HOPELESS LOVE
He deemed that time, he deemed that pride
Had quenched, at length, his boyish flame,
Nor knew, till seated by her side,
His heart in all save hope the same.
BYRON.
Meanwhile David Lindsay had returned to his grandmother’s cottage, his
soul filled with the image of the lovely girl he had just landed on the
promontory.
“I shall go mad if it continues much longer,” he groaned. “Yes, it will
craze me! If I could only escape and fly to new places and scenes that
would not remind me of her so constantly, so bitterly! But I cannot
leave my grandmother, who has no one but me. I must stay, though I am
bound to the rack. I must see my angel and not open my lips in
adoration! I must suffer and not utter a cry! Why, it would insult her
to tell her I love her! And yet in our innocent childhood she has set by
me hours reading out of the same books. She kindled a soul under the
poor fisher lad’s rough bosom!—a soul to love and to suffer the anguish
of a lost Heaven in the loss of her. Oh, my little angel, did you know
what you were doing? Oh, my little angel, my little angel, who am I that
I should dare to love you? A poor, rude fisherman, to whom you came as a
messenger from heaven to inspire him with intelligent life, with a soul
to love and suffer. Oh! my darling, you fill my life! You are my life! I
see your bright face shining in the darkness of my room at night. I hear
your sweet voice ringing in the silence! What shall I do? Ah, Heaven,
what shall I do? If I could ship on one of these schooners that touch
here sometimes, and if I could go to new scenes where I should never
meet her again, I might conquer this madness. But that is impossible at
present. I must not fly from duty. I must stay here and meet whatever
fate may have in store for me, and that is insanity or death, I think.
Oh! I fear, I fear that I shall go mad some day, and in my madness tell
her how I love her! And then—the deluge!”
So absorbed was the poor lad’s soul in his love and his woe, that it was
a purely mechanical and unconscious work to row back to the islet,
secure his boat, and walk up to the cot.
He did not “come to himself” until he had run his head against the door.
His grandmother opened it, smiled, and said:
“Come in, David, and see what the little lady has left here for me and
for you.”
He started and entered the cottage.
Fortunately for him, the dim eyes of age did not perceive his strong
emotion.
“Sit ’ee down, David, and look. Here are two ribbed flannel petticoats,
such as couldn’t be got in this country for love nor money. And here is
a navy blue shepherd’s cloth, and a fine large double plaid shawl. Look
at ’em, David, lad! But Lor’, men don’t know anything about women’s
wear. Well, then, look ’ee here. Here is your present, David—a dozen
lovely, large, fine white linen handkerchiefs, every one of them marked
with your full name by her own hand, and with her own golden hair,
David—with the child’s own golden hair.”
“Give them to me!” cried the young man, eagerly catching the parcel from
her hand, looking around like some wild animal, with prey that he feared
would be snatched from him, and then running up the narrow stairs that
led to his own loft.
“What’s come to the poor lad?” cried the old woman, gazing after him.
“The Lord defend him from being taken with love!”
Meantime David Lindsay had scrambled up into his own little den.
It was a poor place, with only a leaning roof meeting in a peak
overhead, with hardly room enough to stand upright, with bare walls,
bare floor, and only one small window of four panes in front, which
opened on hinges.
It contained a rude but clean bed, covered with a blue and white
patchwork quilt, and one chest that stood under the front window, and
one shelf, on which stood Gloria’s precious books. He sat down on the
chest, for there was no other seat, and opened his parcel of
handkerchiefs, and examined them one by one. He saw his own name on
each, worked in minute golden letters, formed of Gloria’s own radiant
hair. He pressed each to his lips, to his heart.
“Oh, more precious than all the treasures of Hindostan’s mines are these
to me,” he murmured—“her own sacred hair, her own hallowed hands’ work!
Oh, my angel, my angel, no word suits you but this—‘angel.’ I have this
much of you, at least, and I will never part with it while I live—while
I live—and then, afterwards, beyond this world, may there not be some
realms of bliss where we may meet, as we met in guileless childhood and
love, without a thought of any barrier of rank between us?”
This, and much more; murmured the young man to himself, as he pressed
the handkerchiefs to his heart, his lips and burning forehead.
But the voice of his aged relative recalled him to his duty. With fond
superstition he folded one handkerchief and put it in his bosom, with
her bright hair next his heart. The others he folded carefully and put
in his chest. Then he went below to hew wood and fetch water for the
needs of the little home.
Gloria did not meet her uncle until the dinner hour, when her short,
impulsive resentment melted away before the mournful, even meek, reserve
of his manner.
After dinner she went into the drawing-room, sat down at the piano, and
played for him us usual, until the hour of retiring.
The next morning, after their breakfast, as she turned to go up stairs,
he called to her:
“Gloria, my dear, will you not come into the library and sit with me, as
usual?”
“No, thanks, uncle dear. I have a letter to write to Aunt Agrippina.”
“Can you not write it at one of the library tables?”
“I would rather go up into my room, uncle.”
“But why?”
“Because—well—I would rather.”
“Are you afraid of me, Gloria?” he inquired, very mournfully.
She hesitated for a moment, and then answered, firmly:
“Yes, I am.”
“But why should you be?”
“I—don’t—know,” she answered.
“Then that is a most unjust and unreasonable fear of yours, for which
you can assign no cause, my child.”
She looked down and made no answer.
“Do you not yourself think so, Gloria?”
“Yes, no; I don’t know. Let me go up stairs now, please, uncle,” she
said, in growing distress.
“I do not hinder you, my child. You are as free as air. Go,” he said.
Relieved to be free, she ran up stairs; but happening to look down as
she turned around on the landing, she saw him standing still, looking so
lonely and miserable that her heart reproached her for selfishness, if
not for cruelty. She paused and hesitated for a moment and then ran down
again and said:
“Uncle dear, if you want me, I will come in and sit with you. Of course
I can write my letter just as well on the library table. Do you want
me?”
