingly than before.

“Don't," said Grace. "That's poor Mr. Vale. He's very poor, and father feels sorry for him. That's Eirene. She used to live with us. I like her, and so does Paul; but mother don't. I wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world. She is so kind to every body. Please don't laugh, Miss Prescott! You wouldn't, if you knew her."

"But I may laugh at the horse, mayn't I? Look at it!"

There was a picture. The rusty old buggy, and its occupants covered with dust, Lowell Vale jerking the reins, and calling upon Muggins to "get up;" Muggins standing stone still, save when the warning whip came down upon her back, when she gave a jump upward and a push backward, as if she were going to back herself all the way to Hill-top.

Just then the Prescott span and barouche drove towards the door for the evening drive. The extremes in the fortune of the girl upon the veranda and the girl in the buggy could hardly be contrasted more strongly than by the two opposing vehicles. The caparisoned bays, the liveried servants, the emblazoned carriage stood beside the poor old buggy and the vicious old horse, and the contrast brought the paltry triumph to its owner so dear to little souls.

Muggins monopolized the Mallanegate and carriage-stand, and must be got out of the way. There was no help for it. Eirene must descend before them, with that cruel laugh still ringing through her brain. She did it with

a bowed head; but as she reached the ground, the tones of the beloved voice made her lift it involuntarily; the very tone brought support and courage. Surely he would silence the mocking voice.

Paul had come to the door just in time to catch one of Muggins' most ridiculous antics. He might have laughed, had he not seen Eirene. His first impulse was the old one --to catch her up and carry her far away from all her hideous surroundings; his second was to go and assist her. He had taken the first step towards doing it, when Bella exclaimed:

"See! see! that atrocious beast is backing that old box into King Ferdinand's face! Oh! oh! they are going to run!"

"Don't be alarmed, Miss Prescott."

These were the words that Eirene heard in the assuring tone. They were not for her! They were not for her, in her loneliness and poverty-not for her, his promised wife; they were for the gay and mocking stranger.

An hour later, Eirene sat in her old chair, withdrawn from the window. She had just seen her father and Muggins depart. As she watched them move slowly away, her impulse was to follow, and implore her father to take her back. It seemed to her, that she could not be left behind-as if her last friend was leaving her; but with the consciousness that there was nothing for her but to be left, she became quiet, and followed them with her eyes till they were out of sight. Thus she sat, with her still white face, and her hands listlessly dropped upon her lap. Life seemed too dreadful to be borne. She had thought that they would all be gone-that her heart would no longer be tortured with so many mocking sights. She had hoped, fondly, timidly hoped, that, after all, Paul would have remained behind, to explain, to comfort her, to tell her why she had been left alone. But her enemy was still here, and she looked as if she were going to stay forever. This enemy mocked and ridiculed her yet. Paul's words of comfort were not for her; no, they were for her tormentor.

Oh, wretchedness of love, and of youth! why couldn't she die !

The sound of wheels made her look up; and even where she sat she found that she could see Mr. Mallane's gate. For her own sake she knew that she ought to retreat further into the room; but a miserable fascination held her gaze. She did not see the barouche and the bays, but a light phaton with a single horse champing his bit, and striking his feet before it. Presently Paul and Miss Prescott came out of the house together, Paul with the young lady's wraps. How long it took him to adjust them in her carriage-seat! With what infinite pains he folded and refolded the great fleecy shawl over its slender bars, that they might not come in contact with that susceptible back! Not a man among her slaves but what felt at perfect liberty to encircle it, to give it the full benefit of the muscular support of his manly arm, while he heard the young lady murmur in pleading tones, as he often did,

"Oh, my back! it tires me so to ride! I feel as if I should faint."

And as she had the art of looking as if she were going to do so, and always began toppling from one side to the other, what could the most reserved of men do but support this feeble creature, if but out of human pity? Only it was remarkable how wonderfully she revived a moment after, of course to the great joy of her supporter. If he only could have seen her a few hours later, springing about her room with the agility of a cat, it would have afforded him a study in feminine backs sufficiently puzzling to have driven to despair any masculine brain. This moment Paul was making most tender provision for this omnipresent vertebra. How carefully he assisted her into her seat, the young lady who was so delicate! How assiduously he arranged the mat for her feet! How slowly he drew on his driving-gloves, took his seat by her side, took the reins in his hand, before the gay horse darted away and bore them out of sight!

It was all too much for the eyes of

the worn-out watcher in Seth Goodlove's chamber. She had seen it all. Some horrible spell drew her toward the window and held her there. Not a gesture, not an act, not a look of his had escaped her.

"She has been cruel to me," said the aching heart; "yet see how he serves her!"

She uttered no cry, but she drew her hand across her forehead, as if to brush away the confusion in her brain. "Oh! he said he loved meloved me alone," she murmured; "that his life began and ended in me; that I was soon to be his wife, and he my husband. He said, 'No matter what you see, nor how hard things may seem, still believe in me, and love me!' I will, Paul; but to be left alone, without one word, one look, one act of kindness, and to see you give all to this cruel stranger, is hard. What does it mean, Paul, if you love me- -if I am to be your wife." Then, confused in thought, desolate in heart, she crept down from the chamber, out of the gate, and mechanically, without knowing wherefore, turned her feet towards the Lover's Walk. She had not been there since the evening that she walked in it with Paul. That evening, and its bliss, now sharply defined in her memory in contrast with the wretchedness of the present, seemed to draw her back irresistibly to the old haunt. She drew her sun-bonnet close over her face, that no one might see her, and hurried on. The grass was soft under her feet; the trees bent down and whispered to her, as in the happy June hours, but she was unconscious of their ministry. She did not pause till she came to the end of the Walk. Here Paul had kissed her, and uttered his last words to her.

