"No, Sir! no! My child shall never go to beg a shelter in that hard
man's house. I know too well the cold looks, the cruel words, that would
sting her high spirit and try her heart, as they did her mother's. No,
Sir,--rather than that, she shall go with Lady Gower."
"Lady Gower? What has she to do with Effie, Jean?" I asked, with
increasing interest.
"She will take Effie as her maid, Sir. A hard life for my child! but
what can I do?" And Jean's keen glance seemed trying to read mine.
"A waiting-maid? Heaven forbid!" I ejaculated, as a vision of that
haughty lady and her three wild sons swept through my mind.
I rose, paced the room in silence for a little time, then took a sudden
resolution, and, turning to the bed, exclaimed,--
"Jean, I will adopt Effie. I am old enough to be her father; and she
shall never feel the want of one, if you will give her to my care."
To my surprise, Jean's eager face wore a look of disappointment as she
listened, and with a sigh replied,--
"That's a kind thought, Sir, and a generous one; but it cannot be as you
wish. You may be twice her age, but still too young for that. How could
Effie look into that face of yours, so bonnie, Sir, for all it is so
grave, and, seeing never a wrinkle on the forehead, nor a white hair
among the black, how could she call you father? No, it will not do,
though so kindly meant. Your friends would laugh at you, Sir, and idle
tongues might speak ill of my bairn."
"Then what can I do, Jean?" I asked, regretfully.
"Make her your wife, Sir."
I turned sharply and stared at the woman, as her abrupt reply reached my
ear. Though trembling for the consequences of her boldly spoken wish,
Jean did not shrink from my astonished gaze; and when I saw the
wistfulness of that wan face, the smile died on my lips, checked by the
tender courage which had prompted the utterance of her dying hope.
"My good Jean, you forget that Effie is a child, and I a moody, solitary
man, with no gifts to win a wife or make home happy."
"Effie is sixteen, Sir,--a fair, good lassie for her years; and you--ah,
Sir, _you_ may call yourself unfit for wife and home, but the poorest,
saddest creature in this place knows that the man whose hand is always
open, whose heart is always pitiful, is not the one to live alone, but
to win and to deserve a happy home and a true wife. Oh, Sir, forgive me,
if I have been too bold; but my time is short, and I love my child so
well, I cannot leave the desire of my heart unspoken, for it is my
last."
As the words fell brokenly from her lips, and tears streamed down her
pallid cheek, a great pity took possession of me, the old longing to
find some solace for my solitary life returned again, and peace seemed
to smile on me from little Effie's eyes.
"Jean," I said, "give me till to-morrow to consider this new thought. I
fear it cannot be; but I have learned to love the child too well to see
her thrust out from the shelter of your home to walk through this evil
world alone. I will consider your proposal, and endeavor to devise some
future for the child which shall set your heart at rest. But before you
urge this further, let, me tell you that I am not what you think me.
I am a cold, selfish man, often, gloomy, often stern,--a most unfit
guardian for a tender creature like this little girl. The deeds of mine
which you call kind are not true charities; it frets me to see pain,
and I desire my ease above all earthly things. You are grateful for
the little I have done for you, and deceive yourself regarding my true
worth; but of one thing you may rest assured,--I am an honest man, who
holds his name too high to stain it with a false word or a dishonorable
deed."
"I do believe you, Sir," Jean answered, eagerly. "And if I left the
child to you, I could die this night in peace. Indeed, Sir, I never
should have dared to speak of this, but for the belief that you loved
the girl. What else could I think, when you came so often and were so
kind to us?"
"I cannot blame you, Jean; it was my usual forgetfulness of others which
so misled you. I was tired of the world, and came hither to find peace
in solitude. Effie cheered me with her winsome ways, and I learned to
look on her as the blithe spirit whose artless wiles won me to forget a
bitter past and a regretful present." I paused; and then added, with a
smile, "But, in our wise schemes, we have overlooked one point: Effie
does not love me, and may decline the future you desire me to offer
her."
