 | II. My third book |  |
2. II.
My first three days in New York were not very
eventful ones. There was Flora's careless yet good-natured
welcome, my mother's tender greeting for her
only boy; and then I found my way to the offices
and counting-rooms of half a dozen good fellows, old
friends, whose society somehow gave me less pleasure
than formerly. I think a certain peace and quietness
had grown into my spirit during that long, still
summer in the country, on which the bustle and confusion
of this great, busy town jarred, at first, with a
sense of pain.
My sister's grand party came off on Thursday night.
I stood by her side at one end of her brilliant drawing-room
while she received her guests. Her reunions
were always very successful. It was an amusement
to me to watch the different faces—the varying
expressions of those handsomely-dressed men and
women whom she called her “set.” At last her quick
whisper in my ear aroused me from my half-listless
mood. I turned eagerly toward the door. It was
Anastasia St. John.
The expression “a stately woman” had always, from
some old, boyish association, conveyed to my mind the
idea of a brunette. I had pictured Miss St. John,
framed in shining raven hair. I had been mistaken;
and yet she became, forever after, my standard of stately
beauty.
She was the proudest woman I have ever met. There
was pride in her thin nostril, her curling lip; pride sat
serene and regnant on her smooth brow. She was
tall, and faultlessly formed. Her skin was marble
white, save where, in the cheek, a faint dash of crimson
broke up through it, cold yet clear as a winter's
sunrise. Her long, thick hair was of a pale gold color.
It was folded back from her forehead in heavy
waves, and wound about her small, erect head like a
coronal. Her eyes were blue and brilliant, but there
was no warmth in them. Her dress suited her. It
was a robe of some costly lace, floating cloud-like over
azure satin. Rachel Deane may have been lovelier, but
this Anastasia St. John was the most beautiful woman
I ever saw.
There was a kind of empressement in my sister's tones
as she introduced us which convinced me that my name
was not unknown to this cold goddess, but her manner
was careless, and yet polished as glittering steel.
From that night I had an interest in New York. I
had coolly made up my mind to marry Miss St. John,
if I could win her. There was an intense excitement,
a keen zest, in trying to conquer this cold indifference,
this haughty calmness. That winter was to me like a
long game of chess. Warily, carefully, I planned every
move. Self-complacently I said, “I am playing
I well.”
In this subtle trial of strength Woolwich was well-nigh
forgotten. Sometimes I saw in my dreams a
alone in the shadows; an old man, looking out toward
heaven. But in the daytime my whole thoughts
centred in this lovely maid of ice—this Mrs. Gerard
Sunderland that was to be. And yet I was forced to
acknowledge to myself that I made little progress. I
was much in Miss St. John's society. Her mother was
an invalid, and my sister was her chaperon to balls,
and drives, and operas. She accepted my attentions,
or rather she endured them without seeming scarcely
to be aware of them. She wore my bouquets, played
my music, read my new books, and yet I grew no nearer
to her. This piqued me, and I became more earnest
in the pursuit.
Lounging in my sister's room one morning, I said,
with assumed carelessness, as I unwound a roll of ribbon,
“I give you credit for good taste, Flora, but I don't
see what you think a man could marry in Anastasia
St. John. One wants a woman whose heart beats once
in a while, just often enough to show its existence;
but Miss St. John—I'd as soon think of kissing life into
a statue.”
Flora came up to me, and deliberately took the ribbon
out of my profane fingers.
“Three dollars a yard, Mr. Gerard Sunderland. I
can not have you spoil it. As for Anastasia, you don't
know her, and I do. She has got too much heart instead
of too little; you may not be the one to discover
it, but it's there. If she does love, it will be worth
winning.”
I did not believe my sister at the time, and yet her
words led me to observe Miss St. John more closely.
than once I detected an expression in her fine eyes
when they met mine which said, just as plainly as
any words could have done,
“I should like you for a friend, Mr. Sunderland, if
you would content yourself without trying to be my
lover. You do not deserve me, because you do not
understand me. I should gratify no part of your nature
but your ambition.”
But after a time I ceased to perceive this expression.
I began to believe that I loved her; that that
marble face, the clear blue of those eyes, the pale
gold of that hair, were each and all dear and necessary
to my happiness. I thought, too, that she seemed to
soften toward me. Her voice grew lower. Sometimes
I saw a strange tenderness in her eyes. Fool
that I was, I thought it was evoked by my voice. I
had indeed played well, I said to myself in these days.
The checkmate was near at hand. Already the game
had lasted through the winter.
It was on an April morning that I thought to win
my crowning triumph. I went early to see Miss St.
John. I found her alone, but I looked in vain for the
tenderness I had fancied was growing habitual to those
clear eyes. Had I, then, mistaken their expression
before? I had intended this morning to ask her to
be my wife, but the words did not come easily. I sat
still for a time and looked at her.
“Could that proud woman ever love?” I once more
asked myself, doubtingly. “Would any husband's
brow find rest on that pulseless bosom? Would any
children dare to climb that silken knee?” There was
no answer in the cold pride of her face. But another
but mine.
What were you, Rachel Deane—you, so shy, so
small, so quiet—that you could shut out that proud
beauty from my vision? By what strange might of
your deep nature did you follow me, call me, draw me
toward you? Never did mortal eyes rest upon your
face more clearly than my spirit saw you then. Fearlessly
your pure soul spoke to mine.
“Sin not,” it said, “against your own best nature.
Your love is mightier than your pride.”
Every pulse leaped, every nerve in my body thrilled,
as those words rung through my heart's chambers.
She seemed to stand before me like an accusing spirit.
Oh, I knew then that I loved Rachel Deane. I believed—how
sweet the hope was—that she loved me;
that, apart, earth held for either of us no true happiness.
In my heart I blessed her for rising up before
me: I called her my salvation. Her presence seemed
very real to me. I lifted my eyes, and they then fell
on Anastasia St. John, sitting there calm, and proud,
and very beautiful, her great eyes seeming to look at
something far away—something that was not me. I
had never loved her; she had never loved me. Something
within me forced me to speak to her—a new
emotion I had for her—a calm, quiet esteem, a friendly
regard, of which I knew now she was worthy. By
this moved, I went up to her. I extended my hand.
I said,
“I am here, Miss St. John, to bid you good-by. I
leave New York this afternoon. Your society has
made this winter very pleasant to me. We began it
as strangers; I feel that we shall part as true friends.”
She understood me. She had never looked so good
to me as then. She put her hand in mine. Did I
see rightly? I think the tears gathered in her eyes.
Her voice was very gentle.
“I thank you,” she said, warmly. “We are true
friends—we will be. I am not so careless or so happy
as the world calls me. I have my griefs; but
when I think of you, I will remember that I have one
friend.”
“God bless you!” I said, with a fervent prayer for
her in my heart. I left her with such tenderness as I
had never thought she could inspire. I never saw
her again.
My sister met me upon the stairs. She had known
of my intention to visit Miss St. John.
“How sped your wooing?” she asked, gayly.
“Flora,” I answered, “you were right. You understood
your friend better than I did. Miss St. John
could love with a love that would be worth winning,
but I am not the one.”
I believe she thought I had been rejected. At any
rate, she made no opposition to my plan of returning
to Woolwich that afternoon, and three o'clock saw me
upon the cars.
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