Write woman's verses, and dream woman's dreams:
But let me feel your perfume in my home,
To make my sabbath after working-days.
Bloom out your youth beside me,--be my wife.
_Aurora Leigh._
Wynifred stood idly at the window.
It was a lovely day--one of those real spring days which we in England
so rarely enjoy--perhaps one, perhaps half-a-dozen in the whole year. A
brief interlude in the east wind's unfailing rigor; a breathing time
when the black shadows leave the land and color begins to dawn over
copse and meadow. The sea-ward slopes of the valley were beginning to
grow green. The borders of the garden were purple and gold with
crocuses, and sweet with violets.
Hilda had yesterday brought in a sumptuous handful of Lent lilies from
the woods, lighting up the room like a flash of condensed sunlight.
There were countless ripples on the sea, a breath of life and spring in
the warm air. The birds were twittering and building, and the long
hazel-blooms fell in pale gold and crimson tassels on the pathway. Miss
Ellen lay on her sofa, anxiously watching the silent pale girl at the
window.
They were alone. Hilda was out riding with Henry Fowler.
Miss Ellen had been watching the clock, wondering how long Wynifred
would remain speechless and in the same position if left to herself.
When the silence had lasted more than fifty minutes, she felt it
unbearable.
"Wynifred, my dear, a penny for your thoughts," said she.
Wyn started violently, and faced slowly round. Her eyes wore a dull
look, as if she was not quite fully awake.
"I don't think I was thinking of anything in particular," said she,
sitting down listlessly and taking up her work, which lay on a table
near. Miss Ellen watched her keenly, as she turned the embroidery this
way and that, smoothed it with her hand, threaded a needle with silk as
if she felt that some pretence of employment was necessary, but, after
five minutes' spasmodic working, let it drop idly in her lap, leaned
back in her chair, and again became apathetic.
It was disheartening indeed to watch her.
Miss Ellen recalled the energetic, slender Wynifred of last summer, with
her eager, vivid interest in everything, her ready tongue, her gay
laugh, her quick fingers.
How could the girl tell at what precise amount of work she would have to
stop short? How should she recognise the signs of overfatigue? To spur
herself on had been her only care,--to check her cravings for rest and
leisure, as something to be crushed down and despised.
Now she was like a clock with damaged works. If you shook her, she would
go fitfully for a few minutes, and then relapse into her former
lethargy.
Of course, the completeness of her breakdown had been greatly aggravated
by her own private unhappiness, and by the terrible trouble of her
brother's total inability to stand up against his reverse of fortune. It
seemed as if the consciousness of Osmond's utter weakness had sapped all
her strength, had struck away her last prop. From such a depth of
sickness and depression, she would, naturally take some time to
re-ascend. Miss Ellen comforted herself with the thought that her cure
must be gradual, but she could not feel that it had yet so much as
begun.
Wynifred could not be made to talk on any subject except the sun, the
flowers, the chough, the villagers, or some such indifferent theme. To
talk about books made her head ache, she said, and she never put pen to
paper. Hilda had now and then tried her, by casually leaving writing
materials about in the room where she sat; but, alone or in company, she
never touched them.
She spoke of no one and asked after no one but Osmond, and of him she
would now and then speak, though never mentioning Elsa, or anyone else
connected with the episodes preceding her illness.
Miss Ellen watched her daily with a tenderness and penetration which
were touching to behold. The whole of her gentle heart went out to the
girl, the deepest depth of whose malady she hardly guessed. She had an
idea that what was wanted was the sight of some thing or person vividly
recalling the trouble, whatever it was, which had made such an
impression. She believed that a moment of excitement, even if painful,
would break up the dull crust of indifference, and bring relief, even if
it should flow in tears. But she had not clue enough to go upon in order
to bring such a thing about; and Hilda was profoundly ignorant of her
sister's secretly-cherished love-affair.
"Wynifred," said Miss Ellen.
The girl looked up quickly.
"It is such a lovely day, dear; why don't you go for a walk?"
"I did not like to leave you, Miss Willoughby; not that I am very
enlivening company."
"You will be much more enlivening if you can bring me news of the
primroses beginning to bloom in the woods. Get your hat and be off,
bring back a pair of pink cheeks and an appetite, or you won't be
admitted."
Wynifred rose slowly and folded her work. Painfully Miss Ellen recalled
words that Henry Fowler had spoken last year as he watched the blithe
young company out at tea on the terrace:--Elsa, the Allonbys, young
Haldane, and Claud Cranmer.
"How those Allonby girls do enjoy themselves!" he had said.
Their enjoyment was infectious, it was so spontaneous, so fresh. The
change was acute.
"What is to be done with her?" pondered Miss Willoughby, as the girl
went out, apathetically closing the door behind her.
Hardly knowing why, Wynifred chose the road that led inland, along the
further side of the valley, to Poole Farm.