A vivid hope lit those dim eyes, as Jean met my smile with one far
brighter, and joyfully replied,--
"She _does_ love you, Sir; for you have given her the greatest happiness
she has ever known. Last night she sat looking silently into the fire
there with a strange gloom on her bonnie face, and, when I asked what
she was dreaming of, she turned to me with a look of pain and fear, as
if dismayed at some great loss, but she only said, 'He is going, Jean!
What shall I do?'"
"Poor child! she will miss her friend and teacher, when I'm gone; and I
shall miss the only human creature that has seemed to care for me for
years," I sighed,--adding, as I paused upon the threshold of the door,
"Say nothing of this to Effie till I come to-morrow, Jean."
I went away, and far out on the lonely moor sat down to think. Like a
weird magician, Memory led me back into the past, calling up the hopes
and passions buried there. My childhood,--fatherless and motherless,
but not unhappy; for no wish was ungratified, no idle whim denied. My
boyhood,--with no shadows over it but those my own wayward will called
up. My manhood,--when the great joy of my life arose, my love for
Agnes, a midsummer dream of bloom and bliss, so short-lived and so
sweet! I felt again the pang that wrung my heart when she coldly gave me
back the pledge I thought so sacred and so sure, and the music of her
marriage-bells tolled the knell of my lost love. I seemed to hear them
still wafted across the purple moor through the silence of those fifteen
years.
My life looked gray and joyless as the wide waste lying hushed around
me, unblessed with the verdure of a single hope, a single love; and as I
looked down the coming years, my way seemed very solitary, very dark.
Suddenly a lark soared upward from the heath, cleaving the silence with
its jubilant song. The sleeping echoes woke, the dun moor seemed to
smile, and the blithe music fell like dew upon my gloomy spirit,
wakening a new desire.
"What this bird is to the moor might little Effie be to me," I thought
within myself, longing to possess the cheerful spirit which had power to
gladden me.
"Yes," I mused, "the old home will seem more solitary now than ever; and
if I cannot win the lark's song without a golden fetter, I will give
it one, and while it sings for love of me it shall not know a want or
fear."
Heaven help me! I forgot the poor return I made my lark for the sweet
liberty it lost.
All that night I pondered the altered future Jean had laid before me,
and the longer I looked the fairer it seemed to grow. Wealth I cared
nothing for; the world's opinion I defied; ambition had departed,
and passion I believed lay dead;--then why should I deny myself the
consolation which seemed offered to me? I would accept it; and as I
resolved, the dawn looked in at me, fresh and fair as little Effie's
face.
I met Jean with a smile, and, as she read its significance aright,
there shone a sudden peace upon her countenance, more touching than her
grateful words.
Effie came singing from the burn-side, as unconscious of the change
which awaited her as the flowers gathered in her plaid and crowning her
bright hair.
I drew her to my side, and in the simplest words asked her if she would
go with me when Jean's long guardianship was ended. Joy, sorrow, and
surprise stirred the sweet composure of her face, and quickened the
tranquil beating of her heart. But as I ceased, joy conquered grief and
wonder; for she clapped her hands like a glad child, exclaiming,--
"Go with you, Sir? Oh, if you knew how I long to see the home you have
so often pictured to me, you would never doubt my willingness to go."
"But, Effie, you do not understand. Are you willing to go with me as my
wife?" I said,--with a secret sense of something like remorse, as I
uttered that word, which once meant so much to me, and now seemed such
an empty title to bestow on her.
The flowers dropped from the loosened plaid, as Effie looked with a
startled glance into my face; the color left her cheeks, and the smile
died on her lips, but a timid joy lit her eye, as she softly echoed my
last words,--
"Your wife? It sounds very solemn, though so sweet. Ah, Sir, I am not
wise or good enough for that!"
A child's humility breathed in her speech, but something of a woman's
fervor shone in her uplifted countenance, and sounded in the sudden
tremor of her voice.
"Effie, I want you as you are," I said,--"no wiser, dear,--no better.
