GUARDED.
Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely,
I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only
Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received.
_Felix Arvers_.
Duty to God is duty to her; I think
God, who created her, will save her too
Some new way, by one miracle the more
Without me. Then, prayer may avail, perhaps.
_R. Browning_.
"Mr. Langenau is coming down to-day," said Charlotte Benson in a
stage-whisper, as we took our places at the table, a week after this. "I
met him in the hall about an hour ago, looking like a ghost, and he told
me he was coming down to dinner."
"_Vraiment_," said Sophie, looking a little disconcerted. "Well, he
shall have Charley's place. Charley isn't coming."
"I hope he's in a better temper than that last day we saw him," said
Henrietta.
"Poor fellow!" said Charlotte, "that was the day before the fever began.
It was coming on: that was the reason of it all, no doubt. He looks
ghastly enough now. You'll forgive all, the moment that you see him."
Charlotte had forgiven him herself, though she had never resumed the
role of Florence Nightingale. Since he had given up the library and
removed to his own room, he had been quite lost to all, and nobody
seemed to have gone near him, not even Sophie, who would have been glad
to forget that he existed, without doubt.
Richard's eyes were on me as Charlotte said "Hush!" and a step crossed
the hall in the pause that ensued. Kilian, sitting next me, began to
talk to me at that moment, the moment that Mr. Langenau entered the
room. And I think I answered quite coherently: though two sets of words
were going through my brain, the answer to his commonplace question, and
the words that Mr. Langenau had said that night, "Pauline, I shall never
look into your eyes again, I shall never touch your hand."
It seemed to me an even chance which sentence saw the day; but as the
walls did not fall down about me and no face looked amazement, I found I
must have answered Kilian's question with propriety.
There were many voices speaking at once; but there was such a ringing in
my ears, I could not distinguish who spoke, or what was said: for a
moment I was lost, if any one had taken advantage of it. But gradually
I regained my senses: one after another they each took up their guard
again: and I looked up. And met his eyes? No; but let mine rest upon his
face. And then I found I had not measured my temptation, and that there
was something to do besides defending myself from others' eyes. For
there was to defend myself from my own heart. The passion of pity and
tenderness that rushed over me as my eyes fell on his haggard face, so
strong and yet so wan, swept away for the moment the defences against
the public gaze. I could have fallen down at his feet before them all
and told him that I loved him.
A few moments more of the sound of commonplace words, and the repulsion
of every-day faces and expressions, swept me back into the circle of
conventionalities, and brought me under the force of that current that
keeps us from high tragedy.
All during the meal Mr. Langenau was grave and silent, speaking little
and then with effort. He had overrated his strength, perhaps, for he
went away before the end of the dinner, asking to be excused, in a tone
almost inaudible. After he had gone, a good many commentaries were
offered. Kilian seemed to express the sense of the assembly when he
said: "The man looks shockingly, and he's not out of the woods yet."
Sophie looked troubled: she had some compunctions for the neglect of the
last few days, perhaps.
"What does the Doctor say?" pursued her brother.
"Nothing, I suppose--for he hasn't been here for a week, almost."
"Well, then, you'd better send for him, if you don't want the fellow to
die on your hands. He's not fit to be out of bed, and you'll have
trouble if you don't look out."
"As if I hadn't had trouble," returned his sister, almost peevishly.
"Well, I beg your pardon, Sophie. But I fancied you and Miss Charlotte
were in charge; and I thought about ten days ago, your patient was in a
fair way to be killed with kindness, and it's a little of a surprise to
me to find he's being let alone so very systematically."
"Why, to tell you the truth," cried Charlotte Benson, "we were turned
out of office without much ceremony, one fine day after dinner. I am
quite willing to be forgiving; but I don't think you can ask me to put
myself in the way of being snubbed again to that extent."
"The ungrateful varlet! what did he complain of? Hadn't he been coddled
enough to please him? Did he want four or five more women dancing
attendance on him?"
"Oh, it was not want of attention he complained of. In fact," said
Charlotte, coloring, "It was that he didn't like quite so much, and
wanted to be allowed more liberty."
Kilian indulged in a good laugh, which wasn't quite fair, considering
Charlotte's candor.
"But the truth is," said Charlotte, uneasily, "that he was too ill, that
day, to be responsible for what he said. He was just coming down with
the fever, and, you know, people are always most unreasonable then."
"I'm very glad I never gave him a chance to dispense with me," said Mary
Leighton, with a view to making herself amiable in Kilian's eyes.
