TREATS OF A HANDKERCHIEF
Running through Beckley Park, clear from the chalk, a little stream
gave light and freshness to its pasturage. Near where it entered, a
bathing-house of white marble had been built, under which the water
flowed, and the dive could be taken to a paved depth, and you swam out
over a pebbly bottom into sun-light, screened by the thick-weeded
banks, loose-strife and willow-herb, and mint, nodding over you, and in
the later season long-plumed yellow grasses. Here at sunrise the young
men washed their limbs, and here since her return home English Rose
loved to walk by night. She had often spoken of the little happy stream
to Evan in Portugal, and when he came to Beckley Court, she arranged
that he should sleep in a bed-room overlooking it. The view was sweet
and pleasant to him, for all the babbling of the water was of Rose, and
winding in and out, to East, to North, it wound to embowered hopes in
the lover’s mind, to tender dreams; and often at dawn, when dressing,
his restless heart embarked on it, and sailed into havens, the phantom
joys of which coloured his life for him all the day. But most he loved
to look across it when the light fell. The palest solitary gleam along
its course spoke to him rich promise. The faint blue beam of a star
chained all his longings, charmed his sorrows to sleep. Rose like a
fairy had breathed her spirit here, and it was a delight to the silly
luxurious youth to lie down, and fix some image of a flower bending to
the stream on his brain, and in the cradle of fancies that grew round
it, slide down the tide of sleep.
From the image of a flower bending to the stream, like his own soul to
the bosom of Rose, Evan built sweet fables. It was she that exalted
him, that led him through glittering chapters of adventure. In his
dream of deeds achieved for her sake, you may be sure the young man
behaved worthily, though he was modest when she praised him, and his
limbs trembled when the land whispered of his great reward to come. The
longer he stayed at Beckley the more he lived in this world within
world, and if now and then the harsh outer life smote him, a look or a
word from Rose encompassed him again, and he became sensible only of a
distant pain.
At first his hope sprang wildly to possess her, to believe, that after
he had done deeds that would have sent ordinary men in the condition of
shattered hulks to the hospital, she might be his. Then blow upon blow
was struck, and he prayed to be near her till he died: no more. Then
she, herself, struck him to the ground, and sitting in his chamber,
sick and weary, on the evening of his mishap, Evan’s sole desire was to
obtain the handkerchief he had risked his neck for. To have that, and
hold it to his heart, and feel it as a part of her, seemed much.
Over a length of the stream the red round harvest-moon was rising, and
the weakened youth was this evening at the mercy of the charm that
encircled him. The water curved, and dimpled, and flowed flat, and the
whole body of it rushed into the spaces of sad splendour. The clustered
trees stood like temples of darkness; their shadows lengthened
supernaturally; and a pale gloom crept between them on the sward. He
had been thinking for some time that Rose would knock at his door, and
give him her voice, at least; but she did not come; and when he had
gazed out on the stream till his eyes ached, he felt that he must go
and walk by it. Those little flashes of the hurrying tide spoke to him
of a secret rapture and of a joy-seeking impulse; the pouring onward of
all the blood of life to one illumined heart, mournful from excess of
love.
Pardon me, I beg. Enamoured young men have these notions. Ordinarily
Evan had sufficient common sense and was as prosaic as mankind could
wish him; but he has had a terrible fall in the morning, and a young
woman rages in his brain. Better, indeed, and “more manly,” were he to
strike and raise huge bosses on his forehead, groan, and so have done
with it. We must let him go his own way.
At the door he was met by the Countess. She came into the room without
a word or a kiss, and when she did speak, the total absence of any
euphuism gave token of repressed excitement yet more than her angry
eyes and eager step. Evan had grown accustomed to her moods, and if one
moment she was the halcyon, and another the petrel, it no longer
disturbed him, seeing that he was a stranger to the influences by which
she was affected. The Countess rated him severely for not seeking
repose and inviting sympathy. She told him that the Jocelyns had one
and all combined in an infamous plot to destroy the race of Harrington,
and that Caroline had already succumbed to their assaults; that the
Jocelyns would repent it, and sooner than they thought for; and that
the only friend the Harringtons had in the house was Miss Bonner, whom
Providence would liberally reward.
Then the Countess changed to a dramatic posture, and whispered aloud,
“Hush: she is here. She is so anxious. Be generous, my brother, and let
her see you!”
“She?” said Evan, faintly. “May she come, Louisa?” He hoped for Rose.
“I have consented to mask it,” returned the Countess. “Oh, what do I
not sacrifice for you!”
She turned from him, and to Evan’s chagrin introduced Juliana Bonner.
“Five minutes, remember!” said the Countess. “I must not hear of more.”
And then Evan found himself alone with Miss Bonner, and very uneasy.
This young lady had restless brilliant eyes, and a contraction about
the forehead which gave one the idea of a creature suffering perpetual
headache. She said nothing, and when their eyes met she dropped hers in
a manner that made silence too expressive. Feeling which, Evan began:
“May I tell you that I think it is I who ought to be nursing you, not
you me?”
