THE GATHERING STORM.
The last week came--the last night of the last week.
A radiant moonlight night. Over the blue misty hill-tops the silver
half-moon sailed, and at the garden gate stood the pretty bride elect,
alone, gazing with eyes of dreamy darkness at the mystic light. No sound
but the "sounds of the silence" broke her reverie, the twitter of a bird
in its nest, the light flutter of the cool wind, the slipping of a snake
in the underbrush. Green and silvery spread the wide fields of Kent
Hill; dark, cool and perfumy the pine woods, long and white the dusty,
high road--over all the sparkling stars and crystal moon.
Leaning on the gate, stood Norine. A trifle thinner and paler than of
old, very pale in the cold, white moon-rays, but very fair and sweet the
_mignonne_ face. Something almost pathetic in the pallid beauty of the
night touched her, the great dark eyes looked with wistful sadness up to
the starry sky. She stood there thinking of the new life to begin in a
few days now--the life that seemed to recede and grow more and more
unreal the nearer it came. Its novelty and brightness blinded her no
more--distance had lent enchantment to the view--to-night she only knew
she was about to marry a man she did not love.
The past arose before her. Laurence Thorndyke's smiling, cynical,
handsome face floated in the haze like a vision, her girl's fancy
returned with tenfold sweetness and power. If he were only to be the
bridegroom on Thursday next! A passionate longing to see him once more,
to hear his voice, filled her whole soul with unutterable desire. In the
moonlight she stretched out her arms involuntarily--in the silence she
spoke, a heart-sob in every word:
"Laurence!" she cried, "come back!"
The restless leaves fluttered around her, the wind touched her face and
swept by. She leaned wearily against the gate.
"Laurence!" she whispered, "Laurence! Laurence! If I could only see you
once more--only once--if I knew you had not quite forgotten me--if I
could only bid you good-by before we part forever, I think everything
would be easy after that."
Had the thought evoked his phantom?
Who was that coming along the silent road? A tall, slender figure,
wearing a loose, light overcoat, strangely, bewilderingly familiar. That
negligent, graceful walk, that uplifted carriage of the head--surely,
surely she knew both. She leaned forward in breathless expectation--her
lips apart, her eyes alight. Nearer and nearer he came, and the face she
had longed to see, had prayed to see, looked down upon her once more
with the old familiar smile.
Laurence Thorndyke!
She leaned against the gate still in breathless hush, pale, terrified.
She could not speak, so intense was her surprise, and the voice for
whose sound she had hungered and thirsted with her whole foolish,
romantic heart sounded in the silence:
"Norine!"
She made no answer; in her utter astonishment and swift joy she could
only stand and gaze, speechless.
"Norine, I have come back again. Have you no word of welcome for your
old friend?"
Still she did not speak--still she stood looking as though she never
could look enough--only trembling a little now.
"I have startled you," he said very gently, "coming so unexpectedly upon
you like a ghost in the moonlight. But I am no spirit, Norine--shake
hands."
He leaned across the closed gate, and took both her hands in his warm,
cordial clasp. They were like ice. Her eyes were fixed almost wildly
upon his face, her lips were trembling like the lips of a child about to
cry.
"Won't you speak then, Norine? Have I startled you so much as that? I
did not expect to see you or any one at this hour, but I had to come. Do
you hear, Norry? I had to come. And now that we have met, Norine, won't
you say you are glad to see me again?"
She drew away her hands suddenly--covered her face and broke into a
passion of tears. Perhaps she had grown hysterical, her heart had been
full before he came, and it needed only this shock to brim over. He
opened the gate abruptly and came to her side.
"Speak to me, Norine! My own--my dearest, don't cry so. Look up, and say
you are not sorry I have come!"
She looked up at him, forgetful of Richard Gilbert and her wedding day,
forgetful of loyalty and truth.
"I thought you had forgotten me," she said. "I thought I would never see
you again. And oh, I have been so miserable--so miserable!"
"And yet you are about to be married, Norine!" At that reproachful cry
she suddenly remembered the New York lawyer, and all the duties of her
life. She drew her hands away resolutely in spite of his resistance and
stood free--trembling and white.
"You are going to be married to Richard Gilbert, Norine?"
"Yes," she said, falteringly; "and you--you are going to be married,
too?"
"I?" in astonishment; "I married! Who can have told you that?"
"Mr. Gilbert."
