GOD! THAT I MAY DIE!
For a certain space of time, which seemed to him indefinite, but which
was indeed of no great length, he stood there stunned, gazing at the
rifled cabinet. Then, as consciousness returned to him, the roar of the
storm without fell upon his ears, and struck some strange note of accord
with the tumult in his brain. Turning round, he unbarred the shutters,
and, opening the window, stepped outside. With slow, uncertain steps he
made his way through the dense black plantation of shrieking fir trees,
and out on to the cliffs. Here he paused, and stood quite still, looking
across the sea. There was no light in the sky, but the veil of absolute
darkness had not yet fallen upon the earth. Far away on the horizon was
a lurid patch of deep yellow storm-clouds, casting a faint glimmer upon
the foaming sea, which seemed to leap up in a weird monotonous joy to
catch the unearthly light. From inland, rolling across the moorland,
came phantom-like masses of vaporous cloud, driven on by the fierce wind
which boomed across the open country, and shrieked and yelled amongst
the pine plantations as though mad with a sudden hellish joy. On the
verge of the cliff he stretched out his arms, as though to welcome the
wild din of the night. The thunder of the ocean, seething and leaping
against the rocks below, shook the air around him. The salt spray leaped
up into his white face, and the winds blew against him, and the
passionate cry of saddened nature rang in his deafened ears. At that
moment those things were a joy to him.
And there came to him then something of that strange sweet calm which
lays its soothing hand for a moment upon those who stand face to face
with death, or any other mighty crisis. Looking steadfastly far away,
beyond the foaming waste of waters to where one faint streak of
stormlight shone on the horizon, pictures of the past began to rise up
before his eyes. He saw himself again a happy, light-hearted child,
riding gaily upon his father's shoulder, and laughing up into the
beautiful face of his youthful mother. The memories of that time, and of
his first home, came back to him with a peculiar freshness and
fragrance, like a painting by one of the old masters, perfect in design,
and with its deep rich coloring softened and mellowed by age. He
remembered the bright beauty of those sunny southern gardens, where he
had passed long hours listening to the gentle splashing of the water in
the worn grey fountain bowl, and breathing in the soft spring-like air,
faint with the sweetness of Roman violets. And, half unconsciously, his
thoughts travelled on to the time when all the pure beauty of his
surroundings--for his had been an artist's home--had begun to have a
distinct meaning for him, and in the fervor of an esthetic and unusually
thoughtful youth, he had dreamed, and felt, and tasted deep of pleasures
which the world yields only to those who stoop to listen to her secrets,
with the quickened sensibilities and glowing imagination of the
artist--one of her own children. He had read her in such a way that he
found himself struggling, even in early boyhood, for some means of
expression--but at that time none had come to him. The fruits of his
later life had been the result of his early experience, but how
embittered, how saddened by the unchanging gloom, which, at one period,
had seemed as though it must dry up for ever all enthusiasm from his
boyish heart. What a fire of passions had blazed up and died away within
him; and as he thought of that sudden dying away, he thought of the
moment when they had been quenched for ever, and of the voice which had
quenched them. Again he crouched on his knees by the side of the sofa
drawn up close to the high open windows of the Italian villa, and felt
that thin white hand laid gently upon his trembling lips, checking in a
moment the flood of angry words which in his heart had been but the
prelude to a curse. The calm of that death-white face, with its marble
passionless pallor and saint-like beauty, lingered still, faithfully
treasured up in the rich store-house of his memory. Death alone would
wipe it out. It was one of the experiences of his life, written alike
into his undying recollection, and into his heart.
And then had come that period of severe struggle with himself, out of
which he had emerged not only a conqueror, but with all the spoils of
conquest. For he had found himself, after the battle was fought out and
won, possessed of a more triumphant self-control, and a complete mastery
over those fierce earthly passions which, had they held sway for long,
would in time most surely have weakened that higher and purer part of
his nature from which all the good of his life had come. It was, indeed,
in some measure owing to the wholesome discipline of this struggle that
he had found at last the long-sought-for gift of expression, and,
taking up the pen, had sent forth golden words and thoughts into an age
where such metal was rare indeed. Always there had been this dark cloud
of anxiety looming over him, and leading him into many countries and
constantly denying him the peace for which he longed. Then had come the
climax of it all, the tragedy which had thrown over him the lowering
cloud of a hideous danger. Failure was his. The moment of trial had
come, and he had been unequal to it; and day and night there rang ever
in his ears the faint far-off whisper of those tremulous lips, and the
pleading light in those burning eyes seemed ever before him. Again he
felt the touch of that icy cold hand, and again he remembered the words
of the oath which, alas! he had not kept. Oh, it was horrible!