I want your innocent affection to appease the hunger of an empty heart,
your blithe companionship to cheer my solitary home. Be still a child to
me, and let me give you the protection of my name."
Effie turned to her old friend, and, laying her young face on the pillow
close beside the worn one grown so dear to her, asked, in a tone half
pleading, half regretful,--
"Dear Jean, shall I go so far away from you and the home you gave me
when I had no other?"
"My bairn, I shall not be here, and it will never seem like home with
old Jean gone. It is the last wish I shall ever know, to see you safe
with this good gentleman who loves my child. Go, dear heart, and be
happy; and Heaven bless and keep you both!"
Jean held her fast a moment, and then, with a whispered prayer, put her
gently away. Effie came to me, saying, with a look more eloquent than
her meek words,--
"Sir, I will be your wife, and love you very truly all my life."
I drew the little creature to my breast, and felt a tender pride in
knowing she was mine. Something in the shy caress those soft arms gave
touched my cold nature with a generous warmth, and the innocence of
that confiding heart was an appeal to all that made my manhood worth
possessing.
Swiftly those few weeks passed, and when old Jean was laid to her last
sleep, little Effie wept her grief away upon her husband's bosom, and
soon learned to smile in her new English home. Its gloom departed when
she came, and for a while it was a very happy place. My bitter moods
seemed banished by the magic of the gentle presence that made sunshine
there, and I was conscious of a fresh grace added to the life so
wearisome before.
I should have been a father to the child, watchful, wise, and tender;
but old Jean was right,--I was too young to feel a father's calm
affection or to know a father's patient care. I should have been her
teacher, striving to cultivate the nature given to my care, and fit it
for the trials Heaven sends to all. I should have been a friend, if
nothing more, and given her those innocent delights that make youth
beautiful and its memory sweet.
I was a master, content to give little, while receiving all she could
bestow.
Forgetting her loneliness, I fell back into my old way of life. I
shunned the world, because its gayeties had lost their zest. I did not
care to travel, for home now possessed a charm it never had before. I
knew there was an eager face that always brightened when I came, light
feet that flew to welcome me, and hands that loved to minister to every
want of mine. Even when I sat engrossed among my books, there was a
pleasant consciousness that I was the possessor of a household sprite
whom a look could summon and a gesture banish. I loved her as I loved a
picture or a flower,--a little better than my horse and hound,--but
far less than I loved my most unworthy self.
And she,--always so blithe when I was by, so diligent in studying
my desires, so full of simple arts to win my love and prove her
gratitude,--she never asked for any boon, and seemed content to live
alone with me in that still place, so utterly unlike the home she had
left. I had not learned to read that true heart then. I saw those happy
eyes grow wistful when I went, leaving her alone; I missed the roses
from her cheek, faded for want of gentler care; and when the buoyant
spirit which had been her chiefest charm departed, I fancied, in my
blindness, that she pined for the free air of the Highlands, and tried
to win it back by transient tenderness and costly gifts. But I had
robbed my lark of heaven's sunshine, and it could not sing.
I met Agnes again. She was a widow, and to my eye seemed fairer than
when I saw her last, and far more kind. Some soft regret seemed shining
on me from those lustrous eyes, as if she hoped to win my pardon for
that early wrong. I never could forget the deed that darkened my best
years, but the old charm stole over me at times, and, turning from the
meek child at my feet, I owned the power of the stately woman whose
smile seemed a command.
I meant no wrong to Effie, but, looking on her as a child, I forgot
the higher claim I had given her as a wife, and, walking blindly on my
selfish way, I crushed the little flower I should have cherished in my
breast. "Effie, my old friend Agnes Vaughan is coming here to-day; so
make yourself fair, that you may do honor to my choice; for she desires
to see you, and I wish my Scotch harebell to look lovely to this English
rose," I said, half playfully, half earnestly, as we stood together
looking out across the flowery lawn, one summer day.