Had Miss Ellen only known how inwardly active was the mind that
outwardly seemed almost dormant! All yesterday the bells had been
clashing from the little church in honor of Elsa's wedding. In fancy the
girl had gone through the whole ceremony--had seen Claud attending his
friend Percivale to church, in his capacity of best man. To-day it
seemed as if the bells were still ringing, ringing on in her head until
she felt dizzy and unnerved.
Why could she not expel unwelcome thoughts and order herself back to
work, as heretofore? No use. She had taxed her self-control once too
often, and stretched it too far. It had snapped. There was no power in
her.
"There was a time," she thought, "when I could have saved myself. At the
Miles' ball I was comparatively free--I could take an intelligent
interest in other things. Why--oh, _why_ was he sent there to force me
to begin all over again?"
Lost in reverie, she wandered on until she found herself opposite the
spot where Saul Parker had attacked Osmond.
There was a fallen tree lying on the grass at the other side of the
lane, and, overcome with many memories, she sat down upon it. Here it
was that she and Claud had exchanged their first flash of sympathy, when
strolling back to Poole together in the summer twilight. Closing her
eyes, she rested her brow on her two hands, as she lived again through
the experiences of those days.
What was this strange weight which seemed to make her unable to rise, or
to think, or to cast off her abiding depression? Had there really been a
time when she, Wynifred, had possessed a mind stored with graceful
fancies, and a pen to give them to the world?
That was over for ever now. Her literary career was stopped, she told
herself in her despair; and when her money came to an end she must
starve, for her capacity for work was gone. Yet all around her was the
subtle air of spring, instinct with that vague, indescribable hope and
desire which sometimes shakes our very being for five minutes or so,
suddenly, on an April day, however prosaic and middle-aged we may be.
She did not weep, her trouble was too dull, too chronic for tears.
She sat on, idly gazing at the farm-house windows and at the flight of
the building rooks about the tall elms, till a footstep close beside her
made her turn her head; and Claud Cranmer stood in the lane, not ten
paces from her, his hat in his hand, his eyes fixed on her face.
For a moment his figure and the landscape surrounding it swam before her
eyes, and then, in a flash, the woman's dignity and pride sprang up anew
in her heart and she was ready to meet him. All the feeling, the force
of being which, since her illness, had been in abeyance, started up
full-grown in a moment at sight of him. She knew she was alive, for she
knew that she suffered--as poignantly, as really as ever; and for the
moment she almost hailed the pain with rapture, because it was a sign of
life.
She must take his outstretched hand, she must control her voice to
speak to him. She was childishly pleased to find that her strength rose
with her need--that she could do both quite rationally. She did not rise
from her log. As soon as Claud saw that she was conscious of his
presence, he came up to her with hand extended, and, in another moment,
hers was resting in his hungry clasp.
He was more unnerved than she. His heart seemed beating in his throat,
his love and tenderness and shame were all struggling together, so that
for a few minutes, he was dumb; the sight of her had been so
overpowering.
They had told him not to be shocked--to expect to find her greatly
altered; but they had not calculated on the instantaneous effect of his
appearance on her. Thin indeed she was--almost wasted--her eyes
unnaturally large and hollow. But the expression was as vivid, as
fascinating as ever, the color burnt in her cheeks--it was merely an
ethereal version of his own Wynifred, inspiring him with an idea of
fragility which made him wild with pity.
She spoke first--her own voice, so unlike that of any other woman he had
ever known.
"I did not expect to see you," she said. "Are you staying with Mr.
Fowler?"
"No. I came down yesterday."
Her hand, which seemed so small--like nothing, as it lay in his own--was
gently withdrawn.
"You have brought spring weather with you," said she, quietly.
"It is beautiful to-day," he answered, neither knowing nor caring what
he said. "May I sit down and talk a--a little? It is--it is--a long time
since I saw you last."
He seated himself beside her on the log, hoping that the beating of his
heart was not loud enough for her to overhear. He could hardly realize
that he had accomplished so much--that they were seated, at last,
together, "With never a third, but each by each as each knew well,"--and
with a future made up of a few moments--a present so intensified that it
blotted out all past experience; a kind of foretaste of the "everlasting
minute" of immortality, such as is now and then granted to the
time-encumbered soul.
Whether the pause, the hush which was the prelude to the drama, lasted
one moment or ten he could not say. He was conscious, presently, of an
uneasy stirring of the girl at his side.
"I think I ought to be walking home," said she.
"Not yet; I have not half enjoyed the view," said he, decidedly.
"Oh, please do not disturb yourself," she faltered, breathlessly, as she
made a movement to rise, "I can go home alone--I would rather----"
"So you told me the last time we parted, and, like a fool and a coward,
I let you go. I am wiser now. You must stay."
She had lifted up her gloves to put them on. Taking her hands in his, he
gently pulled away the gloves, and obliged her to resume her seat. She
began to tremble.
"Mr. Cranmer--you must let me go. I--am not strong yet--I cannot bear
it. Oh, please go and leave me. I cannot talk to you."
The words were wrung from her. Feebly she strove to draw her hands out
of his warm clasp, but he held them firmly.
