PASSION AND TEMPTATION.
The cold in clime are cold in blood!
Their love can scarce deserve the name;
But theirs was like the lava flood
That boils in Etna’s breast of flame!—_Byron._
Oh, the new heavens and the new earth! oh, the beauty of the world and
the glory of the sky! This is not my rhapsody, dearest reader, but the
rhapsody of Orville and of Lionne, when love had transfigured the
universe before them!
“Half willing and half afraid,” now approaching, now receding, they had
gradually come to understand themselves and each other.
The restraining principle of fidelity on his side, and of reserve on
hers, had yielded to the impetuous power of passion.
While the recluse father was buried in his dreams and schemes and
correspondence—political, radical, revolutionary—who could tell?—the
neglected, motherless daughter was wooed and won.
First, Orville, not again to frighten this shy forest-maiden, practised
an instinctive reserve—a reserve that was not premeditated but
impulsive, and that piqued Lionne into resentment at his
indifference—resentment that could not escape his attention, and that
flattered his pride.
Cautiously he made his advances; shyly she evaded and—encouraged them.
He coaxed her out to walk along the margin of the water, or over the
wooded hills of the opposite shore, or up the sides of the precipice.
He persuaded her to ride with him, over the mountains and through the
heavily timbered valleys between.
He prevailed on her to sail with him as he steered along the sinuous
windings of the Singing Stream, and under the shadow of the
forest-covered mountains.
And to hunt in his company through all the country.
Ah, those walks, and rides, and sails, and hunts! Ah, those hills, and
vales, and woods, and waters! What tales they heard! What tales they
might have told!
They might have told how the huntress was hunted! how the enchantress
was enchanted! how the lioness was tamed!
Mr. Delaforêt, if that was his name, saw nothing of this. When he came
down from his room, he usually found either Lionne or Orville in his
sitting-room. He never missed both at the same time or found both
together. Consequently there was nothing to suggest the fact that they
passed much time in each other’s society.
Old Nero saw it all! Negroes are by their very natures intently
observant and intensely sympathetic in the affairs of love; where they
are trusted they are the most secretive of confidants, the most faithful
of partizans, the most devoted of co-adjutors. And where they are not
trusted they find out every thing for themselves, and use their own
pleasure in concealing or betraying the mystery.
Thus, old Nero discovered the contraband-courting carried on by his
young master. After soliloquizing several monologues upon the question
of what will Lady Adelaide say; and after all, coming to the conclusion
that his young master had no sort of right to keep any secrets from him,
he determined boldly to enter upon the interesting subject with Mr.
Deville.
So one noon, when Lionne was in the kitchen, preparing dinner, Mr.
Delaforêt was in the sitting-room and Orville Deville was sauntering up
and down under the trees before the house, old Nero leaned up against
the trunk of an elm and attracted his proprietor’s attention by a loud—
“Hem!”
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Deville, with an impatient start.
“She’s brighter nor Lady Adelaide!”
“Who asked for your opinion, you old scoundrel?”
“And, likewise, handsomer, ‘cordin’ to my taste!”
“You are an impudent old varlet!”
“But she aint so high edicated an’ accomplish’!”
“What do you mean, you old rascal?”
“I’m boun’ to say how she knows nuffin’ ’bout de wee mown-seers, an’
see-seen-noors, an’ dimmy-simmy-quivers, dat is to say—de French an’
’talian langwidges and de music!”
“How dare you, you old villain, talk in this manner to me?”
“Easy, marster, honey; easy, chile; I talks to you for your own good,
’deed I does; ’cause I wishes of you well, chile. Now, see here,
honey—sollum betroffed is sollum betroffed! Still, it aint by no means
marriage! An’ so ef yer had been ’cline to break off ’long o’ Lady
Adelaide, you mought o’ done it: but to go an’ bring a ‘sgrace on top o’
all your cullered people by marryin’ of a young savidge as knows nuffin
of de wee-mown-seers an’ see-seen-noors an’ dimmy-simmy-quivers!”
“You exasperating old fool, don’t you suppose I will strangle you!”
broke forth the young man in fury.
