THE THIRTIETH OF JUNE.
She did not grow impatient; the love which sustained her, the hope that
inspired her was too sweet; her soul seemed to be in a blissful, happy
trance; no doubt, no fear, no presentiment of coming disappointment
dimmed the radiance of those sunny brows. He was coming fast as steam
could bring him; it did not matter if he would not come yet, if more of
the sunny hours passed--even if he delayed until even-tide, he would
come so sure as the sun shone in the blue sky.
Noon passed. One--two--three--still she had never moved or stirred. Four
and five struck, still the light had not died from her eyes nor the
smile from her face; he would come; the stars might fall from the
heaven, the great earth upheave, the rivers rise, the hills fall, night
become day, darkness light, but he would come. Who so faithful, so fond,
so true? And at five her maid came again; this time she had a cup of
strong, fragrant coffee, and Leone drank it eagerly. She would wait for
dinner; she expected some one, and she would wait. Quickly enough she
replaced the cup and returned to her watch; he might have come while she
had the cup to her lips; but, ah, no, no one had trodden on the white
acacia blossoms--they were uncrushed.
Perhaps the long watching had wearied her, or the warm glow of the June
afternoon fatigued her, or the strong odor of the flowers reached her
brain. She looked at her watch; it was after five. He would come, most
certainly; she knew that; but she was tired, and a great tearless sob
rose to her lips. The heat of the June sun was growing less; she leaned
her head against the casement of the window, and the white eyelids fell
over the dark, passionate, tender eyes. She was dreaming, then; she
heard the ripple of running water that sung as it ran, and the words
were:
"A ring in pledge I gave her,
And vows of love we spoke--
Those vows were all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke."
Over and over again the sweet, sad words were repeated. She was standing
on the brink of the mill-stream again, her lover's kisses warm on her
lips, her lover's hands clasping hers. Ah, Heaven, that the dream could
have lasted or she never woke! A bird woke her by perching on her hand;
perhaps he thought it was a lily, and she started in affright. The bells
were ringing six; she had lost one whole hour, yet Heaven had sent that
sleep in mercy; one hour of forgetfulness strengthened her for what she
had to suffer. She woke with a start; for one moment her brain was
confused between the dream and the reality. Was it the ripple of the
mill-stream, or was it the sighing of the wind among the roses? She had
slept for an hour. Had he come? Had she slept while he entered the
garden? Was he hiding in jest?
She rang the bell quickly as the trembling hands would allow: and when
the pretty, coquettish maid answered it she asked had any one come, had
any one called; and the answer was, "No." Still she could not rest; she
looked through the rooms, through the garden; ah, no, there were no
traces of any arrival--none.
Once more to her watch at the window; but the scene began to change.
There was no longer the golden glow over land and water, no longer the
golden glare of a summer's day, no longer the sweet summer's noise, and
the loud, jubilant songs of the birds. A gray tint was stealing over
earth and sky; the lilies were closing their white cups; the birds
singing their vesper hymn; longer shadows fell on the grass; cooler
winds stirred the roses. He would come. The sky might pale, the earth
darken, the sun set, the flowers sleep; but he would come. She would let
no doubt of him enter her faithful heart. Let the night shadow fall, the
sun of her love and her hope should still keep light.
And then from sky and earth, from clear river and green wood the light
of day faded--eight, nine, and ten struck--the world grew dark and
still--she kept her watch unbroken. It might be night when he returned;
but she would hear the click of the gate and be there to welcome.
Ah, me, the sorrow that gathered like a storm-cloud over the beautiful
face--the light, brightness and hope died from it as the light died from
the heavens. Still she would not yield. Even after the shadows of
evening had fallen over the land she kept her place. He would come. The
servants of the household grew alarmed at last; and one by one they
ventured in to try to persuade their young mistress to eat, to sleep, or
to rest.
To one and all she said the same thing:
"Hush, do not speak; I am listening!"
It had grown too late to see; there was no moon, and the pale light of
the stars revealed nothing; it had grown colder, too. There was a faint
sound in the wind that told of coming rain. Her own maid--more at
liberty to speak than the others--prayed her to come in; but all advice,
reason, remonstrance received the same answer:
"I must not leave this spot until the twenty-four hours are ended."
