"Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around--
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me."
SHELLEY.
"How late you have slept, Miss!" said Kitty, as she hurried up in answer
to my bell. "I have been expecting you would ring for the last hour. Did
you know, Miss, they are all at breakfast?"
"It will not take me many minutes," I said, sitting down for her to
braid my hair. Kitty was in a desperate hurry this morning; her fingers
trembled so she could hardly manage the heavy braids.
"The other young ladies are down some time ago," she said, with a sharp
look at me in the glass. "I suppose if they were tired, they would get
up this morning out of politeness to Mr. Viennet, as he goes away at
ten, and he might think rather hard of it if they didn't take the
trouble to come down in time to say good bye to him."
Encouraged, perhaps, by the color that suffused my face, she went on:
"As for him, he's been up since daybreak, walking up and down the hall,
and on the piazza, and starting and changing color every time a door
opened or any one came on the stairs. I don't believe he wants to go
away very much."
"Kitty, you are getting my hair too low; you're not thinking of what you
are about."
Kitty blushed in her turn, and said nothing more, but hurried on my
toilet. It was soon completed. I would thankfully have delayed it, but
there was no longer anything to wait for, no longer the least excuse,
and, to Kitty's inexpressible relief, I turned to leave the room. Kitty
did not suspect with what a beating heart it was, though, and with what
a blur before my eyes. I hardly saw the familiar objects in the hall,
hardly distinguished a word in the hum of voices in the breakfast-room,
as I paused an instant at the threshold. But there was no time for
wavering now. I pushed open the door and entered.
There was a momentary hush on my entrance: Phil made a place for me
beside him, saying:
"It is something new for you to be late. Aren't you well?"
"Dissipation doesn't agree with you, I fear," said Mrs. Churchill. "You
look quite pale this morning."
"Mamma!" exclaimed Josephine, in a tone mock-confidential, just loud
enough for every one to hear. "That is unkind! Surely, you remember what
happens to-day!"
"Come, come, that's not fair," said Phil. "I thought you were more
considerate, Joe. Let your cousin have her breakfast in peace."
"Don't let me keep everybody waiting," I said, faintly.
"Well, if you'll excuse us," exclaimed Josephine, starting up. "We have
all finished." Then with a wicked look, "Mr. Viennet, you've been
through your breakfast some time. Don't you want to take a farewell
promenade on the piazza?"
Mr. Viennet bowed, and expressed his pleasure in rather a low voice.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, you're not going to forsake me, are you?" I asked, as
the others rose.
"Of course not," said Phil. "I am always your very good friend when
you'll allow me to be."
Josephine little knew how much I thanked her for her manoeuvre; though
done from motives the least amiable, it was the kindest thing she could
have thought of.
"Don't take that strong coffee," said Phil, noticing how my hand
trembled, and substituting for it a cup of tea; then putting everything
within my reach, he sent the servant away, and began reading the paper
himself.
If Phil Arbuthnot should ever prove himself my worst enemy, I never
could forget the considerateness of that morning. He was tender-hearted
and kind as a woman, and great, strong man as he was, there was a
delicacy of feeling and gentleness about him, that suffered with
everything weak and suffering, and strove, at all costs, to give aid and
comfort. And aid and comfort, prompted by such a heart, could not fail
to soothe. In his eyes, women were sacred; their influence over him
unbounded. If he only had been thrown with those who could have elevated
and purified, instead of narrowing and lowering his nature, how noble
and large-hearted a man he might have been. He had sacrificed his
profession, his prospects in life, and all that elevates and nerves a
man, to his love for Josephine. How far she accepted it, how she meant
to requite it, there is no need to say. I think she liked him; I think
that she felt for him a tenderness that no one else could ever awaken in
her heart. He had been her lover ever since they were girl and boy
together, and in those young days, perhaps, she had fancied that the
happiest thing in the world, would be to marry Phil. But such sweet
romance had been scorched and shrivelled by the first breath of the
world. Josephine had renounced such folly early; she was wise and
prudent beyond her years, and she had been trained in a good school.
Some wondered that Mrs. Churchill could trust her daughter so constantly
with a man of as pleasing an address as Phil; cousins were so apt to
fancy each other. "I have perfect confidence in Josephine," said Mrs.
Churchill, proudly. It was not misplaced; Josephine Churchill might have
been trusted with Cupid in person, if he had not been a desirable
_parti_.