Once more his thoughts moved on a stage, and this time they reached
their climax. Before his fixed eyes there floated the image of a sweet,
wistful face glowing with healthy physical life, and yet with all that
delicate refinement of coloring and feature which had made her face
linger in his artist's memory for years before she had dwelt in his
man's heart. It was a torture of hell, this, that the fairest and
sweetest part of a man's life--his love--should come to him at such a
time. And then for one brief moment all memory of his misery passed away
from him, and his whole being became absorbed in a luxury of
recollection. He thought of the change which his love had wrought in
him. What had life been before? A long series of artistic and
philosophical abstractions, bringing their own peculiar content, but a
content never free from disquieting thought and restless doubts. How
could it be otherwise? Was he not human like other men? Asceticism and
intellect, and a certain purity of life which an almost epicurean
refinement had rendered beautiful to him, these, easily keeping in sway
his passionate temperament through all the long years of his life, now
only served to fan the flame of that great pure love which had suddenly
leaped up within him, a blazing, unquenchable fire. Human emotion once
aroused, had thrilled through all his being with a sweet, heart-stirring
music, and his whole nature was shaking from its very foundation. To him
such a love seemed like the rounding of his life, the panacea for all
that vague disquiet which, even in the moments of most perfect
intellectual serenity, had sometimes disturbed him. The love of such a
man was no light thing. It had mingled with his heart's blood, with the
very essence of all his being. No death, no annihilation was possible
for it. It was a part of himself, woven unchangeably into his life in a
glowing skein, the brilliant colors of which could never fade. He looked
into the future, golden with the light of such a love, and he saw a
vision of perfect happiness, of joy beyond all expression, of deep, calm
content, surpassing anything which he had known. Hand in hand he saw two
figures, himself and her, gliding through the years with a sort of
effortless energy, tasting together of everything in life that was
sweet, and pure, and beautiful; scattering all trouble and worldly
vexation to the winds, by the touchstone of their undying love. There
was intoxication--ethereal intoxication in such a vision. The winds blew
against him, and the torrents of driven rain, cold and stinging, dashed
themselves against his pale, steadfast face. Down on the beach below the
mad sea was thundering upon the cliffs, flinging its white spray so high
that it glittered like specks of luminous white light against the black
waters. Yet he noticed none of it. Until the brilliancy of that vision
which glowed before him faded, nothing external could withdraw his
thoughts.
And fade away it did at last, and neither the cold rain nor the howling
wind had given him such a chill as crept through all his body, when
memory and realization drove forth this sweet flower of his imagination.
All the cruel hopelessness, the horror of his position, rushed in upon
him like a foul nightmare. He saw himself shunned and despised, the
faces of all men averted from him; all that had gone to make his life
worthy, and even famous, forgotten in the stigma of an awful crime. He
saw her eager, beautiful face, white and convulsed with horror,
shrinking away from him as from some loathsome object. God! it was
madness to think of it! Let this thought go from him, fade away from his
reeling brain, or he would surely go mad.
Heedless of the fury of the winds that roared over the moorland, and
sobbed and shrieked in the pine grove, he threw himself upon his knees
close to the very verge of the cliff, and stretched out his hands to the
darkened heavens in a passionate gesture of despair. It was the first
time during all the fierce troubles of a stormy life that he had shrunk
down, beaten for the moment by the utter hopelessness of the struggle
which seemed to him now fast drawing toward its end.
"God! that I may die!" he moaned. "That I may die!"
And, as though in answer to his prayer, life for him suddenly became a
doubtful thing. A wild gust of wind had uprooted a young fir tree from
the plantation, and bearing it with a savage glee toward the cliff side,
dashed it against the kneeling man. There was no chance for him against
it. Over they went, man and tree together, to all appearance bound for
inevitable destruction.
Even in that second, when he felt himself being hurled over the cliff,
by what force he knew not, the consciousness of the sudden granting of
his prayer flashed across his mind, and, strange though it may seem,
brought with it a deep content. It was as he would have it be, death
sudden and unfelt. But following close upon it came another thought, so
swiftly works the brain in the time of a great crisis. He would be found
dead, and everyone, in the light of what would soon be made known, would
surely call it suicide. She would think so, too. Death on such terms he
would not willingly have.
Effort followed swiftly upon thought. He clutched wildly at the cliff
side during the first second of that flying descent, and the wind
bending it almost double, brought a stunted fir tree sapling within his
reach. He grasped it, and he was saved. Only a yard or two away, the
cliff side was black with them growing so closely together that he
pulled himself with ease from one to another till he climbed over the
cliff top, and stood again upright on the ground.
His hands were bleeding, and his clothes were hanging round him in rags.
Yet, in a certain sense, his narrow escape had done him good, for it had
brought very vividly before him the impiety of his prayer. He had given
way too long to maddening thoughts, and they had unnerved him. With the
consciousness of his escape, all the manliness of his nature reasserted
itself. He had faced this thing so long that he would face it now to the
end. Let it come when it would, he would summon up all his strength, and
meet it like a man. After death was peace for everlasting. God keep him
in that faith!
He turned away from the cliff, and walked quickly back to the cottage,
making his plans as he went. First he changed all his clothes, and then
opening again his rifled cabinet, he transferred the remaining papers to
a small handbag. These were all his preparations, but when he stepped
out again and walked down the path of his garden, a change had fallen
upon the earth. Faint gleams of dawn were breaking through the eastern
sky, and though the sea was still troubled and crested with white-foamed
breakers, the wind had gone down. Compared with the violence of the
storm a few hours back, the stillness of the gray twilight was full of a
peculiar impressiveness. Peace after the storm. Rest after trouble.
And something of this saddened peace crept into the heart of the
solitary figure crossing the moorland--on his way back to face a doom
which seemed closing in fast around him.