“My child, I always want you. Every moment of my life I want you,” he
answered in a low tone as he opened the library for her to enter.
She had a little rosewood writing-desk of her own on one of the tables.
He went and opened it for her and placed a chair before it.
As soon as she had seated herself he went and sat down at his own
reading stand and assumed an air of melancholy reserve that he knew
would touch her heart and calm her fears.
“I must be very patient and very cautious in dealing with my dear, my
birdling, if I would ever win her to my bosom,” he said to himself.
And from that day for many days he was very guarded in his manner to his
sensitive ward, maintaining always a mournfully affectionate yet
somewhat reserved demeanor.
Gloria was not quite reassured. Her confidence, once so rudely shaken,
could not be quite firmly re-established. She continued to decline a
_tête-à-tête_ with him whenever she could do so without rudeness or
unkindness. She walked out more than usual. The weather continued to be
very fine for the season.
Christmas Eve was a most glorious day. There was not a cloud in all the
sky. The sun shone down with dazzling splendor from the deep blue
heavens. The ripples of the sea flashed and sparkled like liquid
sapphires. The woods on the main glowed in the light.
The scene was too tempting.
Gloria put on her fur jacket and hood and walked forth to the “Neck.”
She found the tide at its lowest ebb and the road to the main high and
dry.
She set off to walk across it. It was the first time she had ever done
so. The “Neck,” indeed, was a natural bridge of rock connecting the
promontory to the main and affording an excellent roadway when the tide
was low, but quite impassable, being at least six feet under water when
the tide was high.
It was very low now and the path was very clear.
Gloria walked on, so inspired by the glory and gladness of the sun, the
sky, the sea, the woods that her spirits soared like a bird, and, like a
bird, broke forth in song.
She sang as she walked. The way was long but joyous with light and
beauty, even though the season was near mid-winter.
At length she reached the main and bent her step to the gorgeous woods,
still wearing their regal autumn dress.
Gloria plunged into their depths and rambled and reveled in their
delightful solitudes. The song birds had flown farther south, yet the
air seemed full of jubilant music. Was it in the air or in her own
spirit? She could not tell. She was so gay and glad! She wandered on and
on, tempted by vistas of crimson, golden, and purple avenues, more
graceful in form than classic arches.
At length she spied, at some distance off, in the deepest depths of the
forest, a scene like a conflagration—a cluster of trees burning, glowing
and sparkling like fire in the rays of the sun that struck down upon
their tops.
Fascinated by the vision, she made her way toward it, and found a clump
of holly trees, thick with bright scarlet berries.
“Oh, I must have some of these to decorate the house to-night,” she
said, as she began to pull those that were in her reach. But when she
had plucked all that hung low, she found that she had not enough for her
purpose.
“I cannot get any more, so I had better take these home and come back
again and bring Laban to climb the trees for me, and get enough from the
top branches.”
With this resolve she turned and retraced her steps, but soon lost
herself in the pathless woods, and wandered about for hours trying to
find her way out of them. She had no fear whatever. She was sure that
she should emerge safely some time or other. She only felt some little
haste to get home time enough to bring Laban back for the holly.
At length her confidence was justified. She caught a glimpse of the sea
through a thinner growth of the woods, and, walking toward it, soon came
out on the bank above the “Neck.” She descended quickly, and began to
cross.
No one in that neighborhood would have ventured to go over the “Neck” at
such a time. It was in pure ignorance that Gloria did it.
She did not even notice how much the Neck had narrowed since she crossed
it four hours before, when the tide was at its lowest ebb, and was even
then turning. It had been coming in ever since, and now there was but
about four feet width of the road left in the middle of the
Neck—abundant space for a foot-path if it should not narrow too rapidly.
Gloria had not a thought of danger when she set out to recross the Neck.
She walked on, singing as she went, and if a wave higher than usual
dashed quite across her path, why, it fell back immediately, only
wetting her shoes and skirts a little.
She went on, singing, while the glad waves danced up each side her road,
coming nearer and nearer, narrowing her path.
Still she went on, singing, having to stop sometimes when her path would
be entirely covered by a rising wave, and wait till it had fallen back.
Then again she went on, singing, ever singing, until she reached a spot
about midway between the main and the promontory, when a wave, higher
and stronger than before, struck her, staggered her, and nearly threw
her down. Then for a moment she quailed, and ceased to sing. But the
next instant the wave had receded and left a narrow path clear before
her.
Then she hurried on again, not singing now, but with an awful
consciousness of danger upon her; an awful prevision of the world beyond
this, which her spirit might reach before her body should touch the
shore.
Another higher, stronger wave came rising and roaring, and struck her
down. It receded instantly, and she struggled to her feet, half stunned,
strangled, and blinded.
Soon the path was entirely under water, and she had to wade in half
knee-deep, and with that prevision, awful, holy, sweet, of being on the
threshold of the other life.
“Mother, mother, if I must go, if I must go, come and meet me. I’m
afraid, oh, I’m afraid of the great dark!” was her mute prayer, as
another grand wave, howling like some furious beast of prey, reared
itself above and threw her down.
Once more, as it fell back howling, she struggled up to her feet, more
stunned, strangled, blinded, and dazed than before, and toiling for dear
life, waded on knee-deep in water. Her limbs were failing, her head was
dizzy, her senses were leaving her.
“I must go—I am going. Oh, Lord Jesus! Thou who art ‘the Resurrection
and the Life,’ raise me! save me!” she breathed, in a strange half
trance, in which she saw the heavens opened.
And at that moment the last wave struck her down, seized her and whirled
her away.