It was just as Bella said; Alice had sent off that poor boy “twice as
much in love as ever.” Poor fellow! what a strange conflict was that
that raged within him!--all that can make life glorious, give ecstasy
to the present and hope to the future, mingled with everything that can
throw a gloom over existence, and make it a burden and a task. Must it
be ever thus?--must the most exquisite moments of our life, when we have
youth and hope and health and energy, be dashed with fears that make
us forget all the blessings of our lot, and deem ourselves the most
wretched of created beings?
In this feverish alternation he travelled along homeward,--now
thinking of the great things he could do and dare to win her love, now
foreshadowing the time when all hopes should be extinguished, and he
should walk the world alone and forsaken. He went over in memory--who
has not done so at one time or other?--all she had said to him at their
last meeting, asking what ground there might be for hope in this, what
reason for belief in that. With what intense avidity do we seek for the
sands of gold in this crushed and crumbled rock! how eagerly do we
peer to catch one glittering grain that shall whisper to us of wealth
hereafter!
Surely, thought he, Alice is too good and too true-hearted to give me
even this much of hope if she meant me to despair. Why should she offer
to write to me if she intended that I was to forget her? “I wonder,”
muttered he, in his dark spirit of doubt,--“I wonder if this be simply
the woman's way of treating a love she deems beneath her?” He had read
in some book or other that it is no uncommon thing for those women
whose grace and beauty win homage and devotion thus to sport with the
affections of their worshippers, and that in this exercise of a cruel
power they find an exquisite delight. But Alice was too proud and too
high-hearted for such an ignoble pastime. But then he had read, too,
that women sometimes fancy that, by encouraging a devotion they never
mean to reward, they tend to elevate men's thoughts, ennobling their
ambitions, and inspiring them with purer, holier hopes. What if she
should mean this, and no more than this? Would not her very hatred be
more bearable than such pity? For a while this cruel thought unmanned
him, and he sat there like one stunned and powerless.
For some time the road had led between the low furze-clad bills of the
country, but now they had gained the summit of a ridge, and there lay
beneath them that wild coast-line, broken with crag and promontory
towards the sea, and inland swelling and falling in every fanciful
undulation, yellow with the furze and the wild broom, but grander for
its wide expanse than many a scene of stronger features. How dear to his
heart it was! How inexpressibly dear the spot that was interwoven with
every incident of his life and every spring of his hope! There the green
lanes he used to saunter with Alice; there the breezy downs over which
they cantered; yonder the little creek where they had once sheltered
from a storm: he could see the rock on which he lit a fire in boyish
imitation of a shipwrecked crew! It was of Alice that every crag and
cliff, every bay and inlet spoke.
“And is all that happiness gone forever?” cried he, as he stood gazing
at the scene. “I wonder,” thought he, “could Skeffy read her thoughts
and tell me how she feels towards me? I wonder will he ever talk to
her of me, and what will they say?” His cheek grew hot and red, and he
muttered to himself, “Who knows but it may be in pity?” and with the
bitterness of the thought the tears started to his eyes, and coursed
down his cheeks.
That same book,--how it rankled, like a barbed arrow, in his side!--that
same book said that men are always wrong in their readings of
woman,--that they cannot understand the finer, nicer, more subtle
springs of her action; and in their coarser appreciation they constantly
destroy the interest they would give worlds to create. It was as this
thought flashed across his memory the car-driver exclaimed aloud, “Ah,
Master Tony, did ever you see as good a pony as you? he 's carried
the minister these eighteen years, and look at him how he jogs along
to-day!”
He pointed to a little path in the valley where old Dr. Stewart ambled
along on his aged palfrey, the long mane and flowing tail of the beast
marking him out though nigh half a mile away.
“Why didn't I think of that before?” thought Tony. “Dolly Stewart is the
very one to help me. She has not been bred and brought up like Alice,
but she has plenty of keen woman's wit, and she has all a sister's love
for me, besides. I 'll just go and tell her how we parted, and I 'll ask
her frankly what she says to it.”
Cheered by this bright idea, he pursued his way in better spirits, and
soon reached the little path which wound off from the high-road through
the fields to the Burnside. Not a spot there unassociated with memories,
but they were the memories of early boyhood. The clump of white thorns
they used to call the Forest, and where they went to hunt wild beasts;
the little stream they fancied a great and rapid river, swarming with
alligators; the grassy slope, where they had their house, and the tiny
garden whose flowers, stuck down at daybreak, were withered before
noon!--too faithful emblems of the joys they illustrated!