“Can’t help of it, ef you do, Marse Awful, honey! I sabed you from de
amber-scalps, an’ you may repay me wid deaf if you like. You may choke
me dead, but you can’t stop my talkin’, nor likewise smodder de
trufe—case what does de poec say?—
‘Yer may crack, yer may shiver de wase if yer _pleases_,
But de smell o’ de roses will stick to de pieces!’
Dar!”
“You are an idiot; it is no use to mind you!”
“’Cisely so, marster.”
“But there is one thing, sir, that your idiocy must understand! You are
never again to take the liberty of mentioning this young lady’s name in
connection with this subject, either before me or any one else!”
“_Which_ young lady, Marse Awful—Lady Adelaide, or Miss Lionne?”
demurely inquired Nero.
“_Either_ young lady, sir! I am tired of hearing you! I wish to have no
more of it!”
“Myself wishes yer may have no more of it, marster, honey,” said old
Nero, sanctimoniously.
The young man, dissatisfied with himself, and consequently with all the
world, continued to walk up and down the yard.
And old Nero, with a sigh, entered the house.
The trial between passion and principle! Who, in one form or another,
has not witnessed it? The struggle between avarice and justice, ambition
and integrity, love and fidelity?
“Oh, that I had never met this witching girl, or that my life were not
bound by an irrevocable bond! To fly from her is death! to remain
is—perdition!” such was the refrain of all Orville’s thoughts as he
paced thoughtfully up and down the yard.
As yet both loved, and both were innocent! Again and again, with all the
eloquence of fervent passion, had he breathed to her his love. And she
had listened, unrebukingly, silent, but inexpressibly happy!
He whose hand was irrevocably pledged to another had breathed no hint of
marriage to her.
Yet his silence upon this subject gave no uneasiness to her, the wild
child of nature, to whose pure spirit marriage seemed love, and
therefore, of course, love seemed marriage.
To her wild solitude no experiences of the world’s wickedness had come.
Never in her life had she heard of other than lawful love. To her
fervent soul that little word of four letters stood for the purest,
highest, and holiest of all that is pure, high and holy.
It was the synonym for religion, for heaven, for God. And is it not
really so? for “God is love.”
She, wild enthusiast, believed in this celestial love!
It was now late in October. Orville’s wounds were perfectly healed,
health and strength had returned; he had now no excuse to trespass
farther on the hospitality of his kind host.
The necessity for departure was imminent, yet he found no power to
depart.
Duty urged him to fly. Temptation held him bound. With no strength to
break his bonds, he lingered near Lionne, losing self-control in the
conflict.
This terrible struggle between passion and principle could not last. The
madness must come to a crisis. It is written that the Spirit of the Lord
shall not always strive with man. Thus there fall a dark hour in which
the angel of salvation fled sorrowing away front this tempted soul!
It was the twentieth of October, a glorious day, when mountains and
forests, arrayed in all the gorgeous, variegated foliage of the season,
glowed in the golden haze of Indian summer.
Early in the morning, Lionne had lured him out for a hunt. And they two
rode on over the mountain crest, preceded a short distance by Nero, who
had the hounds in charge. Beneath them lay the earth, rejoicing in this
refulgent light.
To Orville, Lionne seemed the very incarnate spirit of this scene. By
virtue of her splendid beauty and fearless spirit, a very queen over the
mountains, streams, and forests around her.
To possess this queen for his wife! oh, to possess her!
He scarcely dared turn his eyes upon her bewildering face and form as
she rode beside him.
The stately little head, with its royal forehead, the slender, arched
eyebrows, the dark eyes smouldering and flashing beneath their long
lashes, the glowing cheeks, the crimson lips,—the whole rich, ripe,
refulgent countenance, half-vailed by the long, glittering, black
ringlets that flowed down each side her face; half shaded by the sable
hat and plumes that drooped over her brow; the rounded bust and slender
waist; the graceful attitude, the still more graceful motions; the
glance, the tone, the smile were all too potent for his principles.
No! he dared not look upon _her_. Would that he had not dared to parley
with himself! but no! he communed with himself in this manner:
“Here is the girl who attracts my whole nature with an irresistible
power! More beautiful, more graceful, more intellectual, impassioned,
and spirited than any creature I have ever before known!
“Her touch, her glance, her tones have power to thrill my whole nature!
her smile flashes into my soul a delirium of joy! what rapture would not
her full possession impart!