"I think he dispensed with you early in the season," said Charlotte,
sharply. "Oh, hast thou forgotten that walk that he took, upon your
invitation? Ah, Miss Leighton, his look was quite dramatic. I know you
never have forgiven him."
"I haven't the least idea what you are talking of," returned Mary
Leighton, with bewildered and child-like simplicity.
"Ah, then it was not as unique an occurrence as I hoped," said
Charlotte, viciously. "I imagined it would make more of an impression."
"Charlotte," interrupted Sophie, shocked at this open impoliteness, "I
hope you are forgiving enough to break it to him that he's got to see
the Doctor; for if he comes unexpectedly and goes up to his room, he
will be dramatic, and that is so unpleasant, as we know to our sorrow."
"Indeed, I shan't tell him," cried Charlotte, "you can take your life in
your hand, and try it if you please; but I cannot consent to risk
myself. There's Mary Leighton, she bears no malice. Perhaps she'll go
with you as support."
"Ha, ha!" cried Kilian. "Richard, you and I may be called on to bring up
the rear. There's the General's old sword in the hall, and I'll take the
Joe Manton from the shelf in the library."
"Richard looks as if he disapproved of us all very much," said Sophie,
and in truth Richard did look just so. He did not even answer these
suggestions, but began after a moment to talk to Henrietta on
indifferent matters.
It was on this afternoon that a new policy was inaugurated at R----. We
were taught to feel that we had been quite aggrieved by the dullness of
the past two weeks or more, and that we must be compensated by some
refreshing novelties.
Richard was at the head of the movement--Richard with his sober cares
and weary look. But the incongruity struck no one; they were too glad to
be amused. Even Sophie brightened up. Charlotte was ready to throw her
energies into any active scheme, hospital or picnic, charity-school or
kettle-drum.
"To-morrow will be just the sort of day for it," said Richard, "cool and
fine. And half the pleasure of a picnic is not having time to get tired
of it beforehand."
"That's very true," said Charlotte; "but I don't see how we're going to
get everybody notified and everything in order for nine o'clock
to-morrow morning."
"Nothing easier," said Kilian; "we'll go, directly after tea, to the De
Witts and Prentices, and send Thomas with a note to the Lowders. Sophie
has done her part in shorter time than that, very often; and I don't
believe we should be starved, if she only gave half an hour's notice to
the cook."
What is heavier than pleasure-seeking in which one has no pleasure? I
shall never forget the misery of those plans and that bustle. I dared
not absent myself, and I could scarcely carry out my part for very
heavy-heartedness. It seemed to me that I could not bear it, if the hour
came, and I should have to drive away with all that merry party, and
leave poor Mr. Langenau for a long, long day alone.
I felt sure something would occur to release me: it could not be that I
should have to go. With the exaggeration of youth, it seemed to me an
impossibility that I could endure anything so grievous. How I hated all
the careless, thoughtless, happy household! Only Richard, enemy as he
was to my happiness, seemed endurable to me. For Richard was not
merry-making in his heart, and I was sure he was sorry for me all the
time he was trying to oppose me.
Mr. Langenau was again in the Doctor's care, who came that evening, and
who said to Richard, in my hearing, he must be kept quiet; he didn't
altogether like his symptoms.
Richard had his hands full, with great matters and small. Sophie had
washed hers of the invalid; there had been some sharpish words between
the sister and brother on the matter, I imagine, and the result was,
Richard was the only one who did or would do anything for his comfort
and safety.
That day, after appearing at dinner, he came no more. I watched with
feverish anxiety every step, every sound; but he came not. I knew that
the Doctor's admonitions would not have much weight, nor yet Richard's
opinion. I had the feeling that if he would only speak to me, only look
at me once, it would ease that horrible oppression and pain which I was
suffering. The agony I was enduring was so intolerable, and its real
relief so impossible, like a child I caught at some fancied palliation,
and craved only that. What would one look, one word be--out of a
lifetime of silence and separation.
No matter: it was what I raged and died for, just one look, just one
word more. He had said he would never look into my eyes again: that
haunted me and made me superstitious. I would _make_ him look at me. I
would seize his hand and kneel before him, and tell him I should die if
he did not speak to me once more. Once more! Just once, out of years,
out of forever. I had thrown duty, conscience, thought to the winds. I
had but one fear--that we should be finally separated without that word
spoken, that look exchanged. I said to myself again and again, I shall
die, if I cannot speak to him again. Beyond that I did not look. What
better I should be after that speaking I did not care. I only longed and
looked for that as a relief from the insufferable agony of my fate. One
cannot take in infinite wretchedness: it is our nature to make dates and
periods to our sorrows in our imagination.
