 | XXVIII.
ESTRANGEMENT: WINTER. Lucy Arlyn |  |
28. XXVIII.
ESTRANGEMENT: WINTER.
THAT evening, Lucy sat by her window, pale and
changed. The wounds at which her spirit bled
had left her body weak. Since the day when she
went alone into the forest, she had not left her room. Only
from her window could she see the glory of October. And
there for hours she sat alone, watching the woods by day; and
there for hours she sat alone, listening to the brook by night.
She saw little of Guy now. When, after the evening of
their cruel parting at the door, he came again with a yearning
and repentant heart to atone for his harshness to one to whom
he owed all tenderness, he found her ill; but she smiled
upon him faintly, and uttered no reproach, and forgave him
sweetly when he accused himself.
“Only be patient with me now; bear with me a little
while,” she whispered: and he never forgot the look she gave
him, — the sunlight of affection quivering on the fountain of
tears.
She had never been more lovely, and he had never loved
and win from her the cause of her sorrow. But that secret
she kept carefully locked in her own bosom: it chilled their
intercourse, and repelled him from her.
That evening she had left the window, and taken up some
sewing; when her door was opened, and Guy stood in the
room. She did not spring to meet him as in other days, but
smiled a silent welcome. He looked at her long, without speaking.
His countenance was unspeakably tender. Around his
brow shone something like a halo. All the lines of his mouth
seemed tremulous with love. After his recent consecration
and sad crowning, there he stood, reconciled to suffering and
shame, if suffering and shame must come; raised sublimely
above pride and fear, his whole being breathing love.
After welcoming him, Lucy resumed her work, on which she
tried to fix her eyes and thoughts. But the very atmosphere
of him, the intangible, invisible something which his spirit
shed, penetrated her with a melting power. It stole into her
bosom like flowers and perfumes, in the midst of which the
thought that he loved another pierced her treacherously, like
the muffled spear of Bacchus wounding through its wreath of
leaves.
He came and stood beside her, and looked at her work.
It was an infant's dress, which she was daintily embroidering.
The sight of it moved him deeply: for hitherto the
image of their child had been to him altogether vague and
ideal; but the little garment was sternly literal.
“Can you realize it, Lucy?”
“It was a good while before I could make it seem that
these dear little things would ever be worn by a baby of ours;
and half the time now I am working in a dream.”
She spoke in the cheerful tone she endeavored always to
use in his presence, but which, in spite of her, betrayed the
underflowing sadness.
“And it is a sorrow to you!”
“It is a sorrow,” — she answered softly after a moment's
hesitation, — “and it is a great comfort. I kiss the dear
things for its sake!” and she pressed the dress impulsively
to her lips.
“God bless the babe! and God bless with rich blessings
its mother!” he said with solemn fervor. “I do believe
that a happy future awaits us. Only let us have faith, and
be strong.”
His words sank deep in her heart. They seemed sincere:
surely they were warm with affection. She was waiting for
more; her soul was hungering for more; when something
dropped from the handkerchief he drew from his coat. He
stooped somewhat hastily to pick it up.
“Is it a keepsake you are so careful of?” she asked with
an uncertain smile.
He saw that he had made a mistake in appearing at all disturbed;
and he answered carelessly, —
“It's a glove I found. I am looking for the owner.”
“Don't you know who the owner of it is?” she inquired
very quietly, but with a look full of meaning.
“Not positively. I don't know but it may be yours,” —
tossing it into her lap.
“Mine!” exclaimed Lucy, surprised. “Where did you
find it?”
The truth began to dawn upon him. He parried her question
with another.
“Is it yours?”
Lucy had not been out since her visit to the cascades. Then
she had worn that glove. She had not missed it, not having
needed it since. She thought, she felt certain, that she
must have dropped it in her wild and dizzy flight from the
brink of the cavern; perhaps within a few yards of the spot
where she had made the discovery which blighted her life.