"Then it is the first time I have ever known him--lawyer though he
be--to tell a falsehood. No, Norine, I am not going to be married."
She caught her breath in the shock, the joy of the words.
"_Not_ going to be married! Not going--Oh, Mr. Thorndyke, don't deceive
me--don't!"
"I am not deceiving you Norine--why should I? There is but one whom I
love; if she will be my wife I will marry--not unless. Can you not guess
who it is, Norine? Can you not guess what I have come from New York to
say before it is too late? I only heard of your projected marriage last
week--heard it then by merest accident. Ah, Norine! if you knew what a
shock that announcement was. Ever since I left here I have been trying
to school myself to forget you, but in vain. I never knew how utterly in
vain until I heard you were the promised wife of Richard Gilbert. I
could stay away no longer--I felt I must tell you or die. It may seem
like presumption, like madness, my coming at the eleventh hour, and you
the promised bride of another man, but I had to come. Even if you
refused me with scorn, I felt I must come and hear my doom from your
lips. They have urged me to marry another, an heiress she is, and a ward
of my uncle's--he even threatens to disinherit me if I do not. But I
will be disinherited, I will brave poverty and face the future boldly so
that the girl I love is by my side. Helen is beautiful, and will not say
no, they tell me, if I ask, but what is that to me since I love only
you. Norine, tell me I have not come too late. You don't, you can't care
for this elderly lawyer, old enough to be your father. Norine, speak and
tell me you care only for me."
"Only for you--only for you!" she cried, "O, Laurence, I love you with
all my heart!"
There was a sound as she said it, the house door opening. In the
moonlight Aunt Hetty's spare, small figure appeared in the doorway, in
the silence her pleasant voice called:
"Norine! Norine! come in out of the dew dear child."
Some giant hemlocks grew near the gate--Laurence Thorndyke drew her with
him into their black shadow, and stood perfectly still. Brilliant as the
moonlight was, Aunt Hetty might brush against them and not see them in
the leafy gloom.
"I must go," whispered Norine; "she will be here in a moment in search
of me. Laurence, let me go."
"But first--I must see you again. No one knows I am here, no one must
know. When does Gilbert arrive?"
"To-morrow," she answered, with a sudden shiver.
"My darling, don't fear--you are mine now, mine only. Mine you shall
remain." His eyes glittered strangely in the gloom as he said it. "We
cannot meet to-morrow; but we must meet to-morrow night."
"No," she faltered, "no--no. It would be wrong, dishonorable. And I dare
not, we would be discovered."
"Not if you do as I direct. What time do you all retire? Half-past ten?"
"Mostly."
"Then at eleven, or half-past, the coast is sure to be clear. At eleven
to-morrow night I will be here just without the gate, and you must steal
out and meet me."
"Laurence!"
"You must--you will, if you love me. Are you not my wife, or going to be
in a few days, which amounts to the same thing. Will Gilbert stop here?"
"I don't know. Yes, I suppose so."
"Well, even if he does it will not matter. You can steal out unheard and
unobserved, can you not?"
"Yes--no. I don't know. Laurence! Laurence! I am afraid."
"Of what? Of whom? not of me, Norine?"
She shivered a little, and shrank from his side.
"It seems so strange, so bold, so wrong. I ought not, it is wicked--I
don't know what to do."
"Then you don't care for me at all, Norine?"
He knew how to move her. The reproachful words went to her heart. _Care_
for him! He doubted that.
"You will come," he said, that exultant gleam in his eyes again, "my
loyal little girl! I have a thousand things to say to you, and we can
talk uninterruptedly then. When was your wedding to be?"
"Next Thursday."
"And this is Sunday night. To-morrow afternoon Gilbert will be here. You
see how little time we have to spare, Norine. You must meet me, for on
Thursday you shall be my wife--not his!"
"Norry! Norry!" more loudly this time, called the voice of Aunt Hetty,
still in the doorway, "where on earth is the child?"
"Let me go--let me go!" Norine cried in terror, "she will be here
directly."
"You will meet me to-morrow night, promise first?"
"Yes--yes--yes! Only let me go."
He obeyed. Retreating into the shadow of the trees, he watched her glide
out in the moonlit path, and up to the gate. He heard her ascend the
steps, and then Aunt Hetty's voice came to him again.
"Goodness gracious, child! where have you been? Do you want to get your
death, out in your bare head and the dew falling like rain?"