“And this enchanting creature loves me! loves me! she, loves me! for
when I feel the dizzy ecstasy that her shy glance imparts, I also feel
the power that I possess over her! intoxicating power that yet I may not
use.
“And this bewildering being might be mine but for _that bond_! that
fatal bond forced on my life in childhood!
“_Is_ it binding? _should_ it be binding? should a betrothal, solemnized
at the instance of their guardians between a boy and girl who met then
for the first time and never afterwards met again, be binding upon
either party?
“It ought not! It shall not! I will ignore the serious farce performed
at the death-bed of the Earl of Lennark, and I will marry the woman of
my choice!”
While thus Orville communed with himself, Lionne silent, thoughtful,
melancholy, rode beside him. At last rendered uneasy by his long
continued silence and his sombre aspect, she said in a low voice:
“You are either not well, or not happy, Mr. Deville.”
“No, I am neither well nor happy!” he replied in a deeply-troubled tone.
“And wherefore?” she shyly inquired.
“Lionne! Lionne! I love you!” he answered, in a deep and thrilling
voice.
She did not reply; she dropped her head upon her bosom and cast her eyes
down beneath his ardent gaze. She had lately learned—she knew not
wherefore—to blush and shrink and tremble at his declarations of love.
“Lionne! you do not answer me!” he exclaimed, with an impassioned
vehemence.
“Alas! what would you have me to say?” she murmured, in an almost
inaudible voice.
“Lionne, I love you! I adore you! I worship you! Yes! with all the
strength, passion, yes, _life_ of my soul! Lionne! I lay my heart, hand,
name, and fortune—all that I am and have, or may become, or may
attain—at your beloved feet! Lionne! in return for my whole heart’s and
soul’s and life’s devotion, only say that you can love me!”
She raised her glorious eyes to his, in one quick and quickly-withdrawn,
earnest, impassioned, devoted gaze, that spoke more than her beautiful
lips could ever have uttered,—then dropped them and blushed to the very
edges of her hair.
It was enough! He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips and heart.
He whispered—
“Lionne! we are fifteen miles from your home. There, in the valley below
us, lies Winchester. A two-hours ride will bring us to the town—” he
paused and she glanced up at him in perplexity, hesitation and
questioning.
“Love! love! do you not understand me? In that town of Winchester there
is a county-clerk’s office and an Episcopal clergyman!”
Still on her face that look of earnest inquiry.
“Dearest Lionne! in that town of Winchester, within the next three
hours, you can make me the proudest, the happiest, the most perfectly
blessed being under the wide canopy of heaven!”
Now a look of devoted interest deepened the meaning of her beautiful
countenance.
“Dearest, most adored Lionne, in that town of Winchester, before the
ascending sun shall have attained his meridian, you may have placed me
at the acme of my aspirations! You may have become my wife!”
“Your wife!”—the words were half uttered, half aspirated, as the light
of a deep, intense and vivid joy rose and beamed from her beautiful
countenance and then died out beneath the burning blushes that
overspread her face.
“Yes, worshipped one, my wife! Lionne, in a few days I must leave this
place! There is a foreboding in my heart that unless I make you now my
own, something may intervene to separate us forever! Therefore to-day,
my beloved, I would, with your sweet consent, place between us that bond
which may not be broken except by crime or death! Dearest, will you
consent to this?”
“But—my father?” she murmured in a low voice.
“Your father, my best beloved, likes me well; knows my social position;
has had some chance to judge my character; your father would not object
to me as a son-in-law,” replied the young man, with the slight hauteur
of one who even in an hour of passionate love could not forget his
social superiority over this daughter of the wilds.
“No, he would not object, but he should certainly be consulted,” said
Lionne, in a low and tremulous voice.
“Lionne, my beloved, have confidence in me.”
“My father should be consulted, however,” she said.
“Listen to me, dearest. Age is cold and deliberate, and makes no account
of the warmth and impatience of youth and love. Your father, with all
his faith in me and approval of my suit, would, nevertheless, from mere
etiquette, require time to reflect; then he would insist upon formally
consulting my friends, who, however highly they should applaud my
choice, would also, by reasons of ceremony, demand time for
deliberation; then would come a question of marriage-settlements; then
lawyers and the law’s delays; then contracts; then at long, long, last,
supposing nothing should intervene to prevent it, when we should both be
sick with ‘hope deferred,’ would come the late wedding.”