Miss Bonner replied by lifting her eyes and dropping them as before,
murmuring subsequently, “Would you do so?”
“Most certainly, if you did me the honour to select me.”
The fingers of the young lady commenced twisting and intertwining on
her lap. Suddenly she laughed:
“It would not do at all. You won’t be dismissed from your present
service till you’re unfit for any other.”
“What do you mean?” said Evan, thinking more of the unmusical laugh
than of the words.
He received no explanation, and the irksome silence caused him to look
through the window, as an escape for his mind, at least. The waters
streamed on endlessly into the golden arms awaiting them. The low moon
burnt through the foliage. In the distance, over a reach of the flood,
one tall aspen shook against the lighted sky.
“Are you in pain?” Miss Bonner asked, and broke his reverie.
“No; I am going away, and perhaps I sigh involuntarily.”
“You like these grounds?”
“I have never been so happy in any place.”
“With those cruel young men about you?”
Evan now laughed. “We don’t call young men cruel, Miss Bonner.”
“But were they not? To take advantage of what Rose told them—it was
base!”
She had said more than she intended, possibly, for she coloured under
his inquiring look, and added: “I wish I could say the same as you of
Beckley. Do you know, I am called Rose’s thorn?”
“Not by Miss Jocelyn herself, certainly!”
“How eager you are to defend her. But am I not—tell me—do I not look
like a thorn in company with her?”
“There is but the difference that ill health would make.”
“Ill health? Oh, yes! And Rose is so much better born.”
“To that, I am sure, she does not give a thought.”
“Not Rose? Oh!”
An exclamation, properly lengthened, convinces the feelings more
satisfactorily than much logic. Though Evan claimed only the
hand-kerchief he had won, his heart sank at the sound. Miss Bonner
watched him, and springing forward, said sharply:
“May I tell you something?”
“You may tell me what you please.”
“Then, whether I offend you or not, you had better leave this.”
“I am going,” said Evan. “I am only waiting to introduce your tutor to
you.”
She kept her eyes on him, and in her voice as well there was a depth,
as she returned:
“Mr. Laxley, Mr. Forth, and Harry, are going to Lymport to-morrow.”
Evan was looking at a figure, whose shadow was thrown towards the house
from the margin of the stream.
He stood up, and taking the hand of Miss Bonner, said:
“I thank you. I may, perhaps, start with them. At any rate, you have
done me a great service, which I shall not forget.”
The figure by the stream he knew to be that of Rose. He released Miss
Bonner’s trembling moist hand, and as he continued standing, she moved
to the door, after once following the line of his eyes into the
moonlight.
Outside the door a noise was audible. Andrew had come to sit with his
dear boy, and the Countess had met and engaged and driven him to the
other end of the passage, where he hung remonstrating with her.
“Why, Van,” he said, as Evan came up to him, “I thought you were in a
profound sleep. Louisa said—”
“Silly Andrew!” interposed the Countess, “do you not observe he is
sleep-walking now?” and she left them with a light laugh to go to
Juliana, whom she found in tears. The Countess was quite aware of the
efficacy of a little bit of burlesque lying to cover her retreat from
any petty exposure.
Evan soon got free from Andrew. He was under the dim stars, walking to
the great fire in the East. The cool air refreshed him. He was simply
going to ask for his own, before he went, and had no cause to fear what
would be thought by any one. A handkerchief! A man might fairly win
that, and carry it out of a very noble family, without having to blush
for himself.
I cannot say whether he inherited his feeling for rank from Mel, his
father, or that the Countess had succeeded in instilling it, but Evan
never took Republican ground in opposition to those who insulted him,
and never lashed his “manhood” to assert itself, nor compared the
fineness of his instincts with the behaviour of titled gentlemen.
Rather he seemed to admit the distinction between his birth and that of
a gentleman, admitting it to his own soul, as it were, and struggled
simply as men struggle against a destiny. The news Miss Bonner had
given him sufficed to break a spell which could not have endured
another week; and Andrew, besides, had told him of Caroline’s illness.
He walked to meet Rose, honestly intending to ask for his own, and wish
her good-bye.
Rose saw him approach, and knew him in the distance. She was sitting on
a lower branch of the aspen, that shot out almost from the root, and
stretched over the intervolving rays of light on the tremulous water.
She could not move to meet him. She was not the Rose whom we have
hitherto known. Love may spring in the bosom of a young girl, like
Hesper in the evening sky, a grey speck in a field of grey, and not be
seen or known, till surely as the circle advances the faint planet
gathers fire, and, coming nearer earth, dilates, and will and must be
seen and known. When Evan lay like a dead man on the ground, Rose
turned upon herself as the author of his death, and then she felt this
presence within her, and her heart all day had talked to her of it, and
was throbbing now, and would not be quieted. She could only lift her
eyes and give him her hand; she could not speak. She thought him cold,
and he was; cold enough to think that she and her cousin were not
unlike in their manner, though not deep enough to reflect that it was
from the same cause.