She would not have suffered half the torture had the letter arrived; she
would have known then at once that she was not to expect him; and the
ordeal of waiting would have been over at once; but she clung to the
hope he would come, he must come. She recalled his promises given
solemnly--she said to herself with a little shudder:
"If he does not come to-day he will never come."
And then she hated herself for the half-implied doubt of him. No matter
if the sun had fallen and the nightingale was singing; no matter if the
solemn hush of night had fallen, and soft, deep shadows lay around, he
would come. The sighs of the wind grew deeper; the roses drooped. She
leaned forward, for it seemed to her there was a stir among the trees;
it was only some night bird in quest of its prey. Again she bent her
head; surely, at last, there was the click of the gate. But no; it was
only the swaying of the branches in the wind.
Then clear and full and distinct, cleaving the air, rang out the hour of
twelve; it was midnight, and he had not come. The thirtieth of June was
over, and he had failed.
One by one she counted those strokes as they fell, in the vain hope that
she must be mistaken, that it was only eleven. When she realized it she
rose from her solitary watch with a long, low sigh. He had failed; he
had not come. She would not judge him; but he had not kept that promise
which was more solemn to her than any oath. There were many perils, both
by sea and land; the steamer might have run ashore, the train may have
been delayed; but if the appointment had been for her to keep she would
have kept it in spite of all obstacles and all cost.
She rose from her long dull watch; she tried to cross the room and ring
the bell, but the strength of her limbs failed her. She did not fall,
she sunk into a senseless, almost helpless heap on the floor; and there,
long after midnight, her servants found her, and for some time believed
her dead. That was the thirtieth of June--for which she had hoped,
worked, and prayed as woman never did before.
They raised her from the ground and took her to her room. One kinder
than the others sat by her until the dawn, when the dark eyes opened
with a look in them which was never to die away again.
"This is the first of July," she said, faintly.
And the maid, seeing that the morning had dawned, said:
"Yes, it is July."
She never attempted to rise that day, but lay with her face turned to
the wall, turned from the sunlight and the birds' song, the bloom of
flowers, the ripple of leaves, the warmth and light of the summer,
thinking only of the mill-stream and the words that for her had so
terrible a prophecy:
"A ring in pledge I gave her,
And vows of love we spoke--
Those vows are all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke."
Over and over again they rang through her brain and her heart, while she
fought against them, while she lay trying to deaden her senses, to
stifle her reason, doing deadly battle with the fears that assailed her.
She would not give in; she would not doubt him; there would come to her
in time some knowledge; she should know why he had failed.
Failed, oh, God! how hard the word was to say--failed. Why, if every
star in the sky had fallen at her feet it would not have seemed so
wonderful.
Perhaps his mother--that proud, haughty woman, who seemed to trample the
world under her feet--perhaps she had prevented his coming; but he would
come, no matter what the mill-stream said, no matter what his mother
wished. The day passed and the morrow came--the second of July. She rose
on that day and went down-stairs the shadow of her former self--pale,
cold, and silent. She did not say to herself "He will come to-day," hope
was dying within her. Then at noon came the letter--her maid brought it
in. She gave a low cry of delight when she saw the beloved handwriting,
that was followed by a cry of pain. He would not have written if he had
been coming; that he had written proved that he had no intention of
coming. She took the letter, but she dared not trust herself to open it
in the presence of her maid; but when the girl was gone, as there was no
human eye to rest on the tortured face she could not control, she opened
it.
Deadly cold seemed to seize her; a deadly shudder made the letter fall
from her hands.
No, he was not coming.
He _must_ go to Spain--to Spain, with his parents and a party of
tourists--but he loved her just the same, and he should return to her.
"He is weak of purpose," she said to herself when she had read the last
word; "he loves me still; he will come back to me; he will make me his
wife in the eyes of the law as he has done in the sight of Heaven. But
he is weak of purpose. The Countess of Lanswell has put difficulties in
his way, and he has let them conquer him."
Then came to her mind those strong words:
"Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel."
For the second time her servants found her cold and senseless on the
ground; but this time she had an open letter in her hand.
The pity was that the whole world could not see how women trust the
promises of men, and how men keep theirs.