THE DREAM AND THE AWAKENING.
The lover is a god,--the ground
He treads on is not ours;
His soul by other laws is bound,
Sustained by other powers;
His own and that one other heart
Form for himself a world apart.
--_Milnes_.
Time went on. Autumn faded into winter: the flowers wore withered;
the grass dried; the woods bare. Miss Merlin no longer sat under the
green shadows of the old elm tree; there were no green shadows there;
the tree was stripped of its leaves and seemed but the skeleton of
itself, and the snow lay around its foot.
The season, far from interrupting the intimacy between the heiress and
her favorite, only served to draw them even more closely together. This
was the way of it. At the noon recess all the pupils of the school would
rush madly out upon the lawn to engage in the rough, healthful, and
exciting game of snowballing each other--all except Claudia, who was far
too fine a lady to enter into any such rude sport, and Ishmael, whose
attendance upon her own presence she would peremptorily demand.
While all the others were running over each other in their haste to get
out, Claudia would pass into the empty drawing room, and seating herself
in the deep easy chair, would call to her "gentleman in waiting,"
saying:
"Come, my young troubadour, bring your guitar and sit down upon this
cushion at my feet and play an accompaniment to my song, as I sing and
work."
And Ishmael, filled with joy, would fly to obey the royal mandate; and
soon seated at the beauty's feet, in the glow of the warm wood fire and
in the glory of her heavenly presence, he would lose himself in a
delicious dream of love and music. No one ever interrupted their
tête-à-tête. And Ishmael grew to feel that he belonged to his liege
lady; that they were forever inseparate and inseparable. And thus his
days passed in one delusive dream of bliss until the time came when he
was rudely awakened.
One evening, as usual, he took leave of Claudia. It was a bitter cold
evening, and she took off her own crimson Berlin wool scarf and with her
own fair hands wound it around Ishmael's neck, and charged him to hasten
home, because she knew that influenza would be lying in wait to seize
any loitering pedestrian that night.
Ishmael ran home, as happy as it was in the power of man to make him.
How blest he felt in the possession of her scarf--her fine, soft, warm
scarf, deliciously filled with the aroma of Claudia's own youth, beauty,
and sweetness. He felt that he was not quite separated from her while he
had her scarf--her dear scarf, with the warmth and perfume of her own
neck yet within its meshes! That night he only unwound it from his
throat to fold it and lay it on his pillow that his cheek might rest
upon it while he slept--slept the sweetest sleep that ever visited his
eyes.
Ah, poor, pale sleeper! this was the last happy night he was destined to
have for many weeks and months.
In the morning he arose early as usual to hasten to school and--to
Claudia. He wound her gift around his neck and set off at a brisk pace.
The weather was still intensely cold; but the winter sky was clear and
the sunshine glittered "keen and bright" upon the crisp white snow.
Ishmael hurried on and reached Brudenell Hall just in time to see a
large fur-covered sleigh, drawn by a pair of fine horses, shoot through,
the great gates and disappear down the forest road.
A death-like feeling, a strange spasm, as if a hand of ice had clutched
his heart, caught away Ishmael's breath at the sight of that vanishing
sleigh. He could not rationally account for this feeling; but soon as he
recovered his breath he inquired of old Jovial, who stood gazing after
the sleigh.
"Who has gone away?"
"Miss Claudia, sir; her pa came after her last night--"
"Claudia--gone!" echoing Ishmael, reeling and supporting himself against
the trunk of the bare old elm tree.
"It was most unexpected, sir; mist'ess sat up most all night to see to
the packing of her clothes--"
"Gone--gone--Claudia gone!" breathed Ishmael, in a voice despairing, yet
so low, that it did not interrupt the easy flow of Jovial's narrative.
"But you see, sir, the judge, he said how he hadn't a day to lose,
'cause he'd have to be at Annapolis to-morrow to open his court--"
"Gone--gone!" wailed Ishmael, dropping his arms.
"And 'pears the judge did write to warn master and mist'ess to get Miss
Claudia ready to go this morning; but seems like they never got the
letter--"
"Oh, gone!" moaned Ishmael.
--"Anyways, it was all, 'Quick! march!' and away they went. And the word
does go around as, after the court term is over, the judge he means to
take Miss Claudia over the seas to forrin parts to see the world."
"Which--which road did they take, Jovial?" gasped Ishmael, striving hard
to recover breath and strength and the power of motion.
"Law, sir, the Baymouth road, to be sure! where they 'spects to take the
'Napolis boat, which 'ill be a nigh thing if they get there in time to
meet it, dough dey has taken the sleigh an' the fast horses."
Ishmael heard no more. Dropping his books, he darted out of the gate,
and fled along the road taken by the travelers. Was it in the mad hope
of overtaking the sleigh? As well might he expect to overtake an express
train! No--he was mad indeed! maddened by the suddenness of his
bereavement; but not so mad as that; and he started after his flying
love in the fierce, blind, passionate instinct of pursuit. A whirl of
wild hopes kept him up and urged him on--hopes that they might stop on
the road to water the horses, or to refresh themselves, or that they
might be delayed at the toll-gate to make change, or that some other
possible or impossible thing might happen to stop their journey long
enough for him to overtake them and see Claudia once more; to shake
hands with her, bid her good-by, and receive from her at parting some
last word of regard--some last token of remembrance! This was now the
only object of his life; this was what urged him onward in that fearful
chase! To see Claudia once more--to meet her eyes--to clasp her hand--to
hear her voice--to bid her farewell!
On and on he ran; toiling up hill, and rushing down dale; overturning
all impediments that lay in his way; startling all the foot-passengers
with the fear of an escaped maniac! On and on he sped in his mad flight,
until he reached the outskirts of the village. There a sharp pang and
sudden faintness obliged him to stop and rest, grudging the few moments
required for the recovery of his breath. Then he set off again, and ran
all the way into the village--ran down the principal street, and turned
down the one leading to the wharf.
A quick, breathless glance told him all. The boat had left the shore,
and was steaming down the bay.
He ran down to the water's edge, stretching his arms out towards the
receding steamer, and with an agonizing cry of "Claudia! Claudia!" fell
forward upon his face in a deep swoon.
A crowd of villagers gathered around him.
"Who is he?"
"What is the matter with him!"
"Is he ill?"
"Has he fainted?"
"Has he been hurt?"
"Has an accident happened?"
"Is there a doctor to be had?"
All these questions were asked in the same breath by the various
individuals of the crowd that had collected around the insensible boy;
but none seemed ready with an answer.
"Is there no one here who can tell who he is?" inquired a tall,
gray-haired, mild-looking man, stooping to raise the prostrate form.
"Yes; it is Ishmael Worth!" answered Hamlin, the bookseller, who was a
newcomer upon the scene.
"Ishmael Worth? Hannah Worth's nephew?"
"Yes; that is who he is."
"Then stand out of the way, friends; I will take charge of the lad,"
said the gray-haired stranger, lifting the form of the boy in his arms,
and gazing into his face.
"He is not hurt; he is only in a dead faint, and I had better take him
home at once," continued the old man, as he carried his burden to a
light wagon that stood in the street in charge of a negro, and laid him
carefully on the cushions. Then he got in himself, and took the boy's
head upon his knees, and directed the negro to drive gently along the
road leading to the weaver's. And with what infinite tenderness the
stranger supported the light form; with what wistful interest he
contemplated the livid young face. And so at an easy pace they reached
the hill hut.