“Well?” she murmured, seeing that he paused.
“Well! I could not bear this long delay! Lionne! Lionne! my love! my
fate! hear me! Be my wife at once; and then, when you are irrevocably
mine, we will ask the old man’s blessing, and he will give it, since he
has no real objection to me. See, Lionne, I do not entreat you to
forestall your parent’s wishes, for they would be in our favor; but I
only beg you to forestall all their ceremonious delays and tedious
solemnities. Dearest Lionne, hear me, grant my prayer, and I will thank
you now, and bless you a thousand years hence, in heaven, for the
grace!” he said, pale and panting, as he pressed her hand and leaned
towards her.
“Hush! the grace, the favor, is mutual. I am yours, Orville,” she
murmured, in a low, almost inaudible, yet heart-thrilling tone, as she
lifted her splendid eyes for an instant to his face, and then dropped
them suddenly, amid bright blushes.
A gleam of wild joy, almost of frenzied exultation, lighted up his face
as he exclaimed,
“Forward, then, dear one,” and putting spurs to his horse, sped onward
towards the town.
Her black mare kept up, neck and neck, with his flying steed. They
overtook and distanced old Nero, who looked after them in stupid
amazement a moment, and then exclaimed:
“Hi, what de debble dat? What done broke loose now? Oh, I see; dey is
a-ridin’ of a steeple-chase. It’s my hopes as my young marse may get
home ’dout havin’ of his neck broke, _dar!_ sides which, I don’t mean to
break _mine_, _dar_!”
And so saying old Nero restrained his horse’s inclination to follow, and
subdued him to a walk.
Meanwhile the erring young couple reached Winchester.
He conducted her to the quiet inn, left her in a private parlor, and
then went out to procure the license and find a clergyman.
After an absence of half an hour he returned with the document, and
accompanied by a clergyman to whom he formally presented Lionne.
Then, exhibiting the license, he took the hand of his bride and stood
up.
The minister commenced the ceremony, and in ten minutes pronounced the
young pair man and wife.
Orville, beside himself with triumph, led her to a settee, where she
sat, pale, with a joy too intense for smiles.
Orville had scarcely remunerated and discharged the minister, (who had
filled out and handed to Lionne a marriage-certificate,) and had not had
time to turn and speak to Lionne before a clattering was heard outside,
and through the front windows old Nero was seen to roll himself down
from his saddle and enter the hall.
And the moment after he appeared at the parlor-door, with a deep bow
and—
“Am you in want of _me_, young marse?”
“No—yes! you may go and see to feeding and watering the horses, and on
your way out, send the host hither.”
“Yes, sar!”
“And listen! don’t you dare to stop and gossip!”
“Sartainly not, sar!” said Nero, with an injured air, as he withdrew.
When the host came, a waiter of refreshments was ordered: but of these
the youthful couple partook but slightly, while waiting for their
steeds.
When they were reported ready, Orville and Lionne, mounted and attended
by Nero, rode homewards.
There was no hunting done that day! The only chase had been a “love
chase,” but that had been successful!
They reached home just as the sun was sinking behind the mountain ridge,
and casting a long, black shadow over the old stone-house at its foot,
and over the waters of the Singing Stream. A shade of superstitious
foreboding darkened the brightness of Lionne’s joy, as she gazed upon
the deep gloom that shrouded her father’s house. Her cheek grew paler
than its wont.
“I hope it’s not an omen,” she whispered.
He who watched her every look, and listened to her every breath, heard
this almost inaudible murmur.
“‘Omen!’ dear love! how can that shadow be an omen, which falls upon the
house every evening alike at the sinking of the sun?”
“But every evening we do not ride home in its shadow! Whenever we have
returned heretofore, we have found the homestead bathed in sunlight, or
in moonshine! And this evening of the day upon which we have plighted
our troth forever, we ride home in _the shadow_!”
“Beautiful witch! what make you out of that?” smiled the gay bridegroom.
“I know not! My blood is freezing! My heart is curdling! Orville!”
“Lionne!” he cried, seizing the rein that had fallen from her hands, and
gazing into her face that had suddenly grown haggard with horror, as at
some tremendous vision!
