 | Some women's hearts |  |
LITTLE GIBRALTAR.
IT was a lonely place. Every day, and all the day, as
it seemed, the wind blew steadily from east to west,
for the boughs of all the trees were bent for ever
toward the sunset. On three sides the sea broke sullenly
against the rocks of the small promontory, and
went back again, repulsed and discomfited. The house
and grounds which occupied the whole of this sea-girt
nook formed an estate which was called Little Gibraltar.
The name was not inappropriate. Thousands of years,
doubtless, had the waves stormed those gray rocks, —
thousands of years had the rocks stood firm and thrown
them back again into the sea. One could imagine the
assault going on for ever, — the repulse eternal.
Ten years ago it was that I saw the place first. I
had a friend at school who won such foothold in my
affections as no girl had ever won before. We were
not intimate, as school-girls reckon intimacy. We had
no secrets to tell, or, if we had, we told none. We
made no rash vows by starlight and moonlight, but we
liked to be together, and we had tastes and fancies in
common. I have always loved beautiful women, and
this Elinor O'Connor was “beautiful exceedingly.”
It was not until I had known her a long time that I
learned any thing of her history. When I did, I ascertained
that her father was an Irish gentleman of considerable
wealth, who had fled to this country years
before with his bride, the daughter of a noble family,
whom he had stolen, not against her will, from a convent.
Leoline was the young wife's fanciful name.
She had died five years after the birth of her first
child, Elinor, taking with her to the world of spirits an
hour-old baby. My friend could just remember her
mother, and she told me that her manners were so winning
and her beauty of so rare a type that the life-long
effect of her loss upon the husband, who idolized her,
was by no means unaccountable.
Soon after her death he had purchased Little Gibraltar,
and having arranged the grounds and built the
house after a certain fantastic plan of his own, had
retired there with his young daughter, an efficient
housekeeper, who also acted as a sort of nurse or
superintendent to little Elinor, and a corps of good
servants, who had ever since retained their situations.
Elinor's description of her home had abundantly
excited my interest and stimulated my curiosity, and
I accepted with extreme satisfaction her invitation to
pass the long summer vacation — our last before graduating
— at Little Gibraltar. At first I hesitated, lest
my intrusion should be unwelcome to the master of this
strange domain; but when I was assured that his
consent had been solicited and obtained before the
anticipated only pleasure.
The last week in June school closed. A staid serving-man
came for Elinor, and took all the trouble of
our baggage and bundles. We had a five hours' car
ride, and then we got out at a little country station.
John, the serving-man aforesaid, went to a stable across
the road, and came back with a sort of family coach
drawn by two powerful black horses. We got inside,
and he mounted the box, and off we drove. It was
three miles, I should think; but long before we reached
our journey's end we could see Little Gibraltar gleaming
stately on its rocky height, with the sea climbing
for ever at its base. Elinor pointed to it, as she said,
with more eagerness than she had been speaking before,
—
“Home, Aria!”
“Is it home?” I remember I asked her. “It looks
to me like an enchanted castle of Mrs. Radcliffe's times.
It is strange, and in a weird sort of way, very beautiful;
but it does not seem homelike.”
“Perhaps it isn't, as most people reckon homelike;
but it's all the home I have ever known since I was
old enough to remember. I don't know where it was
that I lived with my mother. It is singular that I
should recall so clearly as I do her wonderful beauty
and wayward grace. There is one thing I ought to tell
you, Aria. My father, sane enough about every thing
else, believes that he sees her now, — that sometimes
she comes and calls him, and he goes out and keeps
clearer vision than has been given to others.”
Elinor's face had kindled as she spoke, and there was
such a strange, far-seeing look in her eyes that I should
not have been surprised if she had told me that she,
too, had this clearer vision which could pierce through
the veil of mysteries.
We were near the place by this time, for John drove
rapidly. The house was a rambling, castle-like building,
—
And the turrets thereon,”
sunset. A long flight of winding steps led from the
entrance hall to the carriage road below, and at the foot
of these steps stood, ready to welcome us, Reginald
O'Connor, his hat lifted, his whole manner full of
courtly grace. Unconsciously I had formed an idea
of him. I had fancied him a sad, silent, elderly
mourner, bowed and wasted by grief, indifferent to
all the small observances of life. I saw, instead, the
handsomest man, the stateliest gentleman I have ever
met.