Then her secret was betrayed! Controlling her agitation as
well as she could, she returned the glove, saying in a forced
voice, —
“I hope you'll find the owner.”
“Lucy!” he said, clasping her wrist, “it is your glove!”
Her heart swelled and her cheek blanched; but she neither
confessed nor denied. He held her still; he made her look
in his face; he demanded earnestly, —
“Why did you never tell me this?”
“Tell you — what?”
“That you went to the cascades, saw me there, and broke
your poor foolish heart.”
Concealment was at an end. The grief, the despair, which
she had stifled long, and meant to keep forever hid from him,
broke forth.
He took her in his arms; he endeavored to soothe her; in
vain. He placed her on the sofa, and walked to and fro in
great agitation. Her trance in the woods, her unaccountably
strange conduct, her illness, her patient suffering, — he comprehended
all. Nor could he blame her now; nor could he hope
to exculpate himself; while the memory of her wrongs and
resignation, of her buried sorrow, and of the tender green grass
of her sweet cheerfulness growing on that grave, filled him
with admiration of her character, together with a wonderful,
yearning, pitying love.
But now she had recovered once more the control of herself;
and stanching her tears, and pushing back her hair from
her brow and cheeks, she sat, fixedly regarding him as he
spoke.
“If you had only told me this, all would have been well;
all might have been explained.”
“If I had told you?” she cried. “But what if you had
told me? If I concealed something, what did you conceal?
You kept from me your perfidy; while I kept from you only
my knowledge of it!”
“My perfidy!” murmured Guy. “O Lucy!” But he
was dumb: he knew he could not make her understand.
“I don't accuse you; and, but for the accident of that glove,
you would never have heard a word on the subject from my
lips. But now I will speak,” she continued with energy of
soul. “You have kissed that woman: I saw you kiss each
other. I thought the sight would kill me: I hoped it would.
happiness.”
“Merciful Heaven! Lucy!” in a voice of amazement he
interrupted her. “Hear me a moment. I shall not attempt
to overcome your prejudices by explaining my relations with
that woman: I shall not assert and re-assert the spiritual nature
of those relations. But, in proof of my fidelity, let me
tell you what was in my heart when I came to-night.”
He explained: she listened, gazing at him with intent eyes,
while he offered that which it would seem almost insane in her
now not to accept. But her woman's nature was roused; and,
when he had ended, she answered at once, —
“No! If poverty did not seem sweet to you for my sake,
when you loved me, it would be too bitter now.”
“Oh, you will not believe me!” he exclaimed. “I only
regret that I did not, in the first place, make you my wife before
the world. It would have saved you so much! — and it
would have saved me the shame of thinking how basely I
have acted. I suppose my father will disinherit me now, at
any rate: I deserve it. And what if he does? What is
wealth? God will take care of us if we will be his children.
Long enough I have skulked and deceived. Now I perceive
the beauty of holiness, the greatness of faith, the glory of a
life of love, and of suffering for love's sake.”
She thought that she, too, had suffered for love's sake; and
hot thoughts swelled up.
“You pity me,” she said after a struggle. “So you
pity now I have lost your love. You have told me a hundred
times that there is no true marriage without the perfect
union of hearts. Without your undivided love, no outward
recognition of me as your wife can make me happy. What
is the world's scorn? I have felt it; but it is nothing —
nothing to the loss — Guy, Guy! go from me!” she cried,
hiding her face in her hands.
“When we understand each other, when you are calm,
when you have accepted my offer,” he soothingly said.
“I will accept it on one condition.” And she regarded
him with proud eyes flashing through her tears.
“Name it.”
“That you see that woman no more; that you separate
yourself from that fanatical company altogether.”
“It is impossible,” Guy answered with a sad shake of
the head; “for I have this day bound myself to them more
strongly than ever.”
She sank down a moment under this blow.
“And you will not give her up for me?” she asked at
length with a strangely subdued and level look and tone.
