 | CHAPTER IV. This, that and the other |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
The human will is strong, stronger than life, and even death
will not triumph over it utterly! I wonder whether man or
woman ever yet devoted themselves, with all their energies, to
the accomplishment of a favorite purpose, without succeeding.
At least, success is the rule, and failure the exception.
Time passed on, and Frederick Hutton gradually changed in
his deportment. His attentions to the beautiful Clara became
a shade or two less engrossing, and very often he would lead me
to the piano, and hang over me during my performance, with his
whole soul looking out of his dark eyes. The Lady Clara must
have noticed it, and I think she loved him; but her disposition
was a singular one. She was too proudly indolent to struggle
for the possession of anything. She dressed as becomingly,
talked as prettily, and smiled as sweetly, as ever. When Frederick
Hutton sat down beside her, she welcomed him with a look
that had not the slightest shade of reproach in it; and when he
was away, she seemed totally unconscious of his desertion. No
battery of attractions could have been half so effective as this
calm, indifferent dignity. I could not have had a more powerful
adversary to contend with. Sometimes Frederick would watch
her for a long time, and then turn away, with just the queerest
than ever.
One night, I was walking in the shrubbery. It was the rich,
lustrous prime of the summer; the sun had gone down in his
glory, and the twilight hours had gathered up the gorgeous
clouds, like drapery of kings. It was evening; the moon, like
a fair queen, sat on her silver throne, among her parliament of
stars. I had gone out alone, and, with a hurried step, was
walking to and fro beneath the larches, keeping time to painful
thoughts. At last my step grew slower, and my mood changed.
I went down with memory, searching for hidden treasures
along the paths of the past; and tears came to my eyes, as
I remembered the free, happy, gypsy-like life I had led, before
Frederick Hutton came to Cornwall.
“Better, O, how far better off was I then than now!” said
my throbbing heart, beating painfully against my velvet robe.
“Alas! for I am weary,” said my lips aloud; and, at that
moment, a voice, whose faintest tone could have almost called
me from life to death, said, very gently,
“Agnes — Miss Lee — am I intruding?”
I turned, and welcomed him, with the tears still heavy on my
lashes, and the shadow heavier on my heart.
“You are sad, Agnes,” he said, sorrowfully, taking my hand
in his, as soothingly as one would pet a weary infant. “Agnes,
dear, beautiful Agnes, I love you! I never said those words
before, Agnes, to any woman, not even to Clara Emerson;
though long ago the great world voted us engaged. You will
understand them, — you will believe them. I did not mean
to love you, Agnes, — I closed my eyes against your beauty,
but you have triumphed. See, I am at your feet! Won't you,
can't you love me, my Agnes?”
But I did not speak; I could not. The hope of a lifetime
had met its fulfilment when I heard him say those words, and I
could not answer him.
“O, Agnes, Agnes!” he cried, beseechingly, “only answer
me! only say, `Frederick, I love you!'”
And, clearing my voice, and drawing my figure to its fullest
height, I stood there in the moonlight, under the larches, and
answered him,
“Frederick Hutton, I love you with my whole soul, as I have
loved you for years. I am yours, and I will be yours, and no
other man's, till I die!”
In his excitement he did not notice that I had said “for
years;” and, standing by my side, he clasped me to his heart,
whispering, “My Agnes, — my wife!”
For one moment, sick and faint with joy, I suffered my head
to lie upon his breast; and then I withdrew from his arms, and
said, firmly, “No, Frederick Hutton, not your wife; and, if you
knew me, you would sooner die than call me so. You know not
who or what I am!”
“And care not, Agnes, so that you will let me call you mine.
Nay, Agnes, do not think so meanly of me. I care not for
wealth or rank; — I know that I love you, and that is all I ask
to know.”
I am very strong-willed, naturally, but I could not summon
strength or courage to dash, with my own hands, that blessed
“To-night, Frederick, I will tell you nothing. Meet me here
at sunrise, to-morrow morning, and I will tell you what you little
dream. I am going in, now.”