He was not yet quite forty, and he scarcely looked
ten years older than Elinor. He had dark eyes, penetrating,
yet with a curious, dreamy, speculative look in
them. His heavy, black hair was brushed back from
his high, thoughtful brow, — a brow a little too narrow,
a little wanting in the indications of combative force
gifted, and graceful, but never great. I had been interesting
myself in Spurzheim and Lavater, so I analyzed
his head and face, while he stood waiting, before the
carriage stopped. I discovered that his was the temperament
of a poet, — that he had ideality, veneration,
and a wonderful power of personal magnetism, — that
he could enjoy and suffer keenly, but that he lacked
fortitude, and perseverance, and hope, — that there
was a certain weakness in his character which was consistent
with the highest physical courage, but which
made him helpless before that mysterious something
which, for want of a better name, we call Destiny. He
could never, therefore, rise above a great sorrow. If I
had not made this analysis then I should never have
made it afterward, for there was something about him,
as I found presently, a certain nameless charm, which
defied criticism.
As the carriage stopped Elinor jumped from it into
his arms. He gave her a quick kiss, and then extended
his hand to me.
“This is so kind of you, Miss Germond,” he said, as
he helped me out. “You are a pioneer, too, — the first
lady who has ever visited at Little Gibraltar. You had
need of good courage.”
“It did not require a great deal of courage to bring
me with Elinor.”
He looked at me inquisitively, as if he wondered how
genuine my words were. Then he smiled.
“I believe you and she do honestly love each other,
answer for Elinor. I have heard, for two years, of
nothing but Aria, until I have learned the sweet name
by heart.”
He had given me his arm, and was leading me up the
stairs. Elinor was running on before us, gayer than I
had almost ever seen her. She looked back, nodded
laughingly, and said, —
“That's right, papa. Vouch to Aria for my devotion.”
In a moment we stood in the entrance hall, — a lofty
apartment lighted by a dome, and in the midst of which
a circular staircase wound upward. It was paved with
tessellated marble, and hung with pictures which, as I
learned afterward, Col. O'Connor had himself painted.
On one side a door was thrown open into a conservatory
full of choice flowers, beyond which was a spacious
library. On the other side another door opened into a
large and lofty drawing-room. Into this latter apartment
my host led me, having paused by the way to introduce
me to Mrs. Walker, — the housekeeper, to whom I have
before referred, — who continued to matronize and
superintend the establishment. Elinor lingered a little
to talk to her, and the Colonel and I walked into the
drawing-room alone. Opposite the door an immense
pier-glass filled the space between two great windows,
and as we stepped in we saw ourselves reflected in it;
I still leaning on his arm, and he bending toward me
with his air of courtly deference. A sudden and curious
presentiment thrilled me like a suggestion from
in some mysterious way my fate and his were linked.
And at the same time I heard a whisper, distinct yet
low, as if it came from far, — “Beware.”
I seemed, in some way, to know that this whisper was
not meant for me, but for my companion. I felt sure
that he heard it also, for he released my hand which he
had been holding upon his arm, and offered me a chair.
I saw that his face was pale, and his lips had a nervous
quiver. Then Elinor came in, with Mrs. Walker, and
a sober, middle-aged lady's maid, ready to show me to
my room; and her father told us that dinner would be
served in half an hour. I thought he was glad to have
us go upstairs.
My room opened out of Elinor's, and looked, like
hers, toward the unquiet, shimmering sea. I refused
the maid's assistance, and when my door was shut sat
down a moment to look out of my window and think.
The waters had a curious phosphorescent glow and
glitter. They seemed mysterious and infinite as the
fathomless sky which bent above them, — mysterious as
destiny, infinite as immortality. What puppets we
human beings are for Fate to play with, I thought, —
beneath the dignity of actors, — not knowing even our
own parts, or whether it were tragedy or comedy in
which we should be called to perform, — whether the
play were in five acts or in one.