And so that horrid afternoon and evening passed, amid the racket and
babel of visitors and visiting. I followed almost blindly, and did as
the others did. The next morning dawned bright and cold. What a day for
summer! The sun was brilliant, but the wind came from over icebergs; it
seemed like "winter painted green."
We were to start at nine o'clock. I was ready early, waiting on the
piazza for the aid to fate that was to keep me from the punishment of
going. No human being had spoken his name that morning. How should I
know whether he were still so ill or no.
The hour for starting had arrived. Richard, who never kept long out of
sight of me, was busy loading the wagon that was to accompany us, with
baskets of things to eat, and with wines and fruits. Kilian was
engrossed in arranging the seats and cushions in the two carriages which
had just driven to the door.
Mary Leighton was fluttering about the flower-bed at the left of the
piazza, making herself lovely with geranium and roses. Sophie, in a
beautiful costume, was pacifying Charley, who had had a difference with
his uncle Kilian. Charlotte and Henrietta were busy in their small way
over a little basket of preserves; and two or three of the neighboring
gentlemen, who were to drive with us, were approaching the house by a
side-entrance.
In a moment or two we should be ready to be off. What should I do? I was
frantic with the thought that he might be worse, he might go away. I
was to be absent such a length of time. I must--I would see him before
we went. What better moment than the present, when everybody was engaged
in this fretting, foolish picnic. I would run up-stairs--call to him
outside his door--make him speak to me.
With a guilty look around, I started up, stole through the group on the
piazza, and ran to the stairs. But alas, Richard had not failed to mark
my movements, and before my foot had touched the stair his voice
recalled me. I started with a guilty look, and trembled, but dared not
meet his eye.
"Pauline, are you going away? We are just ready start."
If I had had any presence of mind I should have made an excuse, and gone
to my own room for a moment, and taken my chance of getting to the floor
above; but I suppose he would have forestalled me. I could not command a
single word, but turned back and followed him. As we got into the
carriage, the voices and the laughing really seemed to madden me.
Driving away from the house, I never shall forget the sensation of
growing heaviness at my heart; it seemed to be turning into lead. I
glanced back at the closed windows of his room and wondered if he saw
us, and if he thought that I was happy.
The length of that day! The glare of that sun! The chill of that
unnatural wind! Every moment seemed to me an hour. I can remember with
such distinctness the whole day, each thing as it happened;
conversations which seemed so senseless, preparations which seemed so
endless. The taste of the things I tried to eat: the smell of the grass
on which we sat, and the pine-trees above our heads: the sound of fire
blazing under the teakettle, and the pained sensation of my eyes when
the smoke blew across into our faces: the hateful vibration of Mary
Leighton's laugh: all these things are unnaturally vivid to me at
this day.
I don't know what the condition of my brain must have been, to have
received such an exaggerated impression of unimportant things.
"What can I do for you, Miss Pauline?" said Kilian, throwing himself
down on the grass at my feet. I could not sit down for very impatience,
but was walking restlessly about, and was now standing for a moment by a
great tree under which the table had been spread. It was four o'clock,
and there was only vague talk of going home; the horses had not yet been
brought up, the baskets were not a quarter packed. Every one was
indolent, and a good deal tired; the gentlemen were smoking, and no one
seemed in a hurry.
When Kilian said, "What can I do for you. Miss Pauline?" I could not
help saying, "Take me home."
"Home!" cried Kilian. "Here is somebody talking about going home. Why,
Miss Pauline, I am just beginning to enjoy myself! only look, it is but
four o'clock."
"Oh, let us stay and go home by moonlight," cried Mary Leighton, in a
little rapture.
"Would it not be heavenly!" said Henrietta.
"How about tea?" said Charlotte. "We shall be hungry before moonlight,
and there isn't anything left to eat."
"How material!" cried Kilian, who had eaten an enormous dinner.
"We shall all get cold," said Sophie, who loved to be comfortable, "and
the children are beginning to be very cross."
"Small blame to them," muttered a dissatisfied man in my ear, who had
singled me out as a companion in discontent, and had pursued me with his
contempt for pastoral entertainments, and for this entertainment
in especial.
"Well, let the people that want to stay, stay; but let us go home," I
said, hastily.
"That is so like you, Pauline," exclaimed Mary Leighton, in a voice that
stung me like nettles.
"It is very like common-sense," I said, "if that's like me."
"Well, it isn't particularly."