“Surely,” thought he, “no boy had ever such a rare playfellow as Dolly;
so ready to take her share in all the rough vicissitudes of a boy's
pleasures, and yet to bring to them a sort of storied interest and
captivation which no mere boy could ever have contributed. What a little
romance the whole was,--just because she knew how to impart the charm of
a story to all they did and all they planned!”
It was thus thinking that he entered the cottage. So still was
everything that he could hear the scratching noise of a pen as a rapid
writer's hand moved over the paper. He peeped cautiously in and saw
Dolly seated, writing busily at a table all strewn over with manuscript:
an open book, supported by other books, lay before her, at which from
time to time she glanced.
Before Tony had advanced a step she turned round and saw him. “Was it
not strange, Tony?” said she, and she flushed as she spoke. “I felt that
you were there before I saw you; just like long ago, when I always knew
where you were hid.”
“I was just thinking of that same long ago, Dolly,” said he, taking a
chair beside her, “as I came up through the fields. There everything is
the same as it used to be when we went to seek our fortune across the
sandy desert, near the Black Lake.”
“No,” said she, correcting; “the Black Lake was at the foot of Giant's
Rock, beyond the rye-field.”
“So it was, Dolly; you are right.”
“Ah, Master Tony, I suspect I have a better memory of those days than
you have. To be sure, I have not had as many things happening in the
mean while to trouble these memories.”
There was a tone of sadness in her voice, very slight, very faint,
indeed, but still enough to tinge these few words with melancholy.
“And what is all this writing about?” said he, moving his hands through
the papers. “Are you composing a book, Dolly?”
“No,” said she, timidly; “I am only translating a little German story.
When I was up in London, I was lucky enough to obtain the insertion of
a little fairy tale in a small periodical meant for children, and the
editor encouraged me to try and render one of Andersen's stories; but
I am a very sorry German, and, I fear me, a still sorrier prose writer;
and so, Tony, the work goes on as slowly as that bridge of ours used
long ago. Do you remember when it was made, we never had the courage to
pass over it! Mayhap it will be the same with my poor story, and when
finished, it will remain unread.”
“But why do you encounter such a piece of labor?” said he. “This must
have taken a week or more.”
“A month yesterday, my good Tony; and very proud I am, too, that I did
it in a month.”
“And for what, in heaven's name?”
“For three bright sovereigns, Master Tony!” said she, blushing.
“Oh, I didn't mean that,” said he, in deep shame and confusion. “I meant
only, why did you engage on such a hard task.”
“I know you did n't mean it, Tony; but I was so proud of my success
as an author it would out. Yes,” said she, with a feigned air of
importance, “I have just disposed of my copyright; and you know, Tony,
Milton did not get a great deal more for 'Paradise Lost.' You see,”
added she, seriously, “what with poor papa's age and his loneliness, and
my own not over-great strength, I don't think I shall try (at least, not
soon) to be a governess again; and it behoves me to be as little as I
can of a burden to him; and after thinking of various things, I have
settled upon this as the best.”
“What a good girl you are!” said he, and he fixed his eyes full upon
her; nor did he know how admiringly, till he saw that her face, her
forehead, and even her neck were crimson with shame and confusion.
“There is no such great goodness, in doing what is simply one's duty,”
said she, gravely.
“I don't know that, Dolly.”
“Come, come, Tony, you never fancied yourself a hero, just because you
are willing to earn your bread, and ready to do so by some sacrifice of
your tastes and habits.”
The allusion recalled Tony to himself and his own cares, and after a few
seconds of deep thought, he said, “I am going to make the venture
now, Dolly. I am called away to London by telegraph, and am to leave
to-morrow morning.”
“Are you fully prepared, Tony, for the examination?”
“Luckily for me, they do not require it Some accidental want of people
has made them call in all the available fellows at a moment's warning,
and in this way I may chance to slip into the service unchallenged.”
“Nay, but, Tony,” said she, reproachfully, “you surely could face the
examination?”
“I could face it just as I could face being shot at, of course, but with
the same certainty of being bowled over. Don't you know, Dolly, that I
never knew my grammar long ago till you had dinned it into my head; and
as you never come to my assistance now, I know well what my fate would
be.”