"The reason I followed you here was because they told me you would
refuse to see me if you could," he said calmly. He had regained his
composure now, and his quiet manner soothed her. "I was quite determined
to see you. I came down to Edge for that reason alone. It is merely a
question of time. If you will not listen to me to-day, you must
to-morrow. I have something which I _will_ say to you. Choose when you
will hear it."
"Is it--is it about Osmond?" she said, feverishly.
"About Osmond? No, it has nothing to do with him," said Claud, rather
resentfully. "It is only about me."
She was silent for a long moment, gazing straight before her with a
strange, wild excitement growing in her heart. At last, with one final
effort at self-mastery, she deliberately lifted her eyes to his. "About
you?" she said faintly.
"About you and me," he answered.
She made an ineffectual struggle, half-rose, looked this way and that,
as if for flight, then sank back again into her place, in absolute
surrender.
"Say it," she whispered, almost inaudibly.
"Wynifred," he said, his voice taking from his emotion a thrill which
she felt in the innermost recesses of her heart. "I have a confession
to make to you--a confession of fraud. Pity me. Perhaps the confession
will deprive me of your friendship for ever; but I must speak. There is
something in my possession which belongs to you--it has been yours for
nearly a year. You ought to have had it long ago. I have kept it back
from you all these months. Do you think you can forgive me?"
She gazed at him uncomprehending.
"Something of mine? A letter?" said she.
"No, not a letter." It was exquisite, this interview; he could have
prayed to prolong it for weeks. He held her attention now, as well as
her hands; he felt inclined to be deliberate. "It is worth nothing, or
very little, this thing in question," he went on. "You may not care for
it--you may utterly decline to have it--you may tell me that it is
worthless in your eyes, and throw it back to me in scorn. But, since it
is yours, I feel that I must just lay it before you, to take or leave.
It has been yours for so long, that I think that very fact has made it
rather less good-for-nothing, and, Wynifred, it has in it the capacity
for growth. If you would take it and keep it, there is no telling what
you might make of it."
"I do not understand," cried Wynifred.
"You do not understand why your own was not given to you before?" he
asked, softly. "That is the shameful part of the story. I kept it back
only for mean and contemptible reasons; because I was afraid to give it
absolutely into your keeping, not knowing certainly whether you would
care to have it. But I have been shown that this was not honest. Whether
you will have it or not, my dearest, I must show my heart to you, I must
implore you to take it, to forgive its imperfections, to count as its
one merit that it is all your own. It is myself, my beloved, who am at
your feet. My life, my hopes, my love, are all yours, and have been for
so long.... Can you forget that I withheld them when they were not mine
to keep? Can you forgive that they are so poor, so imperfect, so
unworthy?"
She had given a little cry when first the meaning of his riddle became
apparent to her, and, snatching away one hand, had covered her face with
it.
All the Irish fervor and poetry of Claud's nature was kindled. He was no
backward lover,--the words rushed to his lips, he knew not how.
Determinedly he put his arm round his love as she sat, speaking with his
lips close to her ear.
"Wyn," he said, with that sweetness of voice and manner which had first
won her heart. "Wyn, I'll give you no option. You are mine; you know it.
I deserve punishment; but don't punish me, dear, for I tell you you
can't be happy without me, any more than I without you. Is that
presumption? I think not,--I believe it's insight. There are times, you
know, when one seems to push away all the manners and customs of the
day, and my heart just cries out to yours that we are made for one
another. My own, just look at me a minute, and tell me if that isn't
so."
Drawing her closer to him, he gently pulled away her hand from her eyes
and made her look at him.
"Is it true? Dare you contradict me, sweetheart?" he said, tenderly.
"Don't you belong to me?"
The authoress could find no eloquent reply. No words would obey the
bidding of her feelings. With her head at rest at last on her lover's
heart, like the veriest bread-and-butter miss, she could only murmur a
bald, bare, "Yes,--I--I think so."
"You think so, do you, my love?" he said, ecstatically. "Tell me what
makes you think so, then, sweet?"
She closed her eyes, and, lifting her arm, she laid it round his neck
with a sigh of bliss.
"I--can't," said she, weakly.
It sounds very inadequate, but the fact remains that this entire want of
vocabulary in the usually self-possessed and ready Wynifred was the
highest possible charm in the eyes of her lover. To his unutterable
delight, he found that his very loftiest dream was realised. He himself
was the great want of the girl's life. He comforted her. She was able at
once to let go the burden of care and sorrow she had borne so long, and
to rest herself utterly in his love. The expression on her white face
was that of perfect rest. Her soul had found its true goal. Claud and
she were in the centre of the labyrinth at last. Above them on the
hillside stood the grey farm, still and lonely in the sunlight as it had
stood for more than three centuries. Never had it looked on purer
happiness than that of these two obscure and poorly-endowed mortals who
yet felt themselves rich indeed in the consciousness of mutual sympathy.
The air was musical with streams, the stir of spring mixed subtly with
their joy. This betrothal needed no pomp of circumstance to enhance its
perfection. To Claud and Wynifred to be together was to be blessed.