“_Lionne!_” he cried again, throwing himself from his saddle, and
lifting her from hers.
She stood upon the narrow space between the line of her father’s low
stone-wall and the steep banks of the river. She stood with her hat
fallen off, her black dishevelled ringlets streaming down each side the
awful beauty of her pale, inspired young face, her dark robes flowing in
long, sombre folds down her lithe, majestic figure—she stood as might
have stood the awful priestess of Apollo, when the power of the god was
upon her, forcing her to gaze in pain upon the terrors of the future,
and to utter in anguish oracles concerning them!
“LIONNE!!” he exclaimed once more, slightly shaking her arm.
She raised her hand and swept it once or twice slowly across her brow,
then turned and looked upon him with the air of me awakening from a
dream.
“It is past!” she said, with a sigh of deep relief.
“_What_ is past? my own Lionne!”
“Oh, the vision!”
“The vision?”
“The wilderness! the storm! the houseless woman with the wild hair and
maniac eye!! the perishing babe!!!”
“My own Lionne, you astonish me!”
“Hush! listen! we of the house of Delaforêt are said to be endowed with
a fatal gift, that of second-sight!”
“What ancient folly, dearest love! the world has outlived such notions!
Science now terms second sight, epilepsy, catalepsy, optical illusion,
or insanity!” smilingly replied Orville.
“What care I _what_ science terms that fearful phenomenon? I care not
for the name, but for the _thing_, since it is prophetic! Oh, Orville!
Orville! all evil omens attend our loves! We first met amid thunder and
lightning!”
“Blessed be the storm that brought us together!”
“The first time you pressed me to your bosom, your dagger’s point, worn
through its sheath and shifted in your belt, pierced my arm!”
“Accursed be the steel that wounded you, my own love! I had rather it
had been sheathed in my own heart!”
“And to-day! to-day! you married me—did you know it?—with a
mourning-ring!!” and she held up to his view a circlet set with jet.
“Blessed forever the ring that bound us together! Dear love, it was my
sister’s; I wore it for her sake; it was the only one at hand, and I
placed it on your finger, and thus converted the mourning-circlet into
the happy bridal ring!”
“Oh, I do not know; but it seems to me that we have erred! Ah! I wish
that we had first obtained my father’s consent and blessing—that we had
been _sure_ we were right—and then, whatever should come, we could be
resigned!”
“‘Whatever should come we could be _resigned_?’ Dear Lionne, why are all
your anticipations sorrowful?”
“I know not, unless it is because I have sinned! But what’s done is
done!’ I will shake off threatening images. What indeed can the vision,
or the imagined vision, of the wilderness, the night-storm, the
wandering maniac and the murdered child have to do with _our_ future?
Listen! our poor beasts are neighing with impatience; they want their
stables and their oats; let us go in and leave them to the care of Nero,
whom I see approaching,” she concluded, with a forced smile.
They entered the stone house by the wide hall-door.
Lionne flew up stairs to doff her riding-habit, before attending to tea.
Orville entered the sitting-room, where he found the recluse buried in
his books and papers.
“Had a good day’s sport?” inquired Mr. Delaforêt, as the young man drew
up a chair and seated himself.
“Excellent!” replied Orville.
“Bagged any birds?”
“Yes; a young eaglet of the mountains.”
“Ah! a rare bird and rather unprofitable,” replied the unsuspicious
host.
Lionne appeared and summoned them to supper, which was served, as
always, in the spacious kitchen.
The meal passed as usual,—Lionne demure, bright and attentive.
Orville exultant, yet self-possessed and thoughtful.
The recluse absent, meditative, and unconscious of all surroundings even
to the very tea that he was slowly sipping.
When supper was over the host retired to his room, his papers, and his
unknown plans.
Orville and Lionne arose and went into the hall.
Lionne approached the door of the sitting-room, as if to enter; but
Orville laid his hand upon her arm, saying, with a gentle assumption of
authority—
“No, dearest; you are MINE now! Come! the night is beautiful! See!” and
he led her to the hall-door, “the full moon is just rising behind the
hills beyond the river. Soon its beams will fall upon the Singing Stream
converting its waters to living, fluid silver. How softly and brightly
its light will steal into our grotto! Come, love! let us go to the
grotto!”
Taking her mantle from a rock near, he wrapped it carefully around her
shoulders and led her forth.
