If you will be good enough to look back on the one romance in which,
like the rest of the world, you probably indulged yourself, you will
remember, perhaps more distinctly than any other feature, the
_presentiment_ which haunted you from the very beginning. We were
absurdly sanguine and hopeful in those days--full of chivalrous resolves
and unlimited aspirations; but still the feeling would come back--if,
indeed, it ever left us--that in the dim background there was difficulty
and danger. We were not surprised when the small white speck rose out of
the sea, and it needed no prophet to tell us then that the heavens would
soon be black with clouds, and that there would be a great rain (which,
indeed, was the case, for there ensued a long continuance of wet
weather; it was a very tearful season). Oddly enough, that same
presentiment did not make us particularly melancholy or uncomfortable,
but seemed rather to give a zest to our simple pleasures, relieving them
from any tinge of sameness or insipidity. When the _dénouement_ came we
did not exactly see things in the same light certainly, and it took some
time to settle thoroughly down into our present theory, that "it was all
for the best."
It is the old story of Thomas the Rhymer over and over again (we were
all rhymers once). The lover knows that there is peril in the path, but
not the less joyously he strides on by the side of the beautiful queen.
How sweetly they ring, the silver bells on the neck of the milk-white
palfrey; not so sweetly, though, as her low, musical tones. So on they
fare, till the world of realities is left far behind, and they find
themselves at their journey's end. It is very happy, that year spent in
her kingdom; but so like a dream that he does not appreciate its
pleasures so well at the moment as he will in the weary after-years. Yet
the waking came too soon. The sojourner had not half grown tired of his
resting-place; the bloom has not faded on the wondrous fruits and
flowers: the strangely sweet wine has not lost its savor, when it is
time for him to be gone, for a dreadful whisper runs through the company
that to-morrow the teind to hell must be paid. Well, the black
tax-gatherer is balked by a day, and the wanderer is back at Ercildoune
again. Very dreary looks the gray, bare moorland. Do they call that
foliage on the stunted fir-trees? It is only the ghost of a forest. The
trim parterres have no beauty or fragrance for one that has lingered in
more glorious gardens and plucked redder roses. Tabret and viol jangle
harshly in the ears that have rioted in melodies made by fairy harpers.
The village maidens may be comely, but they are somewhat clumsy withal;
the earthen floor trembles under their feet when they lead their simple
dances; very different from the steps that kept time to a wild, weird
music, stirring but scarcely bending the grass-blades. There is no color
in their flaxen locks, and little light in their pale-blue eyes; these
will not bear comparison with the smooth, braided tresses that
glistened like blue-black serpents, or the glances that rained down
liquid fire through the twilight of the forests of Elf-land. Slowly the
discontented dreamer realizes the fact that the spell is still upon
him--riveted when he stole that first fatal kiss in despite of his
mistress's warning. Nothing is left for him now but to expiate his folly
in the loneliness of the gray old tower, and to look forth, hoping to
see the grass-green robe gleam again against the setting sun, and to
hear the silver bells chime once more in the still evening air.
Vain--worse than vain. With stiffened limbs and grizzled hair, we are
not worth beguiling.
This is essentially a masculine illustration, and only applies to Cecil
Tresilyan thus far. She was sensible of the influence that strengthened
its hold upon her every day, and did not now wish or try to resist it,
but she grew proportionately doubtful and uneasy about the event. A
feeling, very strange and new to one of a temperament like hers, began
to creep over her now and then. At such times she owned that her eyes
were the more eagerly and steadfastly fixed on the Present, because they
did not dare to look into the Future. Yet, as far as she knew, there was
no ground for much apprehension.
It is always so. Only when we are carrying something rare and precious
do we appreciate the possible perils of the road. How much steeper the
hills are now, how much deeper and darker the ravines, how much more
frequent the crags that might so easily conceal a marauder, than when we
passed them some months ago chanting the reckless roundel of the _vacuus
viator_.
We said, you remember, before, that Miss Tresilyan had one subject of
self-reproach, for which she had never gained her own absolution. The
whispers that had never been quite silenced began to make themselves
heard unpleasantly often, and now they just hinted at Retribution. As
our poor Cecil must come to confession some time or another, it seems to
me this is a convenient season.