My vacation was to be two months long. I felt as
if I were going to live more in that time than I had in
my whole life before.
I opened my trunk. My drama must begin, like
many another, with dressing and dining. I had never
been able to decide whether I was handsome or not, —
though I knew my style was unique. It was certainly
not that which those unfledged youth who haunt the
steps and dog the walks of boarding-school misses
most delight in; for I had never received a compliment
in my life, unless the look in Col. O'Connor's eyes this
afternoon had been one.
I had a low brow, round which the dark hair drooped
heavily, a clear, dark skin, and the coloring in all
respects of a brunette, except that my eyes were blue
as turquoise, — a bright, light blue. This contradiction
between my eyes and the rest of my face made me
striking, peculiar: I must try my power before I could
tell whether or not it made me pleasing.
I put on a black dress, which suited me, for it
drooped in heavy, rich folds about my figure, which
was full and tall. Soft, old lace was at my wrists, and
was fastened at my throat by a brooch made of an
Egyptian scarabæus, and which glittered like an evil
eye at my throat. Then I was ready, and had ten
minutes more, while I was waiting for Elinor, in which
to wonder as to the meaning of the strange whisper
I had heard. She came for me at last, and we went
downstairs.
The drawing-room was lighted now, and I noticed,
as I had not before, the extreme richness and elegance
of all its appointments. One would have thought that
in furnishing it the master of Little Gibraltar had been
fitting himself up a refuge in which to hide away his
sorrow.
One recognized everywhere traces of that exacting
ideality which would not be satisfied with less than
perfection. At the farther end of the room folding
doors were thrown open into a dining-room, where a
table glittered with plate and crystal. Col. O'Connor
met us at the door, and, giving me his arm again, took
me in to dinner, Elinor following. The dinner was
conducted with ceremonious stateliness, and, watching
the high-bred courtesy of my host's manner, I understood
in what school his daughter had acquired that
grace and repose which had been at once the envy and
the despair of Madame Miniver's young ladies.
Just here I begin to feel that I have undertaken a
hopeless task. I have succeeded, possibly, in conveying
to you the impression of a home, fantastic but
superb, — of my stately host, and the friend whom I
loved so well. So far words have served me; but now
they begin to seem vague and pointless. They will
not render the subtile shades of that midsummer experience.
I cannot tell you the strange spell which drew
me toward Reginald O'Connor. Fascination does not
at all express it, — it was at once finer and stronger.
Sympathy, magnetism, psychological attraction, —
choose your own term. I only know that I felt, in
my very soul, that I had met the one man in the universe
whose power over me was positive as fate.
I did not deceive myself about him in the least.
other men, — not wise or grand, perhaps, in any high
sense at all. But, just such as he was, I felt as if I
would rather have been loved by him, and die, than be
the living darling of any other man. All the time, too,
there was the sense of entire hopelessness, — the belief
that he had loved as he would never love again, —
that Leoline dead was more to him than the whole
living world. We passed all the days together, — we
three, — riding, driving, rowing; and, after a while,
I sitting for my portrait, and Col. O'Connor painting it.
It was after one of these sittings that Elinor said to
me, —
“Aria, I think my father is beginning to love you.
I have never seen him as he is now before. If he were
not too old for you, — if you could care for him, — I
think it might be to him like the elixir of life. To
me, you know what it would be to have you with me
always.”
“You deceive yourself,” I answered, with forced
composure. “You have told me the effect which your
mother's loss had on him, and how his whole life since
has been full of nothing but her memory. He will
never love again.”
She looked at me curiously. I knew that my face
was turning crimson under her gaze. She sprang up
and kissed me with impulsive fondness.
“My darling,” she cried, “I believe that you could
love him! With you the mistress of Little Gibraltar
what a different thing life would be to me.”
She went out without giving me time to answer her;
but after that she left me more alone with her father.