Too used was Lionne to be forgotten by her father to suppose now that
her absence would be noticed.
They opened the gate and passed out.
No fairer scene did nature ever show than that which lay before and
around them.
On their left hand arose the gloomy mountain range, extending for miles
north and south until it curved out of sight.
On their right hand flowed the bright river, flashing in the moonlight.
Beyond it were the wooded hills, in the beautiful, deep glow of autumn.
Before them wound the narrow, rocky, foamy path, scarcely promising a
safe foothold between the mountain and the river.
Lionne, as most accustomed to the path, flew past Orville, and,
springing from jagged rock to rock over the boiling rapids, or clinging
to the ragged evergreens that quilled the precipice, she led the way.
They reached the grotto, rolled away the stone and let in the moonbeams,
that lighted up the interior until it shone like an immense basin of
silver.
On returning to the house, they saw by a light gleaming in the recluse’s
study that he was yet engaged in his tireless vigils.
The next morning, just as the rising sun peeped over the top of the
wooded hills beyond the river, Lionne left her room, and while the
household was yet buried in sleep, crept down the stairs to the front
yard.
There she found Orville dressed and waiting for her.
“My Lionne! my bride! my wife!” he exclaimed, approaching and drawing
her to his bosom.
She yielded her face to his fervent kisses, and then, as soon as she
could catch her breath, she inquired, amid rosy blushes—
“Will you tell my father to-day?”
“No, sweet love.”
“To-morrow, then?”
“No, bright one!”
“You said that after we should be fast married and secure from any one’s
breaking the bond between us, you would tell my father! we are married;
now, then, dear Orville, keep your word with me and tell him!”
“I said that after we should be united, I would inform him; but I did
not say _immediately_ after.”
“Yet, dear Orville, I intreat you, do not delay this tardy justice to
him any longer. I wish that we should be completely happy. We cannot be
so while there is evil mixed up with our love!”
“_Evil_, Lionne?”
“Alas, yes! I, at least, feel remorse weighing down my heart while I
keep so great a secret from my dear father!”
“Lionne! I have been mistaken in you!”
“What mean you, Orville?” she asked, uneasily.
“You do not love me!” he replied, bitterly.
She looked at him for one moment with an expression, oh how eloquent!
yet how entirely untranslatable in language.
“Well?” he inquired.
“I have no words in which to answer that, Orville! Indeed, I might
say—‘I love you;’ but that would not express enough; for I also love my
father, but not like you! I might say with truth, that, were it
necessary, I would die for you; but _that_ does not express all; for so,
upon occasion, could I die for him,—_him_ whom I forsake for you! Ah,
then, how can I tell you?—time will show!”
It needed not that time should be subpœnaed to witness this fact!
Her splendid, dark eyes, burning with her soul’s living fire, her
flushed cheeks, through which the warm blood ebbed and flowed, her rich,
full tones, vibrating with the heart’s deep passion, were eloquent with
the very life of love!
“You love me! you say so! yet you say, at the same time, that because
your father is not immediately admitted into our confidence, you cannot
be happy! that _remorse_ distresses you! Let me tell you, Lionne, that
love suffers the presence of no rival passion by its side! it expels
every other passion from the heart, which it alone fills, or failing to
do that, love flies! Is there love in your heart and does it allow
footing to a morbid compunction?”
“Orville, dear Orville,” she whispered, “your words are true. I feel
them to be so. It is, therefore, that I would have love reign alone in
this heart that is all your own! would expel every other passion,
remorse before them all! To do this, I would remove the cause! I would
see my father, and win his forgiveness of my fault and his blessing upon
our union! Oh, Orville, I do wish that we should be completely happy!
Having the ‘one thing needful’ for happiness,—the one priceless pearl of
love,—it seems to me so unwise that we should fail of perfect bliss
through means of one little error! one little error so easily remedied!”
“Why let that trouble you?”
“Because I cannot help it. Listen,—suppose a young queen, blessed with
youth, health, beauty, wisdom, boundless wealth, power, and
dominion—all, in short, that could combine for the good, happiness, and
glory of any human creature—yet, suppose she wore a pinching shoe or
galling necklace, could she be at ease until it was removed?”
“What a fancy! What has that to do with it?”