At the country-house where she was spending Christmas, three years
before the date of our story, she met Mark Waring. She knew his
antecedents: how, when sudden troubles came upon his family, he gave up
diplomacy, which he had entered upon, and took up the law--hating it
cordially--simply because a fair opening was given him there of securing
to his mother and sisters something better than bread. He never
pretended to feel the slightest interest in his profession, but went on
slaving at it resolutely and successfully. He made no merit of it
either, but always spoke, and I believe thought of it, as the merest
matter of course--the right thing to do under the circumstance. There
was a hardihood of principle about all this which Cecil rather admired;
and his frank, bold bearing, and simple, straightforward way of putting
thoughts that were worth listening to into terse, strong language, aided
the first favorable impression. She determined to make Mark like her;
and when she had a fancy of this kind, she was apt to carry it out
without much consideration for the comfort or convenience of the person
destined to the experiment. She had no deliberate intention of doing any
body any harm; but those innocent little whims and projects of
amusement do more mischief sometimes than the most systematic
machinations of devil-craft. Why, when you begin even to _write_ a
chapter, it is very difficult to say where it will end; when you begin
to talk it or act it, it is harder still to prophesy aright. A
character, or a sentence, or an idea, which looked quite insignificant
at first, assumes perfectly portentous dimensions and importance before
we have done with it; so that the alternate effect is nearly as
startling when realized as that produced by Alice's conjuration:
She crossed him thrice, that lady bold;
He rose beneath her hand,
The fairest knight on Scottish mould,
Her brother, Ethert Brand.
So while Cecil was drawing on Mark Waring to talk about his daily
life--sympathizing with him about his hard, distasteful work, and
pitying his loneliness, she never guessed how her words were being
branded, one by one, on the earnest, steadfast heart, that her own lofty
nature was not worthy to understand. In a week after their first meeting
she had drawn from him all the love he had to give; and men of Mark
Waring's mould can only find room for one love in a lifetime. Such
characters are exceptional, fortunately; for they are very impracticable
and difficult to get on with, and their antiquated notions are
perpetually contrasting and conflicting with the established prejudices
of polite and well-organized society--sometimes even checking the same
for an instant in its easy, conventional flow. They _won't_ see that of
all ways of spending time and thought, the most absurdly unprofitable is
to waste them on a memory. Yet--O mine excellent friend and cynical
preceptor! to whom, for sage instruction, I owe a debt of gratitude that
I never mean to repay--I beseech you, consort not too much with these
misguided men. They are not likely to infect you with their pestilent
doctrines and principles; but they may, in an unguarded moment, make you
do violence to your favorite maxim--_Nil admirari_.
With all his strong common sense, Mark was lamentably deficient in
worldly wisdom. He never saw the obstacles that would have daunted
others. Could any thing be more improbable than that the most triumphant
beauty of the season should seriously incline to share the long up-hill
struggle of a rising barrister? Those dull Temple-chambers are lucky
enough if the sun condescends to visit them at rare intervals in his
journey westward. But Waring's own singleness of purpose beguiled him
more effectually than the most inordinate vanity could have done.
Putting character out of the question, he thought a woman could only
derogate by allying herself to one of inferior birth; and he knew his
own blood to be nearly equal to Miss Tresilyan's. He was right so
far--if she had only loved him she would have subscribed readily to
every article of his simple, knightly creed. The last idea that entered
his mind was, that she could have stooped so low as to trifle with him.
It was the old mistake. We measure other people's feelings by the
intensity of our own, and think it hard when we meet with
disappointment. Yet a certain misgiving, that he did not like to
analyze, kept him from bringing the question to an issue till the day
before his departure. Then he told her frankly what his prospects were,
and asked her to share them.
Now "the Refuser" was so used to seeing men commit themselves in this
way on the very shortest notice, and without the faintest encouragement,
that the situation had ceased to afford her much excitement: a proposal
no more made her nervous than file-firing does a thoroughly-broken
charger. For once, however, she felt uncomfortable and vexed with
herself, though she did not guess the extent of the harm she had done.
Nothing could be kinder or gentler than her answer, but nothing could be
more decisive. On the cold, smooth rock there was not a cleft or a
trailing weed for despair to cling to in its drowning agony. So the hope
of Mark Waring's life went down there without a cry or a struggle--as it
is fitting the hope of a strong heart should die--into the depths of the
great sea that never will give up its dead.