“I cannot pledge myself not to see her; but” —
“Enough! You cannot be my husband, and give your
love and kisses to another.” Her voice was little more than
a whisper; but all the passion of her soul was in it. “I am
not your doll, your slave: I am your equal. I am worthy
of your entire love and confidence, or of nothing. Cling to
ruined, you will remember me; you will think of the heart
that loved you better than life. Then you can do me justice,
or you can do my memory justice, before the world. You
will be just to our babe, I am sure!”
The pathos of this last appeal overcame him; indeed, his
very soul was moved. But he could not yield.
Perhaps she had assumed her high and firm position in the
hope that he would accede to it. And when all had been
said, and he still refused, she knew that all was over; she
knew that the long dark night of her life had come.
The night of the year came with it. The sunset of the year,
which is October, faded fast. November's bleak and tempestuous
twilight set in; and the icy and pallid winter midnight
drew on.
A dreary period of lonesomeness and heart-ache to Lucy.
After hope long deferred, she had given up her father as dead.
Long since her friends had forgotten her. And now she was
deserted even by him for whom she had sacrificed all.
Not that Guy had ceased to love her; not that he visited
her now no more. But the open rupture to which their
differences came at last could not be healed. High-spirited
and heroic, she could suffer, she could die; but she could not
beg for affection, nor accept a part of his heart, nor enjoy his
coming when she knew that he had been with Christina, and
would return to her again.
Few and formal his visits became. His interest was elsewhere.
been repaired; the old shaft had been re-opened; and Guy, in
his executive capacity, had made acquaintance with that hitherto
unprofitable bore. And now was heard the sound of
sharpening the drills at the forge, and once more the mountain
resounded with the thunder of the blast. Among all the
prominent members of the association great enthusiasm prevailed.
Money was abundant, poured in as priming to the
pump which was expected soon to pour out again inexhaustible
golden supplies. Except in the coldest of the weather, the
work of the miners went on; penetrating inch by inch,
slowly and laboriously, the stubbornest azoic stone. Daily it
was anticipated that the drills would strike through, or that
the blasts would blow through, into the subterranean chambers
of coin; during which time the Biddikin mansion
glowed with warmth, and flowed with plenty, so that the
doctor grew fat, and not even poor little Job went hungry.
With the workmen at the summit, or with the men and
women of the association who filled with new magnetic life
the rooms of the old house, Guy spent his days and nights.
Here, in the half-spiritual yet intensely human elements of
a nondescript society, he found something which his soul
craved. He was much with Christina. Whether or not he
loved her, she was fast becoming necessary to him. When
he went uncomforted from Lucy, the smiles, the radiance, the
spiritual gifts, of the seeress were his consolation. Thus unconsciously
Lucy drove him to her rival. And she was forgotten;
what solace few can guess, her little baby-things.
She was not weak. She did not utterly despair. To Jehiel
and his wife, who did all they could to comfort and
encourage her, she was thankful; but she seemed scarcely to
heed or to need them. She was pre-occupied with her own
whirling thoughts. In vain for her the wonderful phenomena
of winter were disclosed. When the vast white plains were
beautiful to behold in their spotless purity; when the far
hills were clad in creamy mantles, embroidered with brown
woods, and softly tinged with blue; when the brows of the
cliffs were veiled with icicles like inverted spears; when the
rocky hillsides were hidden under cataracts of ice, fixed,
noiseless, and solitary; when the woods stood white and still
like forests of frostwork; and when the wild snow-storms
came, — she looked out listlessly, with vague surprise, and
with many a dull pang of memory; then turned again to her
work, in the night which was upon her, sewing, with much
sorrow and small solace, her little baby-things.
But now when sorrow was deepest, and now when the
night was darkest, there broke a sudden light; not the glad
morning beam, which was distant still, but a star of exceeding
beauty and holiness, dropping from heaven its tender melting
fire into the depths of the young mother's soul. It was
the star of maternal love.
| XXVIII.
ESTRANGEMENT: WINTER. Lucy Arlyn | |