"Do you like me to be pretty, Sir?" she answered, with a flush of
pleasure on her upturned face. "I will try to make myself fair with the
gifts you are always heaping on me; but even then I fear I shall not do
you honor, nor please your friend, I am so small and young."
A careless reply was on my lips, but, seeing what a long way down the
little figure was, I drew it nearer, saying, with a smile, which I knew
would make an answering one,--
"Dear, there must be the bud before the flower; so never grieve, for
your youth keeps my spirit young. To me you may be a child forever; but
you must learn to be a stately little Madam Ventnor to my friends."
She laughed a gayer laugh than I had heard for many a day, and soon
departed, intent on keeping well the promise she had given. An hour
later, as I sat busied among my books, a little figure glided in, and
stood before me with its jewelled arms demurely folded on its breast. It
was Effie, as I had never seen her before. Some new freak possessed her,
for with her girlish dress she seemed to have laid her girlhood by. The
brown locks were gathered up, wreathing the small head like a coronet;
aerial lace and silken vesture shimmered in the light, and became her
well. She looked and moved a fairy queen, stately and small.
I watched her in a silent maze, for the face with its shy blushes and
downcast eyes did not seem the childish one turned frankly to my own an
hour ago. With a sigh I looked up at Agnes's picture, the sole ornament
of that room, and when I withdrew my gaze the blooming vision had
departed. I should have followed it to make my peace, but I fell into
a fit of bitter musing, and forgot it till Agnes's voice sounded at my
door.
She came with a brother, and seemed eager to see my young wife; but
Effie did not appear, and I excused her absence as a girlish freak,
smiling at it with them, while I chafed inwardly at her neglect,
forgetting that I might have been the cause.
Pacing down the garden paths with Agnes at my side, our steps were
arrested by a sudden sight of Effie fast asleep among the flowers. She
looked a flower herself, lying with her flushed cheek pillowed on her
arm, sunshine glittering on the ripples of her hair, and the changeful
lustre of her dainty dress. Tears moistened her long lashes, but her
lips smiled, as if in the blissful land of dreams she had found some
solace for her grief.
"A 'Sleeping Beauty' worthy the awakening of any prince!" whispered
Alfred Vaughan, pausing with admiring eyes.
A slight frown swept over Agnes's face, but vanished as she said, with
that low-toned laugh that never seemed unmusical before,--
"We must pardon Mrs. Ventnor's seeming rudeness, if she welcomes us with
graceful scenes like this. A child-wife's whims are often prettier than
the world's formal ways; so do not chide her, Basil, when she wakes."
I was a proud man then, touched easily by trivial things. Agnes's
pitying manner stung me, and the tone in which I wakened Effie was far
harsher than it should have been. She sprang up; and with a gentle
dignity most new to me received her guests, and played the part of
hostess with a grace that well atoned for her offence.
Agnes watched her silently as she went before us with young Vaughan, and
even I, ruffled as my temper was, felt a certain pride in the loving
creature who for my sake conquered her timidity and strove to do me
honor. But neither by look nor word did I show my satisfaction, for
Agnes demanded the constant service of lips and eyes, and I was only too
ready to devote them to the woman who still felt her power and dared to
show it.
All that day I was beside her, forgetful in many ways of the gentle
courtesies I owed the child whom I had made my wife. I did not see the
wrong then, but others did, and the deference I failed to show she could
ask of them.
In the evening, as I stood near Agnes while she sang the songs we both
remembered well, my eye fell on a mirror that confronted me, and in it
I saw Effie bending forward with a look that startled me. Some strong
emotion controlled her, for with lips apart and eager eyes she gazed
keenly at the countenances she believed unconscious of her scrutiny.
Agnes caught the vision that had arrested the half-uttered compliment
upon my lips, and, turning, looked at Effie with a smile just touched
with scorn.
The color rose vividly to Effie's cheek, but her eyes did not fall,--
they sought my face, and rested there. A half-smile crossed my lips;
with a sudden impulse I beckoned, and she came with such an altered
countenance I fancied that I had not seen aright.