The lover of the present day is rather a curious study immediately after
he has encountered a defeat or disappointment. Sometimes the phase is a
mild melancholy. I remember a case of this sort not very long ago. The
reflections on things in general that flowed constantly from that man's
lips for the space of about a fortnight were incredible to those who
knew him well. They were so calmly philosophic--so pleasantly ironical,
without a tinge of bitterness--so frequently relieved by the flashes of
keen humor--that to listen to them (the weather being intensely hot) was
soothing and refreshing in the extreme. Every body was sorry when he was
consoled; for, since that time he has never made an observation worth
recording. She was a very clever woman who reduced our friend to this
abnormal state, though she grossly maltreated him; and, from close
association, some of her conversational talent, perhaps insensibly, had
got into his constitution; but it could not thrive in such an
uncongenial soil, where there was nothing to nourish it. Some men,
again, take the reckless and boisterous line, plunging for a while into
all sorts of demoralization, with an evident contentment in having a
fair excuse for the same in their disappointment. Certainly it is rather
a luxurious state of things--to satisfy one's vengeance while gratifying
one's appetites--and to know that people are saying all the time, "Poor
Charlie! He's very much to be pitied. It's entirely Fanny Grey's fault.
He is dreadfully altered since she behaved to him so shamefully."
Others--probably the majority--go for complete indifference, and succeed
creditably on the whole. A few, _very_ few, know that their happiness
has got its death-wound, and are able to take it bravely and silently.
It is of one of these last we are speaking.
Mark Waring was too honest to affect insensibility; he was not of the
stuff out of which accomplished actors are made. He walked quickly to
the window, that his face might not betray him, and did not turn round
till he thought he had disciplined it thoroughly. It was but a half
victory after all; for when Cecil met his eyes her cheek became the
paler of the two. She read there enough to make her wish that she could
give up all her former triumphs, and undo this last success. She tried
to tell him that she was deeply grieved and repentant; but the words
would not come. Mark forgot his own sorrow when he saw large drops
hanging ready to fall on the dark, long eyelashes.
"Pray do not distress yourself," he said, quite steadily; "such
presumption as mine deserves harsher treatment than it has met with from
you. You are not answerable for my extravagant self-delusions. I would
ask you to forgive me for having been so precipitate--only I know, now,
that if I had waited seven years your answer would have been the same.
Let us part in kindness; it will be very long before we meet again; but
I do not think I shall forget you; and I hope you will remember me if
you ever want a hand or head to carry out any one of your wishes or
whims. It would make me very happy if I could so serve you. Now,
good-by. It is only going this afternoon instead of to-morrow. I must
try and make up for lost time, too, by working a little harder."
The smile that accompanied those last words haunted Cecil for many, many
days. She knew already enough of Waring to be certain that he would
never sink into maudlin sentimentality; it saddened her inexpressibly to
fancy him alone in his gloomy chambers, when the night was waning,
chained to those crabbed law-papers from a dreary sense of duty, but
without a hope or an interest to cheer him on; he had given up ambition
long ago. (There are many clocks that keep time to a second, when their
striking part is ruined utterly.) She felt angry, then and afterward,
that she could find no words to say the least appropriate or expressive;
she held out her hand timidly, pleading for forgiveness with her eyes.
He just touched it with his lips before he let it go. That kiss of peace
was a more precious tribute than any of her hundred vassals had offered
to the proud Tresilyan. So they parted.
Cecil's conscience was disagreeably uncompromising, and for a long time,
declined to admit any valid excuse for the mischief she had done; but
time and change are efficient anodynes; and her penance was nearly
completed when she came to Dorade. Of late, however, the reproachful
vision had presented itself oftener than ever. She realized more
completely the pain that Mark Waring must have endured, as she guessed
what would be the bitterness of her own feelings, if it should prove
that she had mistaken Royston Keene. That sorrowful memory seemed to
rise before her like a warning spectre, waving her back from the path
she had begun to tread. Truly, Cecil Tresilyan _was_ different from the
generality of her sex; or, when her own heart was sorely imperiled, she
would never have found time to think so often, and so regretfully, of
one that she had broken. But, when a woman has once determined to set
her whole fortunes on the turn of a die, where is the monitor that will
teach her prudence or self-restraint? She will hardly be persuaded
"though one rose from the dead."