A GREAT DEAL TOO SOON.
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governed with a goodly modesty,
That suffers not a look to glance away,
Which may let in a little thought unsound.
_Spenser_.
Vouloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule science
Qui nous met en repos.
_Malherbe_.
Richard had obtained for me (with difficulty), from the lawyer of the
new uncle who had arisen, the privilege of remaining in the house for
another month, undisturbed in any way. At the end of those four weeks I
was to be married to him, one day, quietly in church, and to go away. It
was very hard to have to see Sophie, and be treated with ignominy, for
doing what I did not want to do; it was very hard to make preparations
to leave the only place I wanted to stay in now; it was very hard to be
tranquil and even, while my heart was like lead. But I had begun to
discover that that was the general order of things here below, and it
did not amaze me as it had done at first. I was doing my duty, to the
best of my discernment, and was not to be deterred by all the lead in
the world.
It was very well for Richard to say, he did it for sacrifice and for
duty. I have no doubt at first he did it greatly for those two things:
but he grew happier every day, I could see. He was very considerate of
my sadness, and always acted on the basis on which our engagement was
begun, never keeping my hand in his, or kissing me, or asking any of the
trifling favors of a lover.
He was grave and silent: but I could see the change in his face; I could
see that he was more exacting of every moment that I spent away from
him; he kept near me, and followed me with his eyes, and seemed never to
be satisfied with his possession of me.
He bought me the most beautiful jewels, (he had made great strides
toward fortune in the last six months, and was a rich man now in
earnest,) and though he never clasped them on my throat or wrist, nor
even fitted a ring on my finger, I could feel his eyes upon me,
hungering for a smile, a word of gratitude.
And who would not have been grateful? But it was "too soon, a great deal
too soon," as he had said himself. I was very grateful, but I would
have been glad to die.
I have wondered whether he saw it or not, I rather think not. I was very
submissive and gentle, and tried to be bright, and I think he was so
absorbed in the satisfaction of my promise, so intent upon his plans for
making me happy, and for making me love him, that he made himself
believe there was no heart of lead below the tranquillity he saw.
It was the third week since my uncle's death. The next week was to come
the marriage, on Wednesday, the 19th of May.
"Marriages in May are not happy," said Ann Coddle.
"I did not need you to tell me that," I thought.
It was on Thursday, the 13th; Richard had come up a little earlier, in
the evening. It grew to be a little earlier every evening.
"By-and-by he will not go down-town at all, at this rate," I said to
myself, when I heard his ring that night.
I was sitting by the parlor-lamp, with the evening paper in my lap, of
which I had not read a word. He came and sat down by the table, and we
talked a little while. I tried to find things to talk about, and
wondered if it always would be so. I felt as if some day I should give
out entirely, and have to go through bankruptcy. (And take a
fresh start.)
He never seemed to feel the want of talking; I suppose he was quite
satisfied with his thoughts, and with having me beside him.
By-and-by, he said he should have to go up to the library, and look over
the last of some books of my uncle's, and finish an inventory that he
had begun. Could I not bring my work and sit there by him? I felt a
little selfish, for we were already on the last week, and I said I
thought I would sit in the parlor. I had to write a letter to Sister
Madeline. I had not heard a word from her yet, though I had
written twice.
Why could not I write in the library?
I always liked to be alone when I wrote letters: I could not think, when
any one was in the room. Besides, trying to smile, he would be sure
to talk.
He looked disappointed, and lingered a good while before he went away.
As he rose to go away he threw into my lap a little package, saying,
"There is some white lace for you. Can't you use it on some of your
clothes? I don't know anything about such things: maybe it isn't pretty
enough, but I thought perhaps it would do for that lilac silk you
talked of."
I opened the package: it was exquisite, fit for a princess; and as I
bent over it, I thought, how dead I must be, that it gave me no pleasure
to know it was my own, for I had loved such baubles so, a year ago.
"What a mass of it!" I exclaimed, unfolding yard on yard.
"You must always wear lace," he said, throwing one end of it over my
black dress around the shoulder. "I like you in it. I am tired of those
stiff little linen collars."
The lace had given me a little compunction about not spending the
evening with him: but as I had said so, I could not draw back; so I
compromised the matter by going up to the library with him, to see that
he was comfortable, before I came down to write my letter.
I brought the little student-lamp from my own room and lit it, and put
it on the library-table, and brought him some fresh pens, and opened the
inkstand for him, even pushed up the chair and put a little footstool by
it. Though he was standing by the bookshelves, and seemed to be
engrossed by them, I knew that he was watching me, filled with content
and satisfaction.
"Do you remember where that box of cigars was put?" he said, turning to
me as I paused. That was to keep me longer; for they were on the shelf,
half a yard from where he stood.
I got the cigar-box and put it on the table.
"Now you will want some matches, and this stand is almost empty." So I
took it away with me to my room, and came back with it filled.
"Is there anything else that I can do?" I said, pausing as I put it on
the table.
"No, Pauline. I believe not. Thank you."
I think that moment Richard was nearer to happiness than he had ever
been before. Poor fellow!
I went down-stairs, feeling quite easy in mind, and sat down to my
letter. That threw me back into the past, for to Sister Madeline I
poured out my heart. An hour went by, and I had forgotten Richard and
the library. I was recalled to the present by hearing some books fall on
the floor (the library was over the parlor); and by hearing Richard's
step heavily crossing the room. I started up, pushed my letter into my
portfolio, and wiped away my tears, quite frightened that Richard should
see me crying. To my surprise, he came hurriedly down the stairs, passed
the parlor-door, opened the hall-door, and shutting it heavily after
him, was gone, without a word to me. This startled me for a moment, it
was so unusual. But my heart was not enough engaged to be wounded by the
slight, and I very soon returned to my letter and my other thoughts.
When I went up to bed, I stopped in the library, and found the lamp
still burning, the pens unused, a cigar, which had been lighted, but
unsmoked, lying on the table. A book was lying on the floor at the foot
of the bookshelf, where I had left Richard standing. I picked it up.
"This was the last book that Uncle Leonard ever read," I said to myself,
turning its pages over. I remembered that he had it in his hand the last
night of his life, when I bade him goodnight. I was not in the room the
next day, till he was brought home in a dying state.
Ann had put the books in order, and arranged them, after he went
down-town in the morning.
I wondered whether Richard knew that that was the last book he had been
reading, and I put it by, to tell him of it in the morning when he came.
But in the morning Richard did not come. Unusual again; and I was for an
hour or two surprised. He always found some excuse for coming on his way
down-town: and it was very odd that he should not want to explain his
sudden going away last night. But, as before, my lack of love made the
wound very slight, and in a little time I had forgotten all about it,
and was only thinking that this was Friday--and that Wednesday was
coming very near.