At my desire she sang the ballads she so loved, and in her girlish voice
there was an undertone of deeper melody than when I heard them first
among her native hills; for the child's heart was ripening fast into the
woman's.
Agnes went, at length, and I heard Effies sigh of relief when we were
left alone, but only bid her "go and rest," while I paced to and fro,
still murmuring the refrain of Agnes's song.
The Vaughans came often, and we went often to them in the summer-home
they had chosen near us on the riverbank. I followed my own wayward
will, and Effie's wistful eyes grew sadder as the weeks went by.
One sultry evening, as we strolled together on the balcony, I was
seized with a sudden longing to hear Agnes sing, and bid Effie come with
me for a moonlight voyage down the river.
She had been very silent all the evening, with a pensive shadow on her
face and rare smiles on her lips. But as I spoke, she paused
abruptly, and, clenching her small hands, turned upon me with defiant
eyes,--crying, almost fiercely--
"No, I will not go to listen to that woman's songs. I hate her! yes,
more than I can tell! for, till she came, I thought you loved me; but
now you think of her alone, and chide me when I look unhappy. You treat
me like a child; but I am not one. Oh, Sir, be more kind, for I have
only you to love!"--and as her voice died in that sad appeal, she
clasped her hands before her face with such a burst of tears that I had
no words to answer her.
Disturbed by the sudden passion of the hitherto meek girl, I sat down on
the wide steps of the balcony and essayed to draw her to my knee, hoping
she would weep this grief away as she had often done a lesser sorrow.
But she resisted my caress, and, standing erect before me, checked
her tears, saying, in a voice still trembling with resentment and
reproach,--
"You promised Jean to be kind to me, and you are cruel; for when I ask
for love, you give me jewels, books, or flowers, as you would give a
pettish child a toy, and go away as if you were weary of me. Oh, it is
not right, Sir! and I cannot, no, I will not bear it!"
If she had spared reproaches, deserved though they were, and humbly
pleaded to be loved, I should have been more just and gentle; but her
indignant words, the sharper for their truth, roused the despotic spirit
of the man, and made me sternest when I should have been most kind.
"Effie," I said, looking coldly up into her troubled face, "I have given
you the right to be thus frank with me; but before you exercise that
right, let me tell you what may silence your reproaches and teach you
to know me better. I desired to adopt you as my child; Jean would not
consent to that, but bid me marry you, and so give you a home, and win
for myself a companion who should make that home less solitary. I could
protect you in no other way, and I married you. I meant it kindly,
Effie; for I pitied you,--ay, and loved you, too, as I hoped I had fully
proved."
"You have, Sir,--oh, you have! But I hoped I might in time be more to
you than a dear child," sighed Effie, while softer tears flowed as she
spoke.
"Effie, I told Jean I was a hard, cold man,"--and I was one as those
words passed my lips. "I told her I was unfitted to make a wife happy.
But she said you would be content with what I could offer; and so I gave
you all I had to bestow. It was not enough; yet I cannot make it more.
Forgive me, child, and try to bear your disappointments as I have
learned to bear mine."
Effie bent suddenly, saying, with a look of anguish, "Do you regret that
I am your wife, Sir?"
"Heaven knows I do, for I cannot make you happy," I answered,
mournfully.
"Let me go away where I can never grieve or trouble you again! I will,--
indeed, I will,--for anything is easier to bear than this. Oh, Jean, why
did you leave me when you went?"--and with that despairing cry Effie
stretched her arms into the empty air, as if seeking that lost friend.
My anger melted, and I tried to soothe her, saying gently, as I laid her
tear-wet cheek to mine,--
"My child, death alone must part us two. We will be patient with each
other, and so may learn to be happy yet."
A long silence fell upon us both. My thoughts were busy with the thought
of what a different home mine might have been, if Agnes had been true;
and Effie--God only knows how sharp a conflict passed in that young
heart! I could not guess it till the bitter sequel of that hour came.
