BEFORE THE STORM.
Before the storm breaks there sometimes falls upon the earth a
brief time when the sun shines in splendour from a clear sky, the
air is balmy and delightsome, the birds sing in the coppice, and
the innocent lambs leap in the meadows. Then, suddenly, dark clouds
gather from the north; the wind blows cold; in a minute the sky is
black; the lightnings flash, the thunders roll, the wind roars, the
hail beats down and strips the orchard of its promise, and silences
the birds cowering in the branches, and drives the trembling sheep
to take shelter in the hedges. This was to be my case. You shall
understand how for a single day--it was no more--I was the happiest
girl in all the world.
I may now without any shame confess that I have always loved Robin
from my earliest childhood. That was no great wonder seeing what
manner of boy he was, and how he was always kind and thoughtful
for me. We were at first only brother and sister together, which
is natural and reasonable when children grow up together; nor can
I tell when or how we ceased to be brother and sister, save that
it may have been when Robin kissed me so tenderly at parting, and
told me that he should always love me. I do not think that brothers
do generally protest love and promise continual affection. Barnaby
certainly never declared his love for me, nor did he ever promise to
love me all his life. Perhaps, had he remained longer, he might have
become as tender as he was good-hearted; but I think that tenderness
towards a sister is not in the nature of a boy. I loved Robin, and
I loved Humphrey, both as if they were brothers; but one of them
ceased to be my brother, while the other, in consequence, remained
my brother always.
A girl may be ignorant of the world as I was, and of lovers and
their ways as I was, and yet she cannot grow from a child to a woman
without knowing that when a young man, who hath promised to love her
always, speaks of her in every letter, he means more than common
brotherly love. Nor can any woman be indifferent to a man who thus
regards her; nor can she think upon love without the desire of being
herself loved. Truly, I had always before my eyes the spectacle of
that holy love which consecrates every part of life. I mean, in the
case of my mother, whose waking and sleeping thoughts were all for
her husband, who worked continually and cheerfully with her hands
that he might be enabled to study without other work, and gave up
her whole life, without grudging--even reckoning it her happiness
and her privilege--in order to provide food and shelter for him.
It was enough reward for her that he should sometimes lay his hand
lovingly upon her head, or turn his eyes with affection to meet hers.
It was in the night of June 12, as I lay in bed, not yet asleep,
though it was already past nine o'clock, that I heard the trampling
of hoofs crossing the stream and passing our cottage. Had I known
who were riding those horses there would have been but little sleep
for me that night. But I knew not, and did not suspect, and so,
supposing that it was only one of the farmers belated, I closed my
eyes, and presently slept until the morning.
About five o clock, or a little before that time, I awoke, the sun
having already arisen, and being now well up above the hills. I
therefore arose softly, leaving my mother asleep still, and, having
dressed quickly, and prayed a little, I crept down the stairs.
In the house there was such a stillness that I could even hear
the regular breathing of my father as he slept upon his pallet
among his books; it was chill and damp (as is the custom in the
early morning) in the room where he lived and worked. Yet, when I
threw open door and shutter and looked outside, the air was full
of warmth and refreshment; as for the birds, they had long since
left their nests, and now were busy looking for their breakfast;
the larks were singing overhead, and the bees already humming and
droning. Who would lie abed when he could get up and enjoy the
beauty of the morning? When I had breathed a while, with pleasure
and satisfaction, the soft air, which was laden with the scent of
flowers and of hay, I went indoors again and swept and dusted the
room. Then I opened the cupboard, and considered the provision for
breakfast. For my father there would be a slice of cold bacon with a
good crust of home-made bread (better bread or sweeter was nowhere
to be had) and a cup of cider, warming to the spirits and good, for
one who is no longer young, against any rawness of the morning air.
For my mother and myself there would be, as soon as our neighbours'
cows were milked, a cup of warm milk and bread soaked in it. 'Tis a
breakfast good for a grown person as well as for a child, and it
costs us nothing but the trouble of going to take it.
When I had swept the room and laid everything in its place I went
into the garden, hoe in hand, to weed the beds and trim the borders.
