THE AWAKENING.
That thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic voice,
He stretched his arms out toward that thrilling voice,
As if to draw it on to his embrace.
I take her as God made her, and as men
Must fail to unmake her, for my honor'd wife.
E. B. BROWNING.
Paradise itself could hardly hold an hour of purer and more perfect
bliss than when those two young creatures stood holding each other's
hands and confessing their mutual love.
To Nea it was happiness, the happiness for which she had secretly
longed. To Maurice it was a dazzling dream, a madness, an unreality,
from which he must wake up to doubt his own sanity--to tremble and
disbelieve.
And that awakening came all too soon.
Through the long hours of the night he lay and pondered, till with the
silence and darkness a thousand uneasy thoughts arose that cooled the
fever in his veins and made him chill with the foreboding of evil.
What had he done? Was he mad? Had it been all his fault that he had
betrayed his love? Had he not been sorely tempted? and yet, would not
a more honorable man have left her without saying a word?
How could he go to Mr. Huntingdon and acknowledge what he had done?
that he, a mere clerk, a poor curate's son, had dared to aspire to his
daughter, to become the rival of Lord Bertie Gower--for Nea had
confided to him her father's ambition. Would he not think him mad?
groaned Maurice, or would he turn with that hard, dark look on his
face that he knew so well, and give him a curt dismissal?
Maurice remembered George Anderson and trembled, as well he might; and
then as the whole hopelessness of the case rushed upon him, he thought
that he would tell his darling that he had been mad--dishonorable, but
that he would give her up; that he loved her better than himself, and
that for her own sweet sake he must give her up.
And so through the long, dark hours Maurice lay and fought out his
first fierce battle of life, and morning found him the victor.
The victor, but not for long; for at the first hint, the first
whispered word that he must tell her father, or that he must leave her
forever, Nea clung to him in a perfect passion of tears.
The self-willed, undisciplined child had grown into the wayward,
undisciplined girl. No one but her father had ever thwarted Nea, and
now even his will had ceased to govern her; she could not and would
not give up the only man whom she loved; nothing on earth should
induce her now to marry Lord Bertie--she would rather die first; if he
left her she should break her heart, but he loved her too well to
leave her.
Poor Maurice! An honorable man would have nerved himself to bear her
loving reproaches; would have turned sadly and firmly from her
confused, girlish sophistries, and reproved them with a word. He would
have told her that he loved her, but that he loved honor more; that he
would neither sin himself nor suffer her to tempt him from his sense
of right. But Maurice did none of these things; he was young and weak;
the temptation was too powerful; he stayed, listened and was lost. Ah!
the angels must have wept that day over Maurice's fall, and Nea's
victory.
She told him what he knew already, that Mr. Huntingdon would turn him
out of his office; that he would oppress her cruelly; that he would
probably take her abroad or condemn her to solitude, until she had
promised to give him up and marry Lord Bertie.
Could he leave her to her father's tender mercies, or abandon her to
that other lover? and she wept so passionately as she said this that a
stronger man than Maurice must have felt his strength waver.
And so Nea had the victory, and the days flew by on golden wings, and
the stolen moments became sweeter and more precious to the young
lovers until the end came.
Mr. Huntingdon was better--he could leave his room and walk up and
down the corridor leaning on Sister Teresa's arm.
There was less pain and fewer relapses; and when Dr. Ainslie proposed
that his patient should spend the rest of the spring in the south of
France, Mr. Huntingdon consented without a demur.
They were to be away some months, Mr. Huntingdon informed Nea, and
extend their tour to Switzerland and the Italian Tyrol. Lord Bertie
had promised to join them at Pau in a month or so, and here her father
looked at her with a smile. They could get the trousseau in Paris. Nea
must make up her mind to accept him before they started; there must be
no more delay or shilly-shallying; the thing had already hung fire too
long. Lord Bertie had been complaining that he was not fairly treated,
and more to the same purpose.
Nea listened in perfect silence, but it was well that her father could
not see her face. Presently she rose and said that he was tired and
must talk no more, for Mr. Trafford would be here directly; and then
she made some pretext for leaving the room.
Maurice found her waiting for him when he came downstairs. As he took
her in his arms and asked her why she looked so pale and strange, she
clung to him almost convulsively and implored him to save her. Maurice
was as pale as she, long before she had finished; the crisis had come,
and he must either lose her or tempt his fate.
Again he tried to reason with her, to be true to himself and her; but
Nea would not give him up or let him tell her father. She would marry
Maurice at once if he wished it; yes, perhaps that would be the wisest
plan. Her father would never give his consent, but when it was too
late to prevent it he might be induced to forgive their marriage. It
was very wrong, she knew, but it would be the only way to free her
from Lord Bertie. Her father would be terribly angry, but his anger
would not last; she was his only child, and he had never denied her
anything.
Poor Nea! there was something pathetic in her blindness and perfect
faith in her father; even Maurice felt his misgivings silenced as he
listened to her innocent talk; and again the angels wept over
Maurice's deeper fall, and Nea's unholy victory.
They had planned it all; in three weeks' time they were to be married.
Mr. Huntingdon could not leave before then. On the day before that
fixed for the journey the bond was to be sealed and signed between
them, so that no power of man could part them. Mr. Huntingdon might
storm ever so loudly, his anger would break against an adamantine
fate. "Those whom God has joined together no man can put
asunder"--words of sacred terror and responsibility.