A timid hand upon my own aroused me, and, looking down, I met such an
altered face, it touched me like a mute reproach. All the passion bad
died out, and a great patience seemed to have arisen there. It looked so
meek and wan, I bent and kissed it; but no smile answered me as Effie
humbly said,--
"Forgive me, Sir, and tell me how I can make you happier. For I am truly
grateful for all you have done for me, and will try to be a docile child
to you."
"Be happy yourself, Effie, and I shall be content. I am too grave and
old to be a fit companion for you, dear. You shall have gay faces and
young friends to make this quiet place more cheerful. I should have
thought of that before. Dance, sing, be merry, Effie, and never let your
life be darkened by Basil Ventnor's changeful moods."
"And you?" she whispered, looking up.
"I will sit among my books, or seek alone the few friends I care to see,
and never mar your gayety with my gloomy presence, dear. We must begin
at once to go our separate ways; for, with so many years between us, we
can never find the same paths pleasant very long. Let me be a father to
you, and a friend,--I cannot be a lover, child."
Effie rose and went silently away; but soon came again, wrapped in her
mantle, saying, as she looked down at me, with something of her former
cheerfulness,--
"I am good now. Come and row me down the river. It is too beautiful a
night to be spent in tears and naughtiness."
"No, Effie, you shall never go to Mrs. Vaughan's again, if you dislike
her so. No friendship of mine need be shared by you, if it gives you
pain."
"Nothing shall pain me any more," she answered, with a patient sigh. "I
will be your merry girl again, and try to love Agnes for your sake. Ah!
do come, _father_, or I shall not feel forgiven."
Smiling at her April moods, I obeyed the small hands clasped about my
own, and through the fragrant linden walk went musing to the river-side.
Silently we floated down, and at the lower landing-place found Alfred
Vaughan just mooring his own boat. By him I sent a message to his
sister, while we waited for her at the shore.
Effie stood above me on the sloping bank, and as Agnes entered the
green vista of the flowery path, she turned and clung to me with sudden
fervor, kissed me passionately, and then stole silently into the boat.
The moonlight turned the waves to silver, and in its magic rays the face
of my first love grew young again. She sat before me with water-lilies
in her shining hair, singing as she sang of old, while the dash of
falling oars kept time to her low song. As we neared the ruined bridge,
whose single arch still cast its heavy shadow far across the stream,
Agnes bent toward me, softly saying,--
"Basil, you remember this?"
How could I forget that happy night, long years ago, when she and I went
floating down the same bright stream, two happy lovers just betrothed?
As she spoke, it all came back more beautiful than ever, and I forgot
the silent figure sitting there behind me. I hope Agnes had forgotten,
too; for, cruel as she was to me, I never wished to think her hard
enough to hate that gentle child.
"I remember, Agnes," I said, with a regretful sigh. "My voyage has been
a lonely one since then."
"Are you not happy, Basil?" she asked, with a tender pity thrilling her
low voice.
"Happy?" I echoed, bitterly,--"how can I be happy, remembering what
might have been?"
Agnes bowed her head upon her hands, and silently the boat shot into the
black shadow of the arch. A sudden eddy seemed to sway us slightly from
our course, and the waves dashed sullenly against the gloomy walls;
a moment more and we glided into calmer waters and unbroken light. I
looked up from my task to speak, but the words were frozen on my lips
by a cry from Agnes, who, wild-eyed and pale, seemed pointing to some
phantom which I could not see. I turned,--the phantom was Effie's empty
seat. The shining stream grew dark before me, and a great pang of
remorse wrung my heart as that sight met my eyes.
"Effie!" I cried, with a cry that rent the stillness of the night, and
sent the name ringing down the river. But nothing answered me, and the
waves rippled softly as they hurried by. Far over the wide stream went
my despairing glance, and saw nothing but the lilies swaying as they
slept, and the black arch where my child went down.
Agnes lay trembling at my feet, but I never heeded her,--for Jean's
dead voice sounded in my ear, demanding the life confided to my care. I
listened, benumbed with guilty fear, and, as if summoned by that weird
cry, there came a white flash through the waves, and Effie's face rose
up before me.