Once more I passively suffered him to fold me to his heart;
for the second time in his life his lips touched mine, and then,
gliding from his arms, I reëntered the Heronry. That evening
I was happy. I resolutely closed my eyes against the shadows
that hung around the morrow, and opened my heart to the joy-touches
of the present. He never left my side, and, when I
sang, he watched me with his dark eyes beaming through tears.
The next morning arose, fair and calm. I dressed myself
quickly, and hastened to the trysting-place. Frederick was there
before me. What a joyousness there was in his greeting!
Surely I must wait yet longer, ere I could summon courage to
freeze the smile on his lips. Once more I yielded my hand to
his clasp, and wandered along with him underneath the larches.
The sun was just rising. The tree-tops glowed like golden
arrows, pointed with diamonds; the long grass, knotted together,
shone like a fairy tracery of brilliants, and over all the sunshine
lay, broad and fair, — the very smile of the gods. Its
glad beams rested like a blessing on Frederick Hutton's hair,
and the whole world seemed to be dressed in holiday robes,
as if for a rejoicing. And yet, amid all that beauty, and glory,
and happiness, I walked on by his side, a crushed, downcast,
miserable woman, with a confession trembling on my lips which
would blot out from my own life all the sunlight, and send one
forth, dearer than my life, out into the world, a heart-broken,
scarcely breathe. At last, I could walk no further. I leaned
against one of the larches; I stood there, and lifted up my
pallid, woful face, in the light of heaven's free sunshine.
Frederick turned and looked at me, with a vague and nameless
terror in his gaze, and then he faltered, “Agnes, my Agnes,
what is it?”
“Listen, Frederick Hutton, and I will tell you,” I answered,
and my voice was strangely calm. “You remember the fisherman's
hut, on the Cornwall lee-shore, and the wild, rude child
whom you taught to read? And you remember this!” and I
drew from my bosom, where I had always worn it, the guinea
he had given me when we parted. He took it in his hand, and
looked at it.
“Yes, I remember, Agnes; but what of that? Go on, —
how came you by this?”
“You gave it to me, sir; for I am that lowly child. Would
you call me wife, now?”
Brave, noble heart! I could see the struggle ere he answered;
but his love triumphed.
“Yes, Agnes, I would call you wife, even now. It was your
misfortune to have been cast upon the lee-shore; so it was mine.
Shall I shut you out of my heart because you stayed there a
longer time, my Agnes?”
O, I had hoped he would have spared me that last trial; but
no, I must drain the bitter potion to the dregs, and so I did.
“No, Frederick Hutton! Not your Agnes! I will never be
your wife! You saw me upon the stage at Paris; for, listen,
Frederick, — I am Viola, the dancing-girl!”
“O, God! O, God!” moaned that strong man, weeping like
a child. “Spare me, for this is bitter!”
I knew then, as I had known before, that he was lost to me
forever. I had willed that he should love me, and he did love
me. Perhaps I might have been his wife, had I willed that also;
but I would not. Even had he wished it, out of the might of
his great love, still would I have refused; for I loved him too
well, too unselfishly, ever to couple his proud name with disgrace.
At last, he drew me within his arms once more.
“Agnes,” he said, “my own, my beautiful! — God knows I
would have gone down gladly to my death, rather than live and
know that fate had put this stern and terrible barrier between
us. O, may Heaven bless thee, Agnes, and save thee from grief
like mine!” and down, over my face, fell, like rain, the bitter,
scalding tears of that proud man's sorrow.
That day, I left the Heronry. The purpose to which I had
vowed my life was accomplished, and even in the hour of its accomplishment
its curse came with it. Better far that I had
died, than brought such sorrow to him, so noble, so dear. And
yet I danced that winter better than ever. The smile that
curled my lips was as bright; the bloom died not out from my
cheeks, nor the light from my eyes. Still the world's homage
fell upon my ear, and even the noble and the gifted knelt at the
feet of the beautiful dancing-girl. Very often the Lady Clara
Emerson was among the spectators; but I never knew whether
she recognized in Viola the Miss Lee she had met at the Heronry.
I thought her cheek was a little paler than of old; and somehow
the old hatred toward her crept out of my heart, and into
its place stole a gentle sympathy. I heard of Frederick Hutton
my life had one crowning glory — I knew he loved me!
| CHAPTER IV. This, that and the other | |