"Let dogs delight," said Kilian, "I have a compromise to offer. If we go
home by the bridge we pass the little Brink hotel, where they give
capital teas. We can stop there, rest, get tea, have a dance in the
'ball-room,' sixteen by twenty, and go home by moonlight, filling the
souls of Miss Leighton and Henrietta with bliss."
A chorus of ecstasy followed this; Sophie herself was satisfied with the
plan, and exulted in the prospect of washing her face, and lying down on
a bed for half an hour, though only at a little country inn. Even this
low form of civilized life was tempting, after seven hours spent in
communion with nature on hard rocks.
Great alacrity was shown in getting ready and in getting off. I could
not speak to any one, not even the dissatisfied man, but walked away by
myself and tried to let no one see what I was feeling. After all was
ready, I got into the carriage beside one of the Miss Lowders, and the
dissatisfied man sat opposite. He wore canvas shoes and a corduroy suit,
and sleeve-buttons and studs that were all bugs and bees. I think I
could make a drawing of the sleeve-button on the arm with which he held
the umbrella over us; there were five different forms of insect-life
represented on it, but I remember them all.
"I'm afraid you haven't enjoyed yourself very much," said Miss Lowder,
looking at me rather critically.
"I? why--no, perhaps not; I don't generally enjoy myself very much."
Somebody out on the front seat laughed very shrilly at this: of course
it was Mary Leighton, who was sitting beside Kilian, who drove. I felt I
would have liked to push her over among the horses, and drive on.
"Isn't her voice like a steel file?" I said with great simplicity to my
companions. The dissatisfied man, writhing uncomfortably on his seat,
four inches too narrow for any one but a child of six, assented
gloomily. Miss Lowder, who was twenty-eight years old and very well
bred, looked disapproving, and changed the subject. Not much more was
said after this. Miss Lowder had a neuralgic headache, developed by the
cold wind and an undigested dinner eaten irregularly. She was too polite
to mention her sufferings, but leaned back in the carriage and
was silent.
My vis-à-vis was at last relieved by the declining sun from his task,
and so the umbrella-arm and its sleeve-button were removed from my range
of vision.
We counted the mile-posts, and we looked sometimes at our watches, and
so the time wore away.
Kilian and Mary Leighton were chattering incessantly, and did not pay
much attention to us. Kilian drove pretty fast almost all the way, but
sometimes forgot himself when Mary was too seductive, and let the horses
creep along like snails.
"There's our little tavern," cried Kilian at last, starting up the
horses.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," murmured Mary Leighton, "we have had such a lovely
drive."
My vis-à-vis groaned and looked at me as this observation reached us. I
laughed a little hysterically: I was so glad to be at the half-way
house--and Mary Leighton's words were so absurd. When we got out of the
carriage, the dissatisfied man stretched his long English limbs out, and
lighting his cigar, began silently to pace the bricks in front of
the house.
Kilian took us into the little parlor (we were the first to arrive), and
committed us to the care of a thin, tired-looking woman, and then went
to see to the comfort of his horses.
The tired woman, who looked as if she never had sat down since she grew
up, took us to some rooms, where we were to rest till tea was ready. The
rooms had been shut up all day, and the sun had been beating on them:
they smelled of paint and dust and ill-brushed carpets. The water in the
pitchers was warm and not very clear: the towels were very small and
thin, the beds were hard, and the pillows very small, like the towels:
they felt soft and warm and limp, like sick kittens. We threw open the
windows and aired the rooms, and washed our faces and hands: and Miss
Lowder lay down on the bed and put her head on a pile of four of the
little pillows collected from the different rooms. Mary Leighton spent
the time in re-arranging her hair, and I walked up and down the hall,
too impatient to rest myself in any way.
By-and-by the others came, and then there was a hubbub and a clatter,
and poor Miss Lowder's head was overlooked in the mêlée; for these were
all the rooms the house afforded for the entertainment of wayfarers, and
as there were nine ladies in our party, it is not difficult to imagine
the confusion that ensued.
Benny and Charley also came to have their hair arranged, and it devolved
on Charlotte and me to do it, as their mamma had thrown herself
exhausted on one of the beds, and with the bolsters doubled up under her
head, was trying to get some rest.
It was fully half-past seven before the tea-bell rang. I seized Benny's
hand, and we were the first on the ground. I don't know how I thought
this would be useful in hurrying matters, for Benny's tea and mine were
very soon taken, and were very insignificant fractions of the
general business.
There were kerosene lamps on the table, and everything was served in the
plainest manner, but the cooking was really good, and it was evident
that the tired woman had been on her feet all her life to some purpose.