"What time is it?" I asked of Phil, in a low tone, after I had
exhausted every device for prolonging my breakfast.
"Five minutes to ten," he answered, looking at his watch. "Shall we take
a turn on the piazza, if you have finished?"
I followed him to the piazza. "It is too sunny for you," he said, as I
screened my aching eyes from the light. "The parlor is pleasanter."
Ella was at the piano, playing some light air (very light, indeed, for
the piano was not her forte), and chatting with Capt. McGuffy, who hung
over her. Mrs. Churchill, Josephine, Grace, Ellerton, Victor and Mr.
Rutledge were at the other end of the room.
"We shall miss you so much, Mr. Viennet," Josephine was saying, in a
very charming tone. "Your place cannot be filled. Mr. Rutledge, cannot
you manage to have him arrive at the station a few minutes too late?"
"Why didn't you suggest it a little sooner, Miss Josephine?" said Mr.
Rutledge, with a smile, as he looked at his watch. "I think I hear the
horses at the door now. Thomas will attend to your baggage--don't
trouble yourself, Mr. Viennet."
"It is all ready, sir; I have nothing to do but make my adieux, and such
painful work had better be short. Mrs. Churchill, I have many pleasures
to remember during my residence in America, but none so great as those
for which I am indebted to you. Will you accept my sincere thanks?"
I had not dared before to look at him, but I stole a glance at his face
now. It was deadly pale, and showed but too plainly the pain and
disappointment that he was trying to conceal.
The whole party now gathered round him; his parting with Josephine was
very courteous, on her part very gracious; with Grace the same; a little
less warm with Miss Wynkar, perhaps; but no one cared to revive old
quarrels now. When he approached me, I gave him my hand, but my eyes
were fastened on the ground. He held it for one instant, then dropping
it, turned hastily away.
"Mr. Rutledge," he said, in a voice that trembled audibly, despite his
manly efforts to control it, "I have to thank you for your hospitality.
I shall not soon forget my visit here."
Mr. Rutledge's manner had less coldness than usual in it, as he bade his
young guest good bye; there was no lack of warmth in the adieux of the
other gentlemen.
And I, cruel and cowardly, stood rooted to the floor; I was afraid to
acknowledge what I had not been afraid to promise; I was letting him go
without a word of kindness, when I might never see him again; when I
was, in the sight of heaven, affianced to him, when nothing could
absolve me from my vow, shrink and falter as I might. He had reached the
hall, and stood for an instant in the doorway as I raised my eyes. They
met his; I sprang forward from the circle where I stood.
"Victor, I am not afraid they should know it now," I whispered, putting
my hand in his.
I only knew the misery I had caused him, when I saw the change that came
into his face, the light that hope lit in his eyes. He had but short
grace to tell his love--a few brief minutes before we parted, perhaps
for many years, yet nothing could have made me more certain of the depth
and ardor of it, than those few moments did.
We walked once down the hall, then slowly back again,
"You must go now," I whispered, as we reached the door. "Good bye!"
For a moment he stood as if it were an effort rending soul and body to
leave me; he held my hands tightly in his own, then, bending forward,
pressed a kiss on my forehead, and was gone.
It was the seal of our engagement, that first kiss; I stood in the sight
of what was all the world to me, tacitly acknowledging what I had done.
I was parting from the lover to whom they all fancied I was devoted, but
it was shame, and not love, that brought the blood into my cheeks to
meet his first caress. I did not move or raise my eyes till the sound of
carriage-wheels died away down the avenue. Then the treacherous color
receded slowly from my face, and left it white as marble. Conquering as
best I might the giddy faintness that came over me, I walked steadily
into the parlor, where the whispering and amazed group of ladies still
stood. Not heeding Josephine's, "Well, my dear, we weren't quite
prepared for this! We didn't know how far things had gone," I went up to
Mrs. Churchill and said:
"I should have told you of this before, Aunt Edith. I have accepted Mr.
Viennet."
"I should have been gratified by your confidence if you had chosen to
bestow it. However, you have my congratulations," and she gave me her
hand, and touched her lips lightly to my forehead.
"I suppose we must all congratulate you," said Grace, with a laugh.
"But, really, it took _me_ so entirely by surprise, that I shan't be
able to collect my wits for an appropriate speech under two hours."