The garden was not very big, it is true, but it produced many things
useful for us; notably onions and sallet, besides many herbs good
for the house, for it was a fertile strip of ground and planted in
every part of it. Now, such was the beauty of the morning and the
softness of the air that I presently forgot the work about which I
had come into the garden, and sat down in the shade upon a bench,
suffering my thoughts to wander hither and thither. Much have I
always pitied those poor folk in towns who can never escape from the
noise and clatter of tongues and sit somewhere in the sunshine or
the shade, while the cattle low in the meadows and the summer air
makes the leaves to rustle, and thus alone suffer their thoughts to
wander here and there. Every morning when I arose was this spectacle
of Nature's gladness presented to my eyes, but not every morning
could my spirit (which sometimes crawls, as if fearing the light
of day and the face of the sun) rise to meet and greet it, and to
feel it calling aloud for a hymn of praise and thanksgiving. For,
indeed, this is a beautiful world, if we could always (which we
cannot for the earthliness of our natures) suffer its loveliness to
sink into our hearts. I know not what I thought this morning; but I
remember, while I considered the birds, which neither reap nor sow,
nor take any thought of to-morrow, yet are daily fed by Heaven, that
the words were whispered in mine ear: 'Are ye not much better than
they?' And this, without doubt, prepared my heart for what should
follow.
While I sat thinking of I know not what, there came footsteps--quick
footsteps--along the road; and I knew those footsteps, and sprang to
my feet, and ran to the garden-gate, crying, 'Robin!--it is Robin!'
Yes; it was Robin.
He seized me by both hands, looking in my face curiously and eagerly.
'Alice!' he said, drawing a deep breath, 'Oh! but what hath happened
to thee?'
'What should happen, Robin?'
'Oh! Thou art changed, Alice! I left thee almost a child, and
now--now--I thought to catch thee in my arms--a sweet rustic
nymph--and now--fain must I go upon my knees to a goddess.'
'Robin!' Who, indeed, would have expected such language from Robin!
[Illustration: '_And Robin was come home again, and I was lying in
his arms, and he was kissing me._']
'Alice,' he said, still gazing upon me with a kind of wonder which
made me blush, 'do you remember when we parted four years ago--the
words we said? As for me, I have never forgotten them. I was to
think of thee always; I was to love thee always. Truly I may say
that there is never a day but thou hast been in my mind. But not
like this'----He continued to look upon me as upon some strange
creature, so that I began to be frightened and turned away.
'Nay, Alice, forgive me. I am one who is dazzled by the splendour of
the sun. Forgive me; I cannot speak. I thought of a village beauty,
rosy-cheeked, sweet and wholesome as an August quarander, and I
find'----
'Robin--not a goddess.'
'Well, then, a woman tall and stately, and more beautiful than words
can say.'
'Nay, Robin, you do but flatter. That is not like the old Robin I
remember and'----I should have added 'loved,' but the word stuck.
'I swear, sweet saint--if I may swear--nay, then I do affirm, that
I do not flatter. Hear me tell a plain tale. I have travelled far
since last I saw thee; I have seen the great ladies of the Court
both of St. James's and of the Louvre; I have seen the famous
beauties of Provence, and the black-eyed witches of Italy; but
nowhere have I seen a woman half so fair.'
'Robin--you must not! Nay, Robin--you shame me!'
Then he knelt at my feet and seized my hand and kissed it. Oh, the
foolishness of a man in love! And yet it pleases us. No woman is
worth it. No woman can understand it; nor can she comprehend the
power and might of man's love, nor why he singles out her alone from
all the rest and fills his heart wholly with her, so that all other
women are henceforward as his sisters. It is wonderful; it is most
wonderful. Yet it pleases us. Nay, we cannot choose but thank God
for it with all our heart and with all our soul.
I would not, if I could, set down all the things which Robin said.
First, because the words of love are sacred; next, because I would
not that other women should know the extravagance of his praise. It
was in broken words, because love can never be eloquent.
As for me, what could I do, what could I say? For I had loved him
from my very childhood, and now all my heart went out from me and
became his. I was all his. I was his slave to command. That is the
quality of earthly love by which it most closely resembles the
heavenly love, so that just as the godly man is wholly devoted to
the will of the Lord in all things great and small, resigned to His
chastisements, and always anxious to live and die in His service, so
in earthly love one must be wholly devoted to the person whom one
loves.
And Robin was come home again, and I was lying in his arms, and he
was kissing me and calling me all the sweet and tender things that
he could invent, and laughing and sighing together as if too happy
to be quiet. Oh! sweetest moments of my life! Why did they pass so
quickly? Oh! sacrament of love, which can be taken only once, and
yet changes the whole of life and fills it with memory which is
wholly sweet! In all other earthly things there is something of
bitterness. In this holy joy of pure and sacred love there is no
bitterness--no; not any. It leaves behind nothing of reproach or of
repentance, of shame or of sorrow. It is altogether holy.