Almost every one was hungry, and the contrast to the cold meats, and the
hard rocks, and the disjointed apparatus of the noonday meal, was very
favorable.
Richard had put me between himself and Benny, and he watched my
undiminished supper with disapprobation: but I do not believe he ate
much more himself. He put everything that he thought I might like,
before me, silently: and I think the tired woman (who was waitress as
well as cook), must have groaned over the frequent changing of my plate.
"Do not take any more of that," he said, as I put out my hand for
another cup of coffee.
"Well, what shall I take?" I exclaimed peevishly. But indeed I did not
mean to be peevish, nor did I know quite what I said, I was so
miserable. Richard sighed as he turned away and answered some question
of Sophie; who was quite revived.
Charlotte and Henrietta each had an admirer, one of the Lowders, and a
young Frenchman who had come with the Lowders.
It had evidently been a very happy day with all the young ladies from
the house. After tea the gentlemen must smoke, and after the smoking
there was to be dancing. The preparations for the dancing created a good
deal of amusement and consumed a great deal of time. Kilian and young
Lowder went a mile and a half to get a man to play for them. When he
came, he had to be instructed as to the style of music to be furnished,
and the rasping and scraping of that miserable instrument put me beside
myself with nervousness. Then the "ball-room" had to be aired and
lighted; then the negro's music was found to be incompatible with modern
movements; even a waltz was proved impossible, and nobody would consent
to remember a quadrille but Richard. So they had to fall back upon
Virginia reels, and everybody was made to dance.
The dissatisfied man was at my side when the order was given. He turned
to me languidly, and offered me his hand.
"No," I exclaimed, biting my lips with impatience, and added, "You will
excuse me, won't you?"
He said, with grave philosophy, "I really think it will seem shorter
than if we were looking on."
I accepted this wise counsel, and went to dance with him. And what a
dance it was! The blinking kerosene lamps at the sides of the room, the
asparagus boughs overhead, the grinning negro on the little platform by
the door: the amused faces looking in at the open windows: the romping,
well-dressed, pretty women: the handsome men who were trying to act like
clowns: the noise of laughing and the calling out of the figures: all
this, I am sure, I never shall forget. And, strange to say, I somewhat
enjoyed it after all. The coffee had stimulated me: the music was merry:
I was reckless, and my companions were full of glee. Even the _ennuyé_
skipped up and down the room like a school-boy: I never shall forget
Richard's happy and relieved expression, when I laughed aloud at
somebody's amusing blunder.
Then came the reaction, when the dancing was over, and we were getting
ready to go home. It was a good deal after ten o'clock, and the night
was cold. There were not quite shawls enough, no preparations having
been made for staying out after dark. Richard went up to Sophie (I was
standing out by the steps to be ready the moment the carriages should
come), and I heard him negotiating with her for a shawl for me. She was
quite impatient and peremptory, though _sotto voce_. The children needed
both her extra ones, and there was an end of it.
I did not care at all, and feeling warm with dancing, did not dread what
I had not yet felt. I pulled my light cloak around me, and only longed
for the carriage to arrive. But after we had started and were about
forty rods from the door, quite out of the light of the little tavern,
just within a grove of locust-trees (the moon was under clouds),
Richard's voice called out to Kilian to stop, and coming up to the side
of the carriage, said, "Put this around you, Pauline, you haven't got
enough." He put something around my shoulders which felt very warm and
comfortable: I believe I said, Thank you, though I am not at all sure,
and Kilian drove on rapidly.
By-and-by, when I began to feel a little chilly, I drew it together
round my throat: the air was like November, and, August though it was,
there was a white frost that night. I was frightened when I found what I
had about my shoulders. It was Richard's coat. I called to Kilian to
stop a moment, I wanted to speak to Richard. But when we stopped, the
carriage in which he was to drive was just behind us--and some one in it
said, Richard had walked. He had not come back after he ran out to speak
to us--must have struck across the fields and gone ahead. And Richard
walked home, five miles, that night! the only way to save himself from
the deadly chill of the keen air, without his coat.
When we drove into the gate, at home, I stooped eagerly forward to get a
sight of the house through the trees. There was a light burning in the
room over mine: that was all I wanted to know, and with a sigh of relief
I sank back.
When we went into the hall, I remembered to hang Richard's coat upon a
rack there, and then ran to my room. I could not get any news of Mr.
Langenau, and could not hear how the day had gone with him: could only
take the hope that the sight of the little lamp conveyed.