"I will excuse you from it altogether," I said, turning away to the
door. I stopped involuntarily as I passed Josephine.
"If it is a matter of congratulation at all, I hope I have yours,
Josephine," I said, holding out my hand.
"Of course," she returned, awkwardly, accepting my hand. "Of course you
have."
I looked at her for a moment; it was so strange that I should be so
miserable and she so blessed. We, "two daughters of one race"--the same
blood flowing in our veins--the same woman's heart beating in our
bosoms--why was it that I was forbidden every good, tempted of the
devil, driven into evil, and she, unfeeling and light-hearted, smiled
down at me from her secure height of happiness, wore carelessly the love
that I would have died to win, played thoughtlessly with it in my
jealous sight, and made a jest of what was life and death to me.
She did not understand my strange and wistful look, and, with a
smothered sigh, I withdrew my gaze, and turned away. Perhaps her mother
could have interpreted it better; perhaps, if she had chosen, she could
have told her daughter I was not the happy fiancée I seemed; and
perhaps, if she had chosen, she could have told her to whom I owed the
greater part of what I suffered.
I mounted the stairs with a slow and heavy step; Mr. Rutledge passed me
coming down. He did not raise his eyes nor look at me, but in the glance
I had of his face it seemed to me darker and moodier than ever, and his
step heavier and more decided. He went toward the stables, and in a few
minutes I heard his horse's hoofs clattering down the avenue.
If my head had ached twice as madly as it did, I should not have dared
to stay away from dinner. As I entered the dining-room, it was with
rather a doubtful feeling of relief that I found only ladies there. The
presence of the gentlemen always proved something of a restraint upon
the vivacious tongue of Grace, and Josephine was never in a good humor
when there was no one upon whom to exercise her charms. Indeed, the
whole table presented a significant contrast to its usual animation.
Toilettes had been deferred till evening, I found. Josephine and Ella
took no pains to conceal their ennui, and Grace revelled in
impertinence. The gentlemen--_i.e._ Phil, Captain McGuffy, and
Ellerton--were shooting woodcock, and Mr. Rutledge had gone off on
business, and it was possible, he had left word, that he might not
return till late.
"Let's have a glorious nap," said Josephine, as we left the table. "It
will be time enough to dress just before tea-time. They will none of
them be back sooner than eight o'clock."
Ella had been asleep all the morning, but she never objected to a nap;
indeed, I believe sleeping was, next to the pleasure of dressing
herself, the principal _divertissement_ of her life. Josephine and Ella
went to their rooms, Mrs. Churchill followed them upstairs, Grace ran
off to find "old Roberts" and get the key of the locked-up bookcases in
the library, and I was left to myself.
It was a hot and sultry afternoon; not a breath moved the motionless
leaves in the park, not a ripple stirred the lake; the insects hummed
drowsily in the hot, hazy air, the declining sun abated neither heat nor
power as he neared the horizon, but glared steadily upon the still
parched earth. Too languid and miserable to find a cooler place, I sat
on the piazza hour after hour, and watched listlessly the
slowly-declining sun, the inanimate and sultry landscape.
Even nightfall brought no relief. The sun withdrew his light, it is
true; but the sultriness that his reign had bred continued to brood over
the earth; no dew refreshed it, no moisture wet the thirsty flowers. The
stars, faint and dim, hardly shed a ray of light through the thick air.
It was a night that, superstition and presentiment whispered, would
prompt dark deeds. Under cover of its weird-like gloom, treachery and
murder would steal abroad, and black sins would stain the souls of some
of the sons of men before the light of day renewed the face of the
earth.
None of us could help feeling the influence of it; dispirited and
languid, the whole party dragged through the evening with an unwonted
lack of vivacity. Music and dancing failed; the gentlemen pleaded
fatigue, and the ladies were very ready to accept the excuse, and at an
early hour we separated to our rooms. But I dreaded mine; I dreaded the
sleepless hours that I must count before the dawning.
Once that night I slept, but it was a short sleep, and worse than
waking. The nightmare of my fate was less horrible than the nightmare of
my fancy, and, shuddering with terror, I paced the floor to drive away
the chance of its recurrence; I pressed my clenched fingers tightly on
my breast to drive away the chill of that Phantom Hand, that had frozen
my very soul.
Why had that long-forgotten terror come back to haunt me now?