He could not catch Norine's faint reply. A second more, and again Miss
Hester Kent was shrilly to be heard.
"Land of hope! whatever ails you. Norry? You are whiter than the dead.
Oh, I know how it will be after to-night--you'll be laid up for a week."
He heard the house door close. Then he was alone with the rustling
trees, and the bright, countless stars. As he stepped out into the
crystal radiance, his face shone with exultant delight--alas! for
Norine! _not_ with happy love.
"I knew it!" he thought to himself in his triumph; "I knew I could take
her from him at the very church door. Now, Richard Gilbert! whose turn
is it at last--who holds the winning trump in the game? You have
baffled, and foiled, and watched me many a time, notably in the case of
Lucy West--when it came to old Darcy's ears through you, and he was
within a hair's breadth of disinheriting me. Every dog has his day.
Yours is over--mine has come. The wheel has revolved, and Laurence
Thorndyke, gambler, trickster, libertine, as you paint him, is at the
top. You have not spared me in the past, my good Gilbert, look to
yourself now, for by all the gods I'll not spare you!"
While Mr. Thorndyke, with his hat pulled low over his brows, walked home
to the obscure hotel at which he chose to stop, Norine was up in her
room alone with her tumultuous heart. She had complained of a headache
and gone at once. The plea was not altogether false--her brain was
whirling, her heart throbbing in a wild tumult, half terror, half
delight. He had come back to her, he loved her, she was going to be his
wife! For over an hour she sat, hiding even in the dusk her happy face
in her hands, with only this one thought pulsing through all her
being--she was to be his wife!
By and by she grew calm and able to think. No thought of going to bed,
or doing anything so commonplace as sleeping occurred to her. She
wrapped herself in a shawl, seated herself by the window, and so for
hours and hours sat motionless.
After all was love worth what she was about to give up for it--home,
friends, a good man's trust, her soul's truth and honor? Was Laurence
Thorndyke worth more to her than all the world beside, more than the
peace of her own conscience. Richard Gilbert loved her, honored her,
trusted her, she had taken his gifts, she had pledged herself to be his
wife. This very day, dawning yonder over the hills of Maine, would see
him here to claim her as his own forever. Was one sight of Laurence
Thorndyke's face, one touch of his hand, one seductive tone of his voice
sufficient to make her fling honor and truth to the winds, desert her
best, her only friends, break her plighted husband's heart, and make her
memory a shame and pain to them all forever? Oh, what a wretch she was,
what cruel, selfish passion this love she felt must be!
The sun rose up between the fleecy clouds, filling the world with
jubilant brightness, the sweet scents of sunrise in the country perfumed
the warm air. Norine threw up her window and leaned out, worn and
fevered with her night's vigil. That meeting under the trees seemed a
long way off now, it was as if she had lived years in a few brief hours.
Presently there was a rap at the door, and Aunt Hetty's voice outside
spoke.
"Are you up, Norry? is your headache better, dear?"
"Much better, aunty--I'll be down directly."
"Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes," said aunty, and Norine got
wearily up, and bathed her face, brushed out her tangled curls,
shrinking guiltily from her own pallid face in the glass.
"How wretchedly haggard I look," she thought, drearily; "surely every
one who looks at me will read my guilt in my face."
She went down stairs. Aunt Hetty nearly dropped the sweet, smelling
plate of hot muffins at sight of her.
"You're whiter than a ghost, child!" she cried. "You told me you were
better."
"I am better, aunty. Oh, pray don't mind my looks. Last night's
headache has made me pale--I will be as well as ever after breakfast."
But breakfast was only a pretence as far she was concerned, and the day
wore on and the fair, young face kept its pallid, startled look. She
could do nothing, neither read or sew, she wandered about the house like
a restless spirit, only shrinking from that Bluebeard's chamber, where
all the wedding finery was spread. How was she to meet Mr. Gilbert, and
the fleeting hours were hurrying after one another, as hours never had
hurried before.
The afternoon sun dropped low, the noises in the fields grew more and
more subdued, the cool evening wind swept up from the distant sea.
Norine sat in the wicker chair in the garden under the old apple-tree
and waited--waited as a doomed prisoner might the coming of the
executioner. A book lay idle an her lap, she could not read, she sat
there waiting--waiting--waiting, and schooling herself for the ordeal.