“My dear Tony,” said she, “do get rid once for all of the habit of
underrating your own abilities; as my dear father says, people very
easily make self-depreciation a plea of indolence. There, don't look
so dreary; I 'm not going to moralize in the few last minutes we are to
have together. Talk to me about yourself.”
“It was for that I came, Dolly,” said he, rising and taking a turn or
two up and down the room; for, in truth, he was sorely puzzled how
to approach the theme that engaged him. “I want your aid; I want your
woman's wit to help me in a difficulty. Here's what it is, Dolly,” and
he sat down again at her side, and took her hand in his own. “Tell me,
Dolly,” said he, suddenly, “is it true, as I have read somewhere, that a
woman, after having made a man in love with her, will boast that she is
not in the least bound to requite his affection if she satisfies herself
that she has elevated him in his ambition, given a higher spring to
his hope,--made him, in fact, something better and nobler than his own
uninspired nature had ever taught him to be? I 'm not sure that I have
said what I meant to say; but you 'll be able to guess what I intend.”
“You mean, perhaps, will a woman accept a man's love as a means of
serving him without any intention of returning it?”
Perhaps he did not like the fashion in which she put his question, for
he did not answer, save by a nod.
“I say yes; such a thing is possible, and might happen readily enough if
great difference of station separated them.”
“Do you mean if one was rich and the other poor?”
“Not exactly; because inequalities of fortune may exist between persons
of equal condition.”
“In which case,” said he, hurriedly, “you would not call their stations
unequal, would you?”
“That would depend on how far wealth contributed to the habits of the
wealthier. Some people are so accustomed to affluence, it is so much the
accompaniment of their daily lives, that the world has for them but one
aspect.”
“Like our neighbors here, the Lyles, for instance?” said he.
Dolly gave a slight start, like a sudden pang of pain, and grew deadly
pale. She drew away her hand at the same time, and passed it across her
brow.
“Does your head ache, dear Dolly?” asked he, compassionately.
“Slightly; it is seldom quite free of pain. You have chosen a poor
guide, Tony, when there is a question of the habits of fine folk.
None know so little of their ways as I do. But surely you do not need
guidance. Surely you are well capable of understanding them in all their
moods.”
With all her attempts to appear calm and composed, her lips shook and
her cheeks trembled as she spoke; and Tony, more struck by her looks
than her words, passed his arm round her, and said, in a kind and
affectionate voice, “I see you are not well, my own dear Dolly; and that
I ought not to come here troubling you about my own selfish cares; but I
can never help feeling that it's a sister I speak to.”
“Yes, a sister,” said she, in a faint whisper,--“a sister!”
“And that your brother Tony has the right to come to you for counsel and
help.”
“So he has,” said she, gulping down something like a sob; “but these
days, when my head is weary and tired, and when--as to-day, Tony--I am
good for nothing--Tell me,” said she, hastily, “how does your mother
bear your going away? Will she let me come and sit with her often? I
hope she will.”
“That she will, and be so happy to have you too; and only think, Dolly,
Alice Lyle--Mrs. Trafford, I mean--has offered to come and keep her
company sometimes. I hope you 'll meet her there; how you 'd like her.
Dolly!”
Dolly turned away her head; and the tears, against which she had
struggled so long, now burst forth, and slowly fell along her cheek.
“You must not fancy, Dolly, that because Alice is rich and great you
will like her less. Heaven knows, if humble fortune could separate us,
ours might have done so.”
“My head is splitting, Tony dear. It is one of those sudden attacks of
pain. Don't be angry if I say good-bye; there's nothing for it but a
dark room, and quiet.”
“My poor dear Dolly,” said he, pressing her to him, and kissing her
twice on the cheek.
“No, no!” cried she, hysterically, as though to something she was
answering; and then, dashing away, she rushed from the room, and Tony
could hear her door shut and locked as she passed in.
“How changed from what she used to be!” muttered he, as he went his way;
“I scarcely can believe she is the same! And, after all, what light has
she thrown on the difficulty I put before her? Or was it that I did not
place the matter as clearly as I might? Was I too guarded, or was I too
vague? Well, well. I remember the time when, no matter how stupid _I_
was, she would soon have found out my meaning! What a dreary thing
that life of a governess must be, when it could reduce one so quick of
apprehension and so ready-witted as she was to such a state as this! Oh,
is she not changed!” And this was the burden of his musings as he wended
his way towards home.