“I, crowned with your love, am that queen who hath all things. Yet the
secret I keep from my father is the pinching shoe, the galling necklace
that will not let me be at ease. Oh, Orville, when will you tell him?”
“When the proper time comes, fair one. Rely upon that.”
“And when will that be?”
“I cannot tell you, since I do not know, love!”
She suppressed the cry of pain that arose to her lips; but she could not
control the cloud of trouble that rolled over her beautiful, dark face.
He saw it, but governing his feelings of vexation, he put out his hand
and drew her to his bosom, laid her bright head, with all its glittering
ringlets against his breast, and combing her tresses with his fingers,
stooped and whispered:
“Be at peace, sweet one. In this matter, henceforth, you have no
personal responsibility whatever. ‘What’s done is done!’ ‘What’s past
remedy is past regret.’ No woman is at the same time under bonds to both
father and husband; she passes from the protection of the former to that
of the latter. You left your father for me,—even had that been wrong it
is _done_, and cannot be undone. Now new duties invest you; now you no
longer belong to him, but to me, your husband, who proudly claims all
your love and duty, and holds himself in all things responsible for you,
it is _I_ who must deal with your father. Leave all to me.”
“I WILL,” she said, suddenly, with impassioned devotion, as he pressed
her to his heart.
“Now, then, my sweetest love, will you do as you promised at our
marriage ceremony? Will you—will you—_will you obey me?_” he whispered
in her ear.
“Oh, yes!” she aspirated, hiding her blushing face upon his bosom; “did
I not _vow_ to do so? did not the minister _exhort_ me to do so? does
not my heart _force_ me to do so? and will it not be the sweetest,
sweetest pleasure of my life to obey my dear husband, my love, my
leigelord?”
“Always and in all things, Lionne?” he whispered.
“Always and in all things,” she said, lifting her beautiful head. “Soul
and body, I am yours! without one atom of self-reservation, yours!
wholly yours! dispose of me as you will, love, lord, husband!” and with
impassioned devotion and perfect self-surrender, she yielded herself to
his fervent embrace. While pressing her to his bosom, he stooped and
whispered:
“The household will soon be astir, my love—we must be prudent—we must
seem to-day like civil, indifferent acquaintances, and so disarm
suspicion; but to-night, when all the family shall have retired to rest,
steal forth and meet me in the mossy grotto.”
No answer.
“Will you do this?”
Still no answer.
“Sweet _wife_, you _must_ do this! now answer.”
“Yes!” in a low and thrilling tone.
Once more he strained her to his heart, pressed a fervent kiss upon her
lips, sighed and released her. They parted. He strolled through the gate
and down to the banks of the Singing Stream. And she went into the house
to attend to her domestic duties.
“DAR! what de name o’ de Lor’ Lady Adelaide say to _dat_! I ’clare! dese
young men ’dout any sort o’ princerpuls!” exclaimed old Nero, who, from
behind a rain hogshead at the end of the house, had been the unseen
spectator of the dumb show of this lovers’ meeting and parting.
Fortunately for the young pair, no word of their conversation had
reached the old man’s ears.
The next evening was spent in the sitting-room, first over a game of
whist in which Lionne and Orville played against Mr. Delaforêt and
“dummy,” and _lost_. And then the tragedy of “Fazio, or the Italian
Wife’s Revenge,” was read aloud by Orville Deville, and at its
conclusion gave rise to a discussion upon love, jealousy, treachery and
revenge.
There was quite a warm debate, and each expressed decided opinions, pro
or con.
All except Lionne! she listened, burned, glowed and sparkled, but said
nothing.
“How think _you_, Miss Delaforêt,” said Orville, fixing his eyes upon
her, with a deep and searching gaze. “Is the woman whose trust has been
betrayed by him she loves, justified in delivering him over to death?”
“Surely that is no question to ask a young girl! How can she possibly
answer it?” mildly inquired the host.
“Nevertheless I would have her reply,—nay I would even drive it home and
make it a personal one,” persisted Deville, keeping his eyes fixed with
a commanding expression upon the countenance of Lionne. “How say you
then, young lady? Were you by chance in the Italian wife’s
position,—were your love and trust utterly betrayed by the man you
loved,—would you deliver him over to death? We wait your answer.”