The light was growing dim, and, with an instinctive dread of being seen here alone, she crept inside of the curtain which a wild vine had hung from tree to tree, and sat down upon the moss inside. A great willow held its canopy over her head and fanned her face with its pendants. On the other side, the river ran with deep, swift flow. As the willow-boughs swayed and opened, she

could see it moving on. It seemed to invite her, to beckon her to come to it. How easy to lie down in its cool bosom, and be borne from all this trouble forever. If this were life, she was sure she could not bear it. How blessed to end it at once! What rest, what peace, there seemed to be in those cool, tranquil waters! How many thousands before her had felt the same temptation, and had yielded to it! What had come to them then? Ah, that was the question. The girl had moved to the steep bank. Every glance of the water made more irresistible the impulse within to drop quietly down into that liquid bed, and end all. Would it end it? Even now the quick, strong conscience threw its rein over desire and weakness, and forced her to remember what her Christian mother had so often told her-that life is not our own, but God's; that we must accept its penalties, bear its pains, fulfil its promises, but that we have no right to cast it off, to flee from it, lest we should fail through it to reach that more exceeding and eternal life of glory of which it is the faintest dawn. Dim, far, impossible, seemed the other life of glory to this young and overburdened heart; but this life, how keen, how deep its pang! She had read of brave souls who conquered it; but she was not brave nor strong. It had conquered her. Still the slender feet hung over the high bank; still the white forehead, with its restraining thought, held her back from the alluring water, when the murmur of human voices divided the air with the murmur of the waves. What tone was it that made Eirene instinctively draw forward to the curtain of vines, which screened her from the walk? It drew nearer and nearer, till it came to the spot where Paul had kissed her. It was Paul, who stood here now with Isabella Prescott.

"You will always be dearer to me, Bella, for this visit," he was saying. "Indeed, I never should have known you truly if you had not come here. How could I have so misunderstood you, Bell! I used to think that you were born to trifle, and acted accordingly.

You seem to me as changed as if you were another creature. It would have saved a world of trouble if I could have known your heart before it was too late." A deep sigh was the only response. "Don't sigh so, Bella! Do you suppose I can ever forget what you suffer for me? It will be the regret of my life. Oh, Bella, why didn't you show your real heart to me more than a year ago? then we should not be divided tonight."

"Don't you know, Paul," murmured a broken voice, "that, when a woman loves, her first instinct is to hide her real feelings?"

"Yes; but how was I to dream of such a thing in you? Really, you played the coquette so perfectly, I never suspected you of having real feeling.”

"I was too proud to betray it. I never should have betrayed it, if my feelings had not conquered my pride."

"Why did they conquer it too late? It is like all of my fate!" said Paul. "Why is it too late?" murmured the faltering voice.

"I am bound-irrevocably bound!” bitterly answered Paul.

"To whom? I have seen nobody who has seemed to have any special claim upon you. Who has robbed me?" "One your inferior, and mine, in position. I have loved her, but the conditions of our lives are so conflicting, I am now convinced that we ought never to be married. I would release myself if I could. But I consider a promise a binding obligation. If I could have known you as you are, Bella, it would never have been made."

"What is that?"

They both started at a sound as of something falling very near. There was a rustle of leaves, then all was quiet.

"Perhaps it was a snake!" said Bella. Each looked, but saw nothing, save wavy boughs and vines. But a chill ran through Paul; he shivered as one does in standing near a human being in the dark without knowing it. His last words had scarcely passed his lips, before he hated himself for uttering

them; he knew them to be false. The face before him receded, and another, the face that he loved, again seemed to touch his. He started with a shock as he thought that he stood in the very spot where he had kissed it-where he had said, "No matter what you see, no matter how things may seem, believe in me." That was scarcely three weeks ago; and what had he been saying? If she could have heard the words which he had just uttered, how could she still believe in him? He felt like a man enthralled by some spell which he hated, yet which he had no power to break. Had not this woman by his side always compelled him to do and say things which made him hateful to himself? Always! Yet how fair and gentle and drooping she looked now! She loved him? Then, from whence came this faint and far suspicion of her now? While he gazed, why did her face look false even amid its suffering? Was he unjust to her, even while she fascinated bim and held him? In an instant the place seemed haunted. He thought that he saw something white-white, like a woman's face, in the darkness, through the swaying vines. "Come!" he said; "that was a curious noise. It really makes me feel superstitious. Does it you, Bella? But I never heard of a ghost in our Lover's Walk," he added, laughing. "I did not intend to stray so far."

They hurried back, but Paul saw a white face close to his all the way.

It was past midnight, yet still he sat in the drawing-room, listening to that sensuous, pleading melody of Bell's, which had grown to have such power over him. It held him where he sat; yet still a white, cold face seemed to touch his.

"Where is she? What have you done with her? You have killed her, Paul Mallane! and may the Lord curse your soul!" cried Tilda Stade, as she rushed into the room, with her hair flying and her eyes filled with the wildest excitement. In his best moments, Paul hated the sight of Tilda, but she seemed nothing short of an avenging demon

« IndietroContinua »