She was the first to find her wits: but not before she spoke did she
feel, and start to feel, how long had been the silence, and that her
hand was still in his.
“Why did you come out, Evan? It was not right.”
“I came to speak to you. I shall leave early to-morrow, and may not see
you alone.”
“You are going——?”
She checked her voice, and left the thrill of it wavering in him.
“Yes, Rose, I am going; I should have gone before.”
“Evan!” she grasped his hand, and then timidly retained it. “You have
not forgiven me? I see now. I did not think of any risk to you. I only
wanted you to beat. I wanted you to be first and best. If you knew how
I thank God for saving you! What my punishment would have been!”
Till her eyes were full she kept them on him, too deep in emotion to be
conscious of it.
He could gaze on her tears coldly.
“I should be happy to take the leap any day for the prize you offered.
I have come for that.”
“For what, Evan?” But while she was speaking the colour mounted in her
cheeks, and she went on rapidly:
“Did you think it unkind of me not to come to nurse you. I must tell
you, to defend myself. It was the Countess, Evan. She is offended with
me—very justly, I dare say. She would not let me come. What could I do?
I had no claim to come.”
Rose was not aware of the import of her speech. Evan, though he felt
more in it, and had some secret nerves set tingling and dancing, was
not to be moved from his demand.
“Do you intend to withhold it, Rose?”
“Withhold what, Evan? Anything that you wish for is yours.”
“The handkerchief. Is not that mine?”
Rose faltered a word. Why did he ask for it? Because he asked for
nothing else, and wanted no other thing save that.
Why did she hesitate? Because it was so poor a gift, and so unworthy of
him.
And why did he insist? Because in honour she was bound to surrender it.
And why did she hesitate still? Let her answer.
“Oh, Evan! I would give you anything but that; and if you are going
away, I should beg so much to keep it.”
He must have been in a singular state not to see her heart in the
refusal, as was she not to see his in the request. But Love is blindest
just when the bandage is being removed from his forehead.
“Then you will not give it me, Rose? Do you think I shall go about
boasting ‘This is Miss Jocelyn’s handkerchief, and I, poor as I am,
have won it’?”
The taunt struck aslant in Rose’s breast with a peculiar sting. She
stood up.
“I will give it you, Evan.”
Turning from him she drew it forth, and handed it to him hurriedly. It
was warm. It was stained with his blood. He guessed where it had been
nestling, and, now, as if by revelation, he saw that large sole star in
the bosom of his darling, and was blinded by it and lost his senses.
“Rose! beloved!”
Like the flower of his nightly phantasy bending over the stream, he
looked and saw in her sweet face the living wonders that encircled his
image; she murmuring: “No, you must hate me.”
“I love you, Rose, and dare to say it—and it’s unpardonable. Can you
forgive me?”
She raised her face to him.
“Forgive you for loving me?” she said.
Holy to them grew the stillness: the ripple suffused in golden
moonlight: the dark edges of the leaves against superlative brightness.
Not a chirp was heard, nor anything save the cool and endless carol of
the happy waters, whose voices are the spirits of silence. Nature
seemed consenting that their hands should be joined, their eyes
intermingling. And when Evan, with a lover’s craving, wished her lips
to say what her eyes said so well, Rose drew his fingers up, and, with
an arch smile and a blush, kissed them. The simple act set his heart
thumping, and from the look of love, she saw an expression of pain pass
through him. Her fealty—her guileless, fearless truth—which the kissing
of his hand brought vividly before him, conjured its contrast as well
in this that was hidden from her, or but half suspected. Did she
know—know and love him still? He thought it might be: but that fell
dead on her asking:
“Shall I speak to Mama to-night?”
A load of lead crushed him.
“Rose!” he said; but could get no farther.
Innocently, or with well-masked design, Rose branched off into little
sweet words about his bruised shoulder, touching it softly, as if she
knew the virtue that was in her touch, and accusing her selfish self as
she caressed it:
“Dearest Evan! you must have been sure I thought no one like you. Why
did you not tell me before? I can hardly believe it now! Do you know,”
she hurried on, “they think me cold and heartless,—am I? I must be, to
have made you run such risk; but yet I’m sure I could not have survived
you.”
Dropping her voice, Rose quoted Ruth. As Evan listened, the words were
like food from heaven poured into his spirit.
“To-morrow,” he kept saying to himself, “to-morrow I will tell her all.
Let her think well of me a few short hours.”
But the passing minutes locked them closer; each had a new link—in a
word, or a speechless breath, or a touch: and to break the marriage of
their eyes there must be infinite baseness on one side, or on the other
disloyalty to love.
The moon was a silver ball, high up through the aspen-leaves. Evan
kissed the hand of Rose, and led her back to the house. He had appeased
his conscience by restraining his wild desire to kiss her lips.
In the hall they parted. Rose whispered, “Till death!” giving him her
hands.