Presently, far off on the white road, rose up a cloud of dust, there
came the rolling of wheels, she caught a glimpse of a carriage. She
clasped her hands together and strove to steady herself. At last he was
here. Out of the dusty cloud came a buggy, whirling rapidly up to the
gate--out of the buggy came Richard Gilbert, his eager face turned
towards her. His quick eye had espied her; she rose up to meet him, calm
in the very depth of desperation. Mr. Gilbert sprang out and caught both
her hands in his.
"My dear, dear girl! My own Norine! how glad I am to be with you once
more! But how pale you look. Have you been ill?"
"Oh, no--that is--only my old friend, headache. Here comes Aunty Hetty
and Uncle Reuben to welcome you."
She drew back, thankful for the diversion, feeling hot and cold by
turns, and not daring to meet his eye. Their laughter, their gay
greetings were only a confused hum in her ears, she was looking at the
clump of hemlocks, and feeling--oh, such a false, treacherous guilty
creature.
"How dazed you look, little girl!" her happy lover said laughing; "am I
such an ogre, then, in your sight?"
He drew her hand beneath his arm, with the air of one who assumes a
right, and led her to the house. They were alone together in the parlor,
and she was trying to call her wandering mind to order, and listen to
him and answer his questions. She could see with terror that he was
watching her already with grave, troubled eyes. What was it, this pale,
still change in her? Dread of her approaching marriage, maiden timidity,
or worst of all--was the thought of another man haunting her still?
Tea time came and was a relief; after tea, Mr. Gilbert proposed a walk.
Norine took her hat passively, and went out with him into the hushed and
placid twilight. The pale primrose light was fading out of the western
sky, and a rising wind was tossing the arms of the hemlocks where she
stood with another lover last night.
It was a very silent walk. They strolled along the lonesome road, with
the primrose light growing grayer and grayer through the velvety
meadows, where the quiet cows grazed. Something of the dark shadows
deepening around them seemed to steal into the man's heart, and dull it
with nameless dread, but there was no voice in the rising wind, in the
whispering trees, in the creeping gloom, to tell him of what was so
near.
A very silent walk--the last they would ever take. The little talking
done, Mr. Gilbert did himself. He told her that all his preparations for
his bride, all his arrangements for her comfort were made. Their home in
New York's stateliest avenue was ready and waiting--their wedding tour
would be to Montreal and Niagara, unless Norine had some other choice.
But she would be glad to see once more the quaint, gray, dear old
Canadian town--would she not?
"Yes, she would ever be glad to see Montreal. No, she had no other
choice." She shivered as she said it, looking far off with blank eyes
that dare not meet his. "Niagara would do very well, all places were
alike to her. It was growing cold and dark,"--abruptly this--"suppose
they went home."
Something in her tone and manner, in her want of interest and
enthusiasm, hurt him. More silently than they had come they recrossed
the darkening fields. The moon was rising as they drew near the house,
forcing its way up through dark and jagged clouds. She paused suddenly
for a moment, with her pale face turned towards it. Mr. Gilbert paused,
too, looking at the lowering sky.
"Listen to the wind," he said. "We will have a change to-morrow."
"A change!" she said, in a hushed sort of voice. "Yes, the storm is very
near."
"And you are shivering in this raw night wind. You are white and cold as
a spirit, my darling. Come let us go in."
His baggage had arrived--a trunk and valise stood in the hall as they
entered. The sister and brothers sat in holiday attire in the keeping
room, but very grave and quiet. The shadow that had fallen on Richard
Gilbert in the twilight fields seemed to have fallen here, too.
Norine sat at the piano, her face turned away from the light, and played
the melodies he asked for. From these she drifted gradually into music
more in accordance with her mood, playing in a mournful, minor key,
until Mr. Gilbert could endure the saddening sweetness no longer.
"Your music is very melancholy, my dear," he said quietly. "Will you not
sing us something instead."
"Not to-night, I think. I find my headache has not altogether departed.
If you will kindly excuse me, I will retire."
She got up as she spoke, lit a lamp, and with a brief good-night, was
gone.
It was not yet ten o'clock, but there was little inducement to linger
now. Mr. Gilbert owned to being rather fatigued, took his light, and
departed. Before half-past ten all were in their rooms, the doors and
windows secured for the night. By eleven all were asleep--all save one.