“Were my love and trust utterly betrayed by the man whom I _had_ loved,
(for I cannot imagine love outliving faith,) I should—” she paused.
Both looked at _her_; but _she_ seemed to have forgotten the presence of
all others, and to speak as to her own soul.
“No, I should not give him over to death.” As she said these words in a
low, deep, calm tone, her aspect grew terrible! her bosom rose and
swelled, her face lightened vividly, then darkened and darkened until it
grew black as night and storm, with evil passions. “No, I should not
_kill_ the miscreant! _What!_ Suffer the deepest wrong that a woman
could possibly suffer—a wrong that would blast my whole being, and
change for me this fair world into a howling wilderness,—and—strike the
traitor one sharp death-blow, that should in one instant end his
punishment and my revenge? WHAT! Give him the repose of the grave, and
load my own soul with blood-guiltiness, and my life with incurable
remorse? No, no, no, no! it is stupid to _kill_ for vengeance! No! but
_my_ revenge should be as long as our natural lives! With all the
ingenuity of human intelligence, all the perseverance of fate, I would
track him through the world! It should be the study of my nights, the
work of my days, the cure of my grief, the interest, excitement and
passion of my life to make _his_ existence one long, long, long agony!
Aye! until he should howl for death to snatch him from torture! That
should be my revenge!”
All shuddered who heard and saw her.
“What a young demon!” exclaimed Orville to himself.
Yet as he gazed upon the awful beauty of her dark and stormy face, he
felt with a sort of terrible ecstasy his whole nature irresistibly
drawn, fascinated, towards her. He gazed upon her as one gazes upon the
horrible beauty of some dark, unfathomable abyss. He felt his very brain
turning—his very soul becoming absorbed by her witchcraft.
Her father gave vent to his thought in a brief speech—
“Lionne, you are mad!”
Her face cleared in an instant. Radiant sunshine chased every cloud
away! With an enchanting smile she said—
“You force me into an imaginary position, and compel me to tell you how
it acts upon me. I obey you, and you shudder! But what must _I_ have
felt to be able to make you shudder? Friends, friends, do not try that
experiment again!”
Soon after this the circle separated for the night.
When all was still, Lionne stole out to keep her appointment with
Orville.
It was in the course of their sweet, confidential talk that night, in
the grotto, that Orville suddenly said to her—
“Lionne, you could never become the ruthless avenger you pictured to us
to-night!”
“Hush! oh, do not speak of it! It comes to me like a presentiment! _I
would!_ for such a foul wrong would turn me into an incarnate fiend!”
Orville shuddered through all his nature.
It was near daylight when they got home.
The lovers’ parting came unexpectedly. The next day, at noon, Vulcan
arrived from Winchester, bringing a letter for Mr. Deville, summoning
him to the death-bed of his mother.
Orville announced the grave news.
Mr. Delaforêt expressed his sympathy, and gave orders for Mr. Deville’s
horses to be got ready.
Orville telegraphed Lionne, and stole to the grotto to take a private
parting.
He found her there before him, pale with anguish and with the effort she
made to suppress her pain.
“You are going,” she said.
“I must.”
“I know it! When will you be back?”
“As soon, sweet love, as my duties will permit.”
“How soon will that be?”
“Probably in a month, possibly in a week.”
“Promise me you will return as soon as you justly can.”
“I _do_ promise.”
“Swear it!” she said, breathing hard.
“I _do_ swear it!”
“By your father’s grave!”
“I swear!”
“By your mother’s dying-bed!”
“I swear!”
“By all your earthly hopes!”
“I swear!”
“By all your heavenly aspirations!”
“I swear!”
“BY OUR MUTUAL LOVE!”
“By our mutual love I swear to you, Lionne, that, as soon as I justly
can do so, I will return to you!”
And then, after many fervent embraces, they parted, and each hurried by
a different path to the house.
The horses were ready.
Orville took leave of his host and his household, mounted, and, attended
by Nero, set out for Maryland.
As he rode from before the door, a raven, suddenly flying from the
forest, alighted on the chimney top of the old house, and croaked so
dismally that Orville involuntarily turned his head and shuddered
through all his frame. As he looked back, he caught a glimpse of Lionne,
who was watching him from the window of her room. She, too, had heard
the raven’s croak, and her face wore the pallid hue of death.