Now, when my boy had somewhat recovered from his first rapture, and
I had assured him very earnestly that I was not, indeed, an angel,
but a most sinful woman, daily offending in my inner thoughts (an
assurance which he received, indeed, with an appearance of disbelief
and scorn), I was able to consider his appearance, which was now
very fine, though always, as I learned when I saw him among other
gentlemen, with some soberness, as became one whose upbringing
inclined him to plainness of dress as well as of speech and manner.
He wore a long wig of brown hair, which might have been his own
but for its length; his hat was laced and cocked, which gave him a
gallant and martial appearance; his neckcloth was long and of fine
lace; beside him in my russet gown I must have looked truly plain
and rustic; but Robin was pleased not to think so, and love is a
great magician to cheat the eyes.
He was home again; he told me he should travel no more (yet you
shall hear how far he afterwards travelled against his will); his
only desire now was to stay at home and live as his grandfather
had lived, in his native village; he had nothing to pray for but
the continuance of my love--of which, indeed, there was no doubt
possible.
It was now close upon six o'clock, and I begged him to go away for
the present, and if my father and Sir Christopher should agree, and
if it should seem to his Honour a fit and proper thing that Robin
should marry a girl so penniless as myself, why--then--we might meet
again after breakfast, or after dinner; or, indeed, at any other
time, and so discourse more upon the matter. So he left me, being
very reluctant to go; and I, forgetting my garden and what I had
come forth to do, returned to the house.
You must understand that all these things passed in the garden,
divided from the lane by a thick hedge, and that passers-by--but
there were none--could not, very well, have seen what was done,
though they might have heard what was said. But if my father had
looked out of his window he could have seen, and if my mother
had come downstairs she also might have seen through the window,
or through the open door. This I thought not upon, nor was there
anything to hide--though one would not willingly suffer anyone, even
one's own mother, to see and listen at such a moment. Yet mother has
since told me that she saw Robin on his knees kissing my hands; but
she withdrew, and would not look again.
When I stepped within the door she was at work with her wheel, and
looked up with a smile upon her lips, but tears were lying in her
eyes. Had I known what she had seen I should have been ashamed.
'Daughter,' she said softly, 'thy cheek is burning red. Hast thou,
perchance, been too long in the sun?'
'No, mother, the sun is not too hot.'
'Daughter,' she went on, still smiling through her tears, 'thine
eyes are bright and glowing. Hast thou a touch of fever by ill
chance?'
'No, mother, I have no fever.'
'Child, thy lips are trembling and thy hands are shaking. My dear,
my dear, what is it? Tell thy mother all.'
She held out her arms to me, and I threw myself at her feet, and
buried my head in her lap as if I had been again a child.
'Mother! mother!' I cried, 'Robin hath come home again, and he says
he loves me, and nothing will do but he must marry me.'
'My dear,' she said, kissing and fondling me, 'Robin hath always
been a good lad, and I doubt not that he hath returned unspotted
from the world; but, nay, do not let us be too sure. For, first,
his Honour must consent, and then Madam; and thy father must be
asked--and he would never, for any worldly honour--no, never--suffer
thee to marry an ungodly man. As for thy lack of fortune, I know
not if that will not also stand in the way; and as for family, thy
father, though he was born in New England, cometh of a good stock,
and I myself am a gentlewoman, and on both sides we bear an ancient
coat-of-arms. And as for thyself, my dear, thou art--I thank God
for it!--of a sweet temper and an obedient disposition. From the
earliest thou hast never given thy mother any uneasiness, and I
think thy heart hath been mercifully disposed towards goodness
from thy childhood upwards. It is a special grace in this our long
poverty and oppression; and it consoles me partly for the loss of my
son Barnaby.' Here she was silent for a space, and her eyes filled
and brimmed over. 'Daughter,' she said earnestly, 'thou art comely
in the eyes of men; that have I known for long. It is partly for
thy sweet looks that Sir Christopher loves thee; Mr. Boscorel plays
music with thee partly because his eyes love to behold the beauty
of woman. Nay, I mean no reproach, because it is the nature of men
to love all things beautiful, whether it be the plumage of a bird
or the shape of a woman's head. Yes; thou art beautiful, my dear.
Beauty passes, but love remains. Thy husband will perchance never
cease to think thee lovely if he still proves daily thy goodness and
the loveliness of thy heart. My dear, thou hast long comforted thy
mother; now shalt thou go, with the blessing of the Lord, to be the
solace and the joy of thy husband.'