He painted on at my portrait, and grew absorbed in
his task. He was never satisfied, — he said my face
changed with every change of my moods. He made
me give him sitting after sitting. To-day he deepened
the eyes, to-morrow he altered a wave in the hair, or
changed a curve of the lashes. I began to believe that
I was beautiful, as I saw myself glowing, a radiant
vision upon his canvas. One day he threw down his
brush. It was the week before we were to go back to
Madame Miniver. He cried, with a sort of suppressed
passion, —
“It does not suit me, Aria; it never will. You must
give me yourself, Aria, child, darling” —
He stopped as suddenly as if an unseen hand, cold
with the chill of the grave had been laid upon his
lips. His face turned white.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I must go.”
He went from the room. I remembered what Elinor
had told me, — that sometimes his dead wife called
him, and he went out to keep with her a ghostly tryst.
I believed that he had gone now in obedience to some
such summons. I sat on where he left me. I did not
dare to think what I was doing. I had a vague
feeling, which I would not suffer to crystallize into a
thought, that there was a rivalry between me and his
dead bride for his love. Had not I a right to win? I
remembered what Elinor had said. I believed that he
would be better and happier with a warm, living love,
not which would triumph; I could only wait. At last
I heard the door open, and he came to me softly in the
gathering twilight.
“Aria,” he said, “I love you. It is Heaven's own
truth, and I have a right to tell it to you. But I am
not free to ask you to be my wife, — I do not know
that I ever shall be. I promised Elinor's mother, when
she was dying, that I would never marry again. I am
bound by my vow unless she releases me from it. I
thought then, Heaven knows, that it would be easy
enough to keep. I loved her so well that I fancied
there was no danger of my loving any one else. I
should least of all have feared loving you, — you, yet
in your girlhood, and my daughter's friend. But it was
curious the charm you had for me from the very first.
As we stood in the drawing-room that first night a
whisper came to me, which I knew was Leoline's
warning, `Beware!' To-day, when I began to speak
to you, I heard her voice again, — a sudden, imperious
call, which I could not resist. I went out and saw her,
as I always see her, walking to and fro upon the
balcony, with her baby, a little white snow-flake, in
her arms. Aria, I begged her, as I would beg for my
life, to release me from that vow. She could have
answered me, — she has spoken to me often enough, —
but she only looked at me, with eyes full of reproachful
pain, and her lips uttered no word.”
I remembered the whisper which I too had heard,
that first night, and wondered that I had not also
that first warning had been meant for me as well as
him; but I had not heeded it. A ghostly, numbing
terror began to creep over me. I sat still and did not
answer him.
“For Heaven's sake, Aria, speak to me one word,”
he said, coming close to me. “Am I a man or a monster?
I loved Leoline. She had a right to my constancy;
and yet, God knows, I love you. Oh, why did
you come here?”
“I was going next week, — I will go to-morrow.”
The words seemed to drop from my lips against
my will. They sounded cold and hard. I felt as if
life and sense were failing me. In a moment Col.
O'Connor was kneeling beside me.
“Don't look at me so, Aria. You are turning to
stone before my eyes. Don't hate me, — it is enough
that I must hate and scorn myself, — that I, who
thought my honor stainless, must live to know that I
have broken at least the spirit of my vow. And yet,
am I to blame? I could not help loving you. But
I am old and sad, — I could never have won a young,
fresh heart like yours.”
The misery in his voice touched me indescribably.
It was like the turning of a weapon in a wound. It
tortured me into a sense of keen life, and gave me
power to speak.
“I don't blame you,” I said. “It was fate. But I
could have loved you. It was a vain dream. Let us
forget it and live.”
“No, I am ready to curse fate and die.”
He looked into my eyes.
“Aria, this is bitterness beyond what a man can
bear, — to feel my happiness so near, and yet so out of
reach, — to love you, to feel that I could win your love,
and yet to renounce you.”
He bent forward and drew me with firm hands close
to him. I felt his lips on mine for one moment, — fond,
quivering, thrilling to the centre of my being. Then
he released me.
“There, Aria, that is all. Forgive me if you can.
You will not hate me, I know. You shall not go back
until the time comes; but you need not see me again
after to-night. We should never have met, or we
should have met in some other sphere. Well, child, it
is possible to bear most things. Come, we cannot
escape life. We must go to dinner.”