Pallid and wild with the agony of that swift plunge, it confronted me.
No cry for help parted the pale lips, but those wide eyes were luminous
with a love whose fire that deathful river could not quench.
Like one in an awful dream, I gazed till the ripples closed above it.
One instant the terror held me,--the next I was far down in those waves,
so silver fair above, so black and terrible below. A brief, blind
struggle passed before I grasped a tress of that long hair, then an arm,
and then the white shape, with a clutch like death. As the dividing
waters gave us to the light again, Agnes flung herself far over the
boat-side and drew my lifeless burden in; I followed, and we laid it
down, a piteous sight for human eyes to look upon. Of that swift voyage
home I can remember nothing but the still face on Agnes's breast, the
sight of which nerved my dizzy brain and made my muscles iron.
For many weeks there was a darkened chamber in my house, and anxious
figures gliding to and fro, wan with long vigils and the fear of death.
I often crept in to look upon the little figure lying there, to watch
the feverish roses blooming on the wasted cheek, the fitful fire burning
in the unconscious eyes, to hear the broken words so full of pathos to
my ear, and then to steal away and struggle to forget.
My bird fluttered on the threshold of its cage, but Love lured it back,
for its gentle mission was not yet fulfilled.
The _child_ Effie lay dead beneath the ripples of the river, but the
_woman_ rose up from that bed of suffering like one consecrated to
life's high duties by the bitter baptism of that dark hour.
Slender and pale, with serious eyes and quiet steps, she moved through
the home which once echoed to the glad voice and dancing feet of that
vanished shape. A sweet sobriety shaded her young face, and a meek smile
sat upon her lips, but the old blithesomeness was gone.
She never claimed her childish place upon my knee, never tried the
winsome wiles that used to chase away my gloom, never came to pour her
innocent delights and griefs into my ear, or bless me with the frank
affection which grew very precious when I found it lost.
Docile as ever, and eager to gratify my lightest wish, she left no
wifely duty unfulfilled. Always near me, if I breathed her name, but
vanishing when I grew silent, as if her task were done. Always smiling a
cheerful farewell when I went, a quiet welcome when I came. I missed the
April face that once watched me go, the warm embrace that greeted me
again, and at my heart the sense of loss grew daily deeper as I felt the
growing change.
Effie remembered the words I had spoken on that mournful night;
remembered that our paths must lie apart,--that her husband was a
friend, and nothing more. She treasured every careless hint I had given,
and followed it most faithfully. She gathered gay, young friends about
her, went out into the brilliant world, and I believed she was content.
If I had ever felt she was a burden to the selfish freedom I desired,
I was punished now, for I had lost a blessing which no common pleasure
could replace. I sat alone, and no blithe voice made music in the
silence of my room, no bright locks swept my shoulder, and no soft
caress assured me that I was beloved.
I looked for my household sprite in girlish garb, with its free hair
and sunny eyes, but found only a fair woman, graceful in rich attire,
crowned with my gifts, and standing afar off among her blooming peers.
I could not guess the solitude of that true heart, nor see the captive
spirit gazing at me from those steadfast eyes.
No word of the cause of that despairing deed passed Effie's lips, and
I had no need to ask it. Agnes was silent, and soon left us, but her
brother was a frequent guest. Effie liked his gay companionship, and I
denied her nothing,--nothing but the one desire of her life.
So that first year passed; and though the ease and liberty I coveted
were undisturbed, I was not satisfied. Solitude grew irksome, and
study ceased to charm. I tried old pleasures, but they had lost their
zest,--renewed old friendships, but they wearied me. I forgot Agnes,
and ceased to think her fair. I looked at Effie, and sighed for my lost
youth.
My little wife grew very beautiful to me, for she was blooming fast into
a gracious womanhood. I felt a secret pride in knowing she was mine,
and watched her as I fancied a fond brother might, glad that she was so
good, so fair, so much beloved. I ceased to mourn the plaything I
had lost, and something akin to reverence mingled with the deepening
admiration of the man.
