27. XXVII.
FALCONBRIDGE PARTS WITH HIS MOTHER'S RING.
THE breast of Falconbridge thrilled with a vague
excitement, and in the presence of the beautiful
young woman, so innocent and pure-looking, his
racking suspicions began to disappear, and his
confidence to return. Were not those suspicions mere
folly—a baseness and disloyalty even? Could any one look
into that fair face, and believe for an instant that it
masked a heart full of guile? For the instant his possessing
thought disappeared—he no longer doubted—he yielded
to the enchantment of eye and lip and voice.
But this change could not be permanent; Falconbridge
was no weak and vacillating boy, whose moods at the moment
govern his opinions, and actions. Those acrid and
bitter meditations during the long hours which he had
passed in loneliness and silence had impressed him too
deeply. Thus his face became overclouded, and his head
drooped. To the soft and caressing reproach contained in
the words, “You have been away so long!” he therefore replied
with sorrowful calmness:
“Are you sure you cared to see me?”
The young lady turned her head aside, and a slight color,
like the first blush of morning, stole over her cheek. Then
from the red lips came in a whisper almost, the words:
“Very sure.”
“Falconbridge gazed at her for a moment with an expression
of ardent love, mingled with bitter anguish, and
said, in suppressed tones:
“You are so beautiful!—so very beautiful! Are you
true?”
She turned her head quickly, and fixed upon him a glance
which seemed intended to read his very soul. Then an expression
of coldness and hauteur rose to the beautiful face,
and she said with frigid ceremony:
“Are you aware of what you are saying, Mr. Falconbridge?”
“Yes, yes—unhappily I am,” was the young man's reply,
“and I can understand your resentment. You find my
accent harsh, my words insulting, even. You see that this
question is not an idle jest, Miss Argal. You start at my
address, at my coldness, the solemnity of my demand. But
the question is not asked by chance. I most solemnly propound
it! Not my lips, not my words, no! my heart, my
soul cry out to you. Answer me, for pity's sake, for the
sake of all that is pure and truthful!”
The cold expression in the eyes of the young lady grew
ice. With a frigid erection of her superb head, she said:
“Are you unwell, Mr. Falconbridge, or is your mind
affected?”
“No, no! I am well, if a man whose heart dies in his
breast is well! I am sane, if a mind stretched on the rack
may be called sane! I mean what I say—I have heard
what makes me ask—do not demand what it is, I cannot
reply. I suffer so poignantly that I must put an end to my
distress, or it will put an end to me! For worlds—for the
universe I would not pain you—I would die a thousand
deaths rather—but”——
He was interrupted by the voice of the young lady. That
voice had suddenly changed. It was no longer cold; her
manner had passed from hauteur to anguish. Turning
aside and covering her face with her handkerchief, she
sobbed repeatedly, and at last uttered the broken words:
“If you—would not—pain me—why do you speak—so—
cruelly to me—so unfeelingly—so”——
There the voice died away.
The accents went to the young man's heart. The sobs
smote down all his coldness. The sight of the lovely form
bent down, and shaken with agitation, dissipated all his
resolution, and drove away every suspicion, as the winds of
March drive away the clouds from the clear blue sky.
All the profound loyalty and truth of his nature was
aroused—all his abhorrence of injustice and unkindness.
He took the young lady's hand in his own—pressed it
ardently, and begged her forgiveness for his cruel and unfounded
suspicion.
“Pardon me,” he said, in his sincere, noble voice, casting
upon his companion, as he spoke, a glance of unspeakable
love, “pardon your poor friend for the harsh and insulting
words he has uttered. I know not why I spoke so—I know
not how these thoughts ever entered my unfortunate brain.
Enough; in pity let us speak of this no more. So we are
friends again—are we not?”
And he bent forward to look into her face. That face
was raised, and the black eyes were riveted upon his own
with a sorrowful forgiveness, a tender melancholy which
were inexpressibly beautiful. They swam in tears—but
through the tears broke a sad smile which made the heart
of the young man bound in his bosom with wild delight.
Carried away by a rush of emotion, he pressed the hand
which he held to his lips, and said, passionately:
“Do not weep—your tears make me wretched! Never
shall I forgive myself for the cruel and unmanly conduct
which I have to-day been guilty of. I came here with my
heart on fire, my brain in a tumult—I have been unjust,
insulting, mad, almost—I could not help it. I spoke thus
because my mind was whirling, my nerves trembling—because—because
I love you!—yes, presumptuous as you may
think the words in a mere stranger—I love you—with honest,
faithful love!”
Enough—we forbear from pursuing further the details of
the scene between the young lady and Falconbridge. We
have little skill in reporting such dialogues, and must draw
the veil over the rest.
He remained until late in the evening, and then returned
at full gallop toward the Ordinary, his face the very impersonation
of joy. At times he gazed wistfully upon his left
hand, from which a ring was missing—a plain gold ring
which had belonged to his mother. He had placed it upon
the finger of the young girl, for she had plighted to him her
troth.
Here we would gladly leave the young cavalier—with his
face smiling, his cheeks glowing—his pulse beating joyfully
as he galloped on through the prairie and forest. But the
fatal current of our narrative keeps us beside him. Those
smiles are brief ones—the bloom of the happy cheek evanescent
as the frail spring blossom—the blow awaits him.
He dismounts at the door of the Ordinary and enters.
The fat landlord presents him with a letter which he opens,
smilingly.
Ten minutes afterward he is seated in his chamber, his
brow leaning upon his crossed arms, resting upon a table
—his cheeks as pale as a ghost's—his forehead moist with
icy perspiration. The shudders which pass through his
frame rattle the paper still clenched in his nervous grasp—
but no groan issues from his lips.