Norine sat at her window, her light shaded, her watch (one of Richard
Gilbert's presents to his bride elect) open before her, gazing out into
the gusty darkness, and waiting. Her hands were tightly clasped
together, silent, tearless sobs shook her at times as remorse swept
through her soul, and yet not for one minute did she think of
withdrawing from her tryst. But she would not fly with Laurence
Thorndyke--no, no! Every best impulse within her cried out she would
not, she could not. She was a wretch for even thinking of it--a wretch
for going to this meeting, but she would only go to say farewell
forever. She loved him, but she belonged to another man; it would be
better to die than to betray him. She would bid Laurence Thorndyke go
to-night, and never see him more.
The threatening storm seemed drawing very near. The moon was half
obscured in dense clouds; the wind tore around the gables; the trees
tossed their long, green arms wildly aloft. Within the house profoundest
silence reigned.
Half-past eleven! the hour of tryst; she seemed to count the moments by
the dull beating of her heart. She rose up, extinguished her lamp, put
on a waterproof, drawing the hood over her head, took her slippers in
her hand, and opened the door. She paused and listened, half choked by
the loud throbbing of her heart, by guilty, nameless dread. All was
still--no sound but the surging of the trees without; no glimmer of
light from any room. She stole on tiptoe along the passage, down the
stairs, and into the lower hall. Noiselessly she unlocked the door,
opened it, and was out in the windy dark, under the gloom of the trees.
One second's pause, her breath coming in frightened gasps, then she was
flitting away in the chill night wind to meet her lover. She reached the
gate, leaned over it eagerly, straining her eyes through the gloom.
"Laurence!" she said, in a tremulous whisper. "Laurence, I have come."
"My own brave little girl!"
A tall figure stepped forward from beneath a tree, too warm hands
clasped hers.
"Norry, you're a trump, by Jove! Come out at once. All is ready. You
must fly with me to-night."
But she shrank back--shocked, terrified, yet longing with all her soul
to obey.
"No, no!" she cried. "I can never go--never! never! never! O Lawrence!
I have come here to bid you good-by forever!"
His answer was to laugh aloud. His face was flushed his blue eyes
gleaming--Mr. Laurence Thorndyke, bold enough at all times, had primed
himself with brandy for to-night's work, until he was ready to face and
defy devils and men.
"Good-by forever!" he repeated. "Yes, that's so likely, my darling. Come
out here, Norry--come out. I've no notion of talking with a five-barred
gate between us. So old Gilbert came down to his wedding this afternoon
didn't he? By Jupiter! what a row there will be to-morrow, when the cage
is opened, and the bird found flown."
He laughed recklessly aloud, as he opened the gate and drew her out.
"Not if I know it, Norry. No dry-as-dust, grim, solemn owl of a lawyer
for my little Canadian rosebud, old as the everlasting hills, and
priggish as the devil. No, no! we'll change all that. Before morning
dawns you and I will be safely in Boston, and before another night falls
you'll be my blessed little wife--the loveliest bride from Maine to
Florida, and I the most blissful of bridegrooms. All is ready--here are
my horse and buggy--the sloop sails in an hour, and then--let them catch
us who can!"
Either the excitement of his triumph, or the French brandy, had set Mr.
Laurence Thorndyke half wild. He drew her with him, heedless of her
struggles, her passionate protest.
"Can't go? Oh, that's all bosh, my darling! you've got to come. I love
you, and you love me--(sounds like a child's valentine, don't it?)--and
you don't care that for old Dick Gilbert. You won't go? If you don't
I'll shoot myself before morning--I swear I will! You don't want me to
shoot myself, do you? I can't live without you, Norry, and I don't mean
to try. After we're married, and the honeymoon's over, I'll fetch you
back to the old folks if you like, upon my sacred honor I will. Not a
word now, my little angel, I won't listen. Of course you've scruples,
and all that. I think the more of you for them, but you'll thank me for
not listening one day. Here's the carriage--get in, get in, get in!"
He fairly lifted her in as he spoke.
Stunned, terrified, bewildered, she struggled in vain. He only laughed
aloud, caught up the reins, and struck the horse with the whip. The
horse, a spirited one, darted forward like a flash; there was a girl's
faint, frightened scream.
"O Laurence! let me go!"
A wild laugh drowned it--they flew over the ground like the wind. Norine
was gone! His exultant singing mingled with the crash of the wheels as
they disappeared.
"She is won! they are gone over bush, brake and scar;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Lochinvar."