At the table a strange gayety seemed to possess him.
He ate nothing, but he covered his lack of appetite and
mine with quip and badinage and brilliant turns of
thought.
After dinner he went into the library to look over the
evening mail, and presently sent for Elinor.
She was with him a few moments and then came back.
She looked me in the eyes like an inquisitor as she said:
“Papa has received a letter which will take him away
from home to-morrow morning; we shall probably have
to leave without seeing him again.”
I expressed my regrets courteously, but I made no
sign, nor did she ask me any questions.
We went back to school. What a mockery it seemed
to me, with girlhood lying as far behind me as infancy.
My thoughts ran tumultuously in one channel. I cared
for none of the old delights or ambitions. I could not
study. I had learned a lesson which swallowed up all
others, as did Aaron's rod the rods of the Egyptians.
In the midst of the term an epoch came which gave
me independence, — my twenty-first birthday. I was
three years older than Elinor, — late in finishing my
studies, as, on account of my extreme delicacy in childhood,
I had been late in commencing them. I was an
orphan, and at twenty-one I became mistress of myself
and my fortune. I should have left Madame Miniver's,
but I had no tie anywhere so strong as the one which
bound me to Elinor, and I staid on for her sake.
Early in December she came to my room with a letter
in her hand.
“Aria,” she said, “I am summoned home. My father
is failing mysteriously. He wants me with him, and he
says, `Tell Aria that, for her own sake, I must not ask
her to come, though her presence would be the greatest
comfort.'”
What to me was “my own sake” in comparison with
his comfort? What if I suffered a pang or two more?
The worst suffering of all would be to know afterward
that he had missed me. I went with Elinor.
We got there in time to see the last of him whom
we both loved so well. We watched beside him night
and day for three days, and then, in the wild winter
midnight, “he heard the angels call.”
He had been speaking calmly enough about his
plans.
“I have given Little Gibraltar to Aria,” he said to
Elinor, as she bent over him. “You will be rich
enough without it, and you would not care to live
here. It will have a deeper worth, a different significance
for her.”
Then he sent her from the room, on some pretext,
and talked to me.
“It is all a mystery,” he said, “strange as sad. Can
a man love two women? I loved her. Heaven knows
it, and my long, solitary years since her death have
borne witness to it. And yet, if it be not love for you
that is wasting my life away, what is it? We shall
understand it all in the next world, I think.
“She has come to me often since last summer. She
waits for me always on the balcony outside, and I
know she is there by the tune with which she hushes
the baby on her breast, — always the same tune, — one
she used to sing to me in other days. I go out when I
hear it, and meet the sad upbraiding of her eyes. But
she has never spoken to me since that day. I have
pleaded a hundred times for release from my vow, but
her lips will never open. I wonder if she will turn from
me with horror in her eyes in the world of spirits; or
whether, for her baby's father, there will be pity and
forgiveness? Wrong or right, I could not help loving
you; it was my fate.”
I could not answer him, but I bent and pressed my
lips to his mouth. Now, with him floating away from
moment my lips touched his I heard, as distinctly as I
ever heard any sound in my life, a strain of wild, sweet
music, — a tune I had never heard before. His eye
kindled with recognition as he caught the sound, and
he tried to rise. I turned to listen to Elinor, who was
opening the door.
“Aria, the tide is going out,” she said.
I looked back to the bed, and answered her, —
“He has gone out with it.”
And we heard the music, both of us, fainter, lower,
farther and farther away, until its sweetness died on the
waiting air.
Believe my story or doubt it, — it does not matter.
I have told it because some force outside of myself
seemed to constrain me. I have never loved again, —
it does not seem to me that I ever shall. You see me
in the winter as the world sees me, gay and careless;
but I go every summer to Little Gibraltar and dream
over again the old, passionate, troubled dream. Elinor
comes, too, sometimes, with her husband and her
children; but I like best to be alone with the dead
days in that nook haunted by memory, where rise the
fantastic turrets toward which the sea climbs eternally,
where the white walls glitter, and the wind blows all
the day, and every day, from the east toward the setting
sun.
| Some women's hearts | |