I COMMUNE WITH MYSELF.
Twas late afternoon when I re-entered, and ere supper was past 'twas time
to retire for the night. The tension of these hours I still look back on as
something altogether dreadful. Anne was quiet and gentle, unconscious of
what had happened, yet with the fire of passion, I knew too well, burning
in her heart. I was ill, restless, and abrupt, scarce able to speak lest I
should betray my thoughts and show the war that raged in my breast.
I made some excuse for retiring early, bidding her goodnight with as
nonchalant an air as I could muster. The door of my bedroom I locked behind
me, and I was alone in the darkened room to fight out my battles with
myself.
I ask you if you can conceive any gentleman and man of honor in a more
hazardous case. Whenever I tried to think on it, a mist came over my brain,
and I could get little but unmeaning fantasies. I must either go or stay.
So much was clear.
If I stayed--well, 'twas the Devil's own work that was cut for me. There
was no sign of the violence of the persecution abating. It might be many
months, nay years, before the minister and Master Semple might return. If
they came back no more, and I had sure tidings of their death, then indeed
I might marry Anne. But 'twas so hazardous an uncertainty that I rejected
it at once. No man could dwell with one whom he loved heart and soul so
long a time on such uncertain chances and yet keep his honor. Had the maid
been dull and passive, or had I been sluggish in blood, then there might
have been hope. But we were both quick as the summer's lightning.
If they came back, was not the fate of the girl more hard than words could
tell? The minister in all likelihood would already have gone the way of all
the earth; and she, poor lass, would be left to the care of a madman for
whom she had no spark of liking. I pictured her melancholy future. Her pure
body subject to the embraces of a loathsome fanatic, her delicate love of
the joys of life all subdued to his harsh creed. Oh, God! I swore that I
could not endure it. Her face, so rounded and lovely, would grow pinched
and white, her eyes would lose all their luster, her hair would not cluster
lovingly about her neck, her lithe grace would be gone, her footsteps
would be heavy and sad. He would rave his unmeaning gibberish in her ears,
would ill-treat her, it might be; in any case would be a perpetual sorrow
to her heart. "Oh, Anne," I cried, "though I be damned for it, I will save
you from this!"
If I left the place at once and forever, then indeed my honor would be
kept, but yet not all; for my plighted word--where would it be? I had sworn
that come what may I should stand by the maid and protect her against what
evil might come to the house. Now I was thinking of fleeing from my post
like a coward, and all because the girl's eyes were too bright for my weak
resolution. When her lover returned, if he ever came, what story would she
have to tell? This, without a doubt: "The man whom you left has gone, fled
like a thief in the night, for what reason I know not." For though I knew
well that she would divine the real cause of my action, I could not suppose
that she would tell it, for thereby she would cast grave suspicion upon
herself. So there would I be, a perjured traitor, a false friend in the
eyes of those who had trusted me.
But more, the times were violent, Clachlands and its soldiery were not far
off, and once they learned that the girl was unprotected no man knew what
evil might follow. You may imagine how bitter this thought was to me, the
thought of leaving my love in the midst of terrible dangers. Nay, more; a
selfish consideration weighed not a little with me. The winter had all but
come; the storms of this black land I dreaded like one born and bred in the
South; I knew nothing of my future course; I was poor, bare, and
friendless. The manse was a haven of shelter. Without it I should be even
as the two exiles in the hills. The cold was hard to endure; I dearly loved
warmth and comfort; the moors were as fearful to me as the deserts of
Muscovy.
One course remained. Anne had money; this much I knew. She loved me, and
would obey my will in all things; of this I was certain. What hindered me
to take her to France, the land of mirth and all pleasant things, and leave
the North and its wild folk behind forever? With money we could travel
expeditiously. Once in my own land perchance I might find some way to
repair my fortunes, for a fair wife is a wonderous incentive. There beneath
soft skies, in the mellow sunshine, among a cheerful people, she would find
the life which she loved best. What deterred me? Nothing but a meaningless
vow and some antiquated scruples. But I would be really keeping my word, I
reasoned casuistically with myself, for I had sworn to take care of Anne,
and what way so good as to take her to my own land where she would be far
from the reach of fanatic or dragoon? And this was my serious thought,
_comprenez bien_! I set it down as a sign of the state to which I had come,
that I was convinced by my own quibbling. I pictured to myself what I
should do. I would find her at breakfast in the morning. "Anne," I would
say, "I love you dearly; may I think that you love me likewise?" I could
fancy her eager, passionate reply, and then----I almost felt the breath of
her kisses on my cheek and the touch of her soft arms on my neck.
Some impulse led me to open the casement and look forth into the windy,
inscrutable night. A thin rain distilled on the earth, and the coolness was
refreshing to my hot face. The garden was black, and the bushes were marked
by an increased depth of darkness. But on the grass to the left I saw a
long shaft of light, the reflection from some lit window of the house. I
passed rapidly in thought over the various rooms there, and with a start
came to an end. Without a doubt 'twas Anne's sleeping room. What did the
lass with a light, for 'twas near midnight? I did not hesitate about the
cause, and 'twas one which inflamed my love an hundredfold. She was
sleepless, love-sick maybe (such is the vanity of man). Maybe even now my
name was the one on her lips, and my image the foremost in her mind. My
finger-tips tingled, as the blood surged into them; and I am not ashamed to
say that my eyes were not tearless. Could I ever leave my love for some
tawdry honor? _Mille tonneres!_ the thing was not to be dreamed of. I
blamed myself for having once admitted the thought.
