University of Virginia Library

15. XV.
THE LIFTING OF THE VEIL.

Thenceforward Robert Greenwich frequented Mrs. Dunbury's
house with untiring zeal. Hunting, fishing, or riding, he was
never without some pleasant excuse for resorting that way. He
always inquired for Hector, and feigned disappointment if he did
not find him; but it was only when Charlotte was absent that
he was ever once known to be in a hurry.

One day, calling as usual, he found Charlotte and Hector sitting
together; both silent; the former busy with her needle, the
latter engaged in reading random passages in a volume of Shakspeare.

“Under the circumstances,” said the visitor, smiling, “I presume
you are not very glad to see me.”

“If you refer to me,” replied Hector, “I am not. I never
am. But I suppose that makes no difference. Sit down.”

“Thank you for your frankness. I find it quite refreshing.
Don't let me interrupt anything, I pray.”

“You certainly shall not,” — and Hector went on with his
reading.

Robert smiled as he placed his hat on the table, and drew his
chair to Charlotte's side. For half an hour they conversed in
whispers, with long intervals of silence; and at his departure, she
accompanied him to the porch, and talked some minutes with him
there.

Returning then to the sitting-room, and finding Hector's book
on the floor, she stooped to take it up. He caught her wrist, and
held her back. She looked up. The suppressed passion in his
face frightened her.

“I thought you had dropped it by accident,” she faltered.

“I flung it there in a rage! Therefore leave it for my shame
and contrition to take it up again.” — He pushed it under the
table with his foot. — “Lie there,” said he, “until I am once
more a man!”

All this time he held Charlotte's wrist. Rigid and pale with
suffering, she made but a feeble effort to escape.

“Are you an angel or a fiend?” he demanded, searching her
face with his determined eye.

“Neither,” said she, with tearful pathos; “I am a woman.”

“True; I had forgotten,” replied Hector. “That name accounts
for every inconsistency that entangles our poor human
nature! A woman! — Go!”

He dropped her hand. The look he gave her carried a more
terrible meaning than his words. He took a number of quick
strides across the room; then came and looked upon her. She
had not yet spoken; she had sunk down by a chair; her silence
and meekness under the blow he had struck burned into his soul
like fire.

“Charlotte,” said he, after a long pause. He spoke more tenderly,
and she began to weep. “Charlotte —” and he stooped
to raise her up.

She only bowed more humbly still, until at last her forehead
touched his foot.

“Well, if that is your place, this is mine!”

And he threw himself prone upon his face at her side.

“No, no! not there!” she cried, starting quickly up.

He caught the hem of her dress to his lips, and kissed it; but
she snatched it from him.

“What are you?” she cried out.

“O God! what am I?” he groaned, burying his face in his
hands.

“How have I offended you?”

“You have not offended me. I have offended myself! O,
what a fine blusterer am I!”

“But I have given you some cause — I know I have!”

“Have you? I gather hope from that! Tell me what —
afford me an excuse for my rage — and unhorse this imp of conscience
that rides me! Come, sit here upon this chair, and we
will talk.”

“I have not been open and free with you,” Charlotte confessed.

“True; but what of that? I have had no claim upon your
confidence whatever!”

“Indeed, indeed, you have, sir! No outward claim, perhaps,
— and yet a claim — I have felt it, and you have felt it!”

“And so I have! But I thought that was all my egotism!
You recognize it? O, Charlotte! if a desperate and all-controlling
love can merit anything, I have a claim! Sit still — for
now my tongue is loosed, and you must hear me! In spite of
myself, in spite of reason and will, I am drawn irrevocably to
you. As you are to me, so is all the world. To doubt you is to
doubt humanity. The light of the universe shines upon me
through your eyes; and if they are turned from me, my soul is
dark. Are you frightened, or are you glad, that you tremble so,
and hide your face?”

No reply. Hector went on.

“I thought — I believed — I knew — that I was to you all
that you were to me. So, I had a claim. And after a long struggle
within myself, there came a period of calm and peace. My
soul opened its doors to you. But, just then, Robert Greenwich
appeared. He cast his shadow between us; and the doors
were clashed together as by a whirlwind. Had he been worthy,
could I have seen that you belonged to him by the Divine law,
— but you know my feeling of that man! Imagine, then, what a
burning was lighted within me, when I saw him, with a cool, audacious
smile, step in, and gain from you in an hour what is withheld
from me to this day!”

“Gain from me — what?”

“That you know, better than I! But I am not blind; I am
not deaf. Would that I were! Not once has that fine hypocrite
gone out of his selfish track for me. All his visits to this house
are visits to you. That first day of your meeting in the woods,

he insinuated himself into your confidence; I saw it at the time;
since then there have been manifold secrets between you. I have
marked his assumption, which you have endured, if not encouraged.
I have marked your blushes, your pallor, your faltering
speech, when he has come suddenly upon you, or given you meaning
looks, or whispered in your ear. With the interest I feel in
you, and the scorn I have for him, can you wonder at the fury
stirred in my blood? To-day, the tiger was roused, and would
have sprung at his throat.”

“I do not wonder; I am to blame!” uttered Charlotte.

“O, woman! woman! I loved you, and tried to hate you. I
believed you worthy, and believed you not worthy. To my understanding
you appeared false and erring; but ever in my heart
you were fair, white-robed, pure, angelic! O, how I loved you,
when I was most unkind! Charlotte, did I deserve your trust?”

“You did — you did! But your friendship was too precious
to me; I could not bear to lose it: my fear kept me dumb: so, I
left you to misjudge me.”

“Show me how I misjudged you.”

“Let me sit by the window; I cannot breathe here,” said
Charlotte. “I will tell you everything to-day. This agony
must have an end. I know you will cast me from you — but it
will be better so. Be patient; I must collect my thoughts a
little.”

Hector trembled with suspense. He led her to a seat by the
window, and, placing himself beside her, took her cold hands in
his.

“Speak boldly!” said he, in quivering tones. “If I am true,
no misfortune, no fault, no dark spot in the past, can stain you in
my sight. Your soul is what I love. It matters little what garments
it has worn, if it be clothed in white to-day. The true
man looks through every external circumstance, to the spiritual
substance under all. Only the weak and ignorant regard birth,
fortune, family, reputation —”

At that moment, the door opened. Mrs. Dunbury entered,
smiling benignly.

“Do I intrude?” she asked, hesitating.

“You do,” said Hector, gently, but with something like a
frown. “Leave us alone a few minutes — if you please.”

“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Dunbury. “I am afraid you will
take cold by that window, Charlotte. There is quite a chill air
to-day.”

She stooped to take up Hector's book; he followed her with
an impatient eye; when, having turned again, to smile her satisfaction
at the aspect of affairs, she deliberately withdrew.

Then Hector moved impulsively to the door, and turned the key
in the lock.