Gay guests had filled the house with festal light and sound one winter's
night, and when the last bright figure had vanished from the threshold
of the door, I still stood there, looking over the snow-shrouded lawn,
hoping to cool the fever of my blood, and case the restless pain that
haunted me.
I shut out the keen air and wintry sky, at length, and silently ascended
to the diverted rooms above. But in the soft gloom of a vestibule my
steps were stayed. Two figures, in a flowery alcove, fixed my eye. The
light streamed full upon them, and the fragrant stillness of the air was
hardly stirred by their low tones.
Effie was there, sunk on a low couch, her face bowed upon her hands; and
at her side, speaking with impassioned voice and ardent eyes, leaned
Alfred Vaughan.
The sight struck me like a blow, and the sharp anguish of that moment
proved how deeply I had learned to love.
"Effie, it is a sinful tie that binds you to that man; he does not love
you, and it should be broken,--for this slavery will wear away the life
now grown so dear to me."
The words, hot with indignant passion, smote me like a wintry blast, but
not so coldly as the broken voice that answered them:--
"He said death alone must part us two, and, remembering that, I cannot
listen to another love."
Like a guilty ghost I stole away, and in the darkness of my solitary
room struggled with my bitter grief, my newborn love. I never blamed
my wife,--that wife who had heard the tender name so seldom, she could
scarce feel it hers. I had fettered her free heart, forgetting it would
one day cease to be a child's. I bade her look upon me as a father; she
had learned the lesson well; and now what right had I to reproach her
for listening to a lover's voice, when her husband's was so cold? What
mattered it that slowly, almost unconsciously, I had learned to love her
with the passion of a youth, the power of a man? I had alienated that
fond nature from my own, and now it was too late.
Heaven only knows the bitterness of that hour;--I cannot tell it. But
through the darkness of my anguish and remorse that newly kindled love
burned like a blessed fire, and, while it tortured, purified. By its
light I saw the error of my life: self-love was written on the actions
of the past, and I knew that my punishment was very just. With a child's
repentant tears, I confessed it to my Father, and He solaced me, showed
me the path to tread, and made me nobler for the blessedness and pain of
that still hour.
Dawn found me an altered man; for in natures like mine the rain of a
great sorrow melts the ice of years, and their hidden strength blooms
in a late harvest of patience, self-denial, and humility. I resolved to
break the tie which bound poor Effie to a joyless fate; and gratitude
for a selfish deed, which wore the guise of charity, should no longer
mar her peace. I would atone for the wrong I had done her, the suffering
she had endured; and she should never know that I had guessed her tender
secret, nor learn the love which made my sacrifice so bitter, yet so
just.
Alfred came no more; and as I watched the growing pallor of her cheek,
her patient efforts to be cheerful and serene, I honored that meek
creature for her constancy to what she deemed the duty of her life.
I did not tell her my resolve at once, for I could not give her up so
soon. It was a weak delay, but I had not learned the beauty of a perfect
self-forgetfulness; and though I clung to my purpose steadfastly, my
heart still cherished a desperate hope that I might be spared this loss.
In the midst of this secret conflict, there came a letter from old Adam
Lyndsay, asking to see his daughter's child; for life was waning slowly,
and he desired to forgive, as he hoped to be forgiven when the last hour
came. The letter was to me, and, as I read it, I saw a way where-by I
might be spared the hard task of telling Effie she was to be free. I
feared my new-found strength would desert me, and my courage fail, when,
looking on the woman who was dearer to me than my life, I tried to give
her back the liberty whose worth she had learned to know.
Effie should go, and I would write the words I dared not speak. She
would be in her mother's home, free to show her joy at her release, and
smile upon the lover she had banished.
I went to tell her; for it was I who sought her now, who watched for her
coming and sighed at her departing steps,--I who waited for her smile
and followed her with wistful eyes. The child's slighted affection was
atoned for now by my unseen devotion to the woman.