My decision was taken, and, as was always my way, I felt somewhat easier. I
was weary, so I cast myself down upon the bed without undressing, and fell
into a profound sleep.
How long I slept I cannot tell, but in that brief period of unconsciousness
I seemed to be living ages. I saw my past life all inverted as 'twere; for
my first sight was the horror of the moors, Quentin Kennedy, and the
quarrel and the black desolation which I had undergone. I went through it
all again, vividly, acutely. Then it passed, and I had my manhood in France
before my eyes. And curiously enough, 'twas not alone, but confused with
my childhood and youth. I was an experienced man of the world, versed in
warfare and love, taverns and brawls, and yet not one whit jaded, but fresh
and hopeful and boylike. 'Twas a very pleasing feeling. I was master of
myself. I had all my self-respect. I was a man of unblemished honor,
undoubted valor. Then by an odd trick of memory all kinds of associations
became linked with it. The old sights and sounds of Rohaine: cocks crowing
in the morning; the smell of hay and almond-blossom, roses and summer
lilies; the sight of green leaves, of the fish leaping in the river; the
plash of the boat's oars among the water-weeds--all the sensations of
childhood came back with extraordinary clarity. I heard my mother's grave,
tender speech bidding us children back from play, or soothing one when he
hurt himself. I could almost believe that my father's strong voice was
ringing in my ear, when he would tell stories of the chase and battle, or
sing ballads of long ago, or bid us go to the devil if we pleased, but go
like gentlemen. 'Twas a piece of sound philosophy, and often had it been
before me in Paris, when I shrank from nothing save where my honor as a
gentleman was threatened. In that dream the old saying came on me with
curious force. I felt it to be a fine motto for life, and I was exulting in
my heart that 'twas mine, and that I had never stained the fair fame of my
house.
Suddenly, with a start I seemed to wake to the consciousness that 'twas
mine no more. Still dreaming, I was aware that I had deceived a lover, and
stolen his mistress and made her my bride. I have never felt such acute
anguish as I did in that sleep when the thought came upon me. I felt
nothing more of pride. All things had left me. My self-respect was gone
like a ragged cloak. All the old, dear life was shut out from me by a huge
barrier. Comfortable, rich, loving, and beloved, I was yet in the very jaws
of Hell. I felt myself biting out my tongue in my despair. My brain was on
fire with sheer and awful regret. I cursed the day when I had been tempted
and fallen.
And then, even while I dreamed, another sight came to my eyes--the face of
a lady, young, noble, with eyes like the Blessed Mother. In my youth I had
laid my life at the feet of a girl, and I was in hopes of making her my
wife. But Cecilia was too fair for this earth, and I scarcely dared to look
upon her she seemed so saint-like. When she died in the Forest of Arnay,
killed by a fall from her horse, 'twas I who carried her to her home, and
since that day her face was never far distant from my memory. I cherished
the image as my dearest possession, and oftentimes when I would have
embarked upon some madness I refrained, fearing the reproof of those grave
eyes. But now this was all gone. My earthy passion had driven out my old
love; all memories were rapt from me save that of the sordid present.
The very violence of my feeling awoke me, and I found myself sitting up in
bed with a mouthful of blood. Sure enough, I had gnawed my tongue till a
red froth was over my lips. My heart was beating like a windmill in a high
gale, and a deadly sickness of mind oppressed me. 'Twas some minutes before
I could think; and then--oh, joy! the relief! I had not yet taken the step
irremediable. The revulsion, the sudden ecstasy drove in a trice my former
resolution into thinnest air.
I looked out of the window. 'Twas dawn, misty and wet. Thank God, I was
still in the land of the living, still free to make my life. The tangible
room, half lit by morning, gave me a promise of reality after the pageant
of the dream. My path was clear before me, clear and straight as an
arrow; and yet even now I felt a dread of my passion overcoming my resolve,
and was in a great haste to have done with it all. My scruples about my
course were all gone. I would be breaking my oath, 'twas true, in leaving
the maid, but keeping it in the better way. The thought of the dangers to
which she would be exposed stabbed me like a dart. It had almost overcome
me. "But honor is more than life or love," I said, as I set my teeth with
stern purpose.
Yet, though all my soul was steeled into resolution, there was no ray of
hope in my heart--nothing but a dead, bleak outlook, a land of moors and
rain, an empty purse and an aimless journey.
I had come to the house a beggar scarce two months before. I must now go as
I had come, not free and careless as then, but bursting shackles of triple
brass. My old ragged garments, which I had discarded on the day after my
arrival, lay on a chair, neatly folded by Anne's deft hand. It behooved me
to take no more away than that which I had brought, so I must needs clothe
myself in these poor remnants of finery, thin and mud-stained, and filled
with many rents.