The next three weeks were very troubled ones to Maurice; his brief
interviews with Nea were followed by hours of bitter misgivings. But
Nea was childishly excited and happy; every day her love for Maurice
increased and deepened. The shadow of his moral weakness could not
hide his many virtues. She gloried in the thought of being his wife.
Oh, yes, her father would be good to them; perhaps, after all, they
would go to Pau, but Maurice and not Lord Bertie would be with them.
Nea never hesitated, never repented, though Maurice's face grew thin
and haggard with anxiety as the days went by.
They were to be married in one of the old city churches; and afterward
Maurice was to take her to his lodgings in Ampton Street; and they
were to write a letter to Mr. Huntingdon. Maurice must help her write
it, Nea said. Of course her father would be angry--fearfully
angry--but after a few hours he would calm down, and then he would
send the carriage for her; and there would be a scene of penitence and
reconciliation. Nea painted it all in glowing colors, but Maurice
shook his head with a sad smile, and begged her not to deceive
herself. Mr. Huntingdon might not forgive them for a long time, for he
remembered George Anderson, and the inexorable will that would have
condemned the young criminal to penal servitude.
And so one morning as Mr. Huntingdon was sitting by the open window
watching the children play in the May sunshine and wondering why his
daughter had not been to wish him good-morning, Nea had stolen out of
her father's house, and was hurrying through the sunny square and
green, deserted park until she found Maurice waiting for her, who
silently took her hand, and put her into the carriage.
Nea said afterward that it was that silent greeting of Maurice's, and
his cold touch, that first brought a doubt to her mind; during the
long drive he spoke little to her--only held her hand tightly; and
when at last they stood together in the dark old church with its
gloomy altar and white, gleaming monuments, the poor child gave a
shiver that was almost fear, and suddenly burst into tears. It had
come upon her all at once what she was doing, and why she was there;
but already it was too late, for while she was clinging to Maurice
with low, frightened sobs, the curate had hurried from the vestry and
had entered within the rails, and the pew-opener was beckoning them to
take their places.
Too late! too late! Ten minutes more and the knot was tied that no
hand could loosen, and Nea Huntingdon had become Nea Trafford.
* * * * *
But when they had left the gloomy old church in the distance, and were
driving through the crowded streets with their babel of voices, Nea's
courage and spirits revived; and presently she was tripping about
Maurice's shabby rooms, re-arranging the bowls of jonquils and lilac,
with which the landlady had made some show of festivity, unlooping the
stiff folds of the muslin curtains, and peeping into the corner
cupboards with the gleeful curiosity of a child, until, at her young
husband's gentle remonstrance, her seriousness returned, and she sat
down to write the formidable letter.
And how formidable it was Nea never imagined until she had tried and
failed, and then tried again till she sighed for very weariness; and
then Maurice came to her aid with a few forcible sentences; and so it
got itself written--the saddest, most penitent little letter that a
daughter's hand could frame.
But when she had laid down the burden of her secret, and the special
messenger had been dispatched to Belgrave House, Nea put off thought
for awhile, and she sat by the window and chatted to Maurice about the
gay doings they would have at Pau, and Maurice listened to her; but
always there was that sad, incredulous smile on his face.
And so the day wore on, but when they had finished their simple dinner
and the afternoon had waned into evening, Nea grew strangely quiet and
Maurice's face grew graver and graver as they sat with clasped hands
in the twilight, with a barrier of silence growing up between them.
And when the dusk became darkness, and the lamp was brought in Nea
looked at Maurice with wide anxious eyes and asked what it meant.
Were they not going to send the carriage for them after all? she
wondered; must she go home on foot and brave her father's anger? he
must be so very, very angry, she thought, to keep them so long in
suspense.
"Hush!" exclaimed Maurice, and then they heard the rumbling of wheels
that stopped suddenly before the door, and the loud pealing of a bell
through the house.
"The carriage! the carriage!" cried Nea, and the flush rose to her
face as she started to her feet, but Maurice did not answer; he was
grasping the table to support himself, and felt as though another
moment's suspense would be intolerable.
"A letter for Mrs. Trafford," observed the landlady in solemn
awe-struck tones, "and a man in livery and the cabman are bringing in
some boxes."
"What boxes?" exclaimed Nea; but as she tore open the letter and
glanced over the contents a low cry escaped her.
"Maurice! Maurice!" cried the poor child; and Maurice, taking it from
her, read it once, twice, thrice, growing whiter and whiter with each
perusal, and then sunk on a chair, hiding his face in his hands, with
a groan. "Oh! my darling," he gasped, "I have ruined you; my darling,
for whom I would willingly have died, I have ruined and brought you to
beggary."
They had sinned, and beyond doubt their sin was a heavy one; but what
father, if he had any humanity, could have looked at those two
desolate creatures, so young, and loving each other so tenderly, and
would not have had pity on them?
The letter was as follows--
"MADAME,--I am directed by Mr. Huntingdon to inform you that
from this day he will hold no communication with you or your
husband.
"He wishes me to add that he has sent all clothes, jewels, and
personal effects belonging to his daughter Nea Huntingdon, now
styling herself Nea Trafford, to the inclosed address, and he
has directed his manager, Mr. Dobson, to strike Mr. Maurice
Trafford's name from the list of clerks. Any attempts to open
any further correspondence with Mr. Huntingdon will be
useless, as all such letters will be returned or destroyed.
"I remain, madame,
"Your humble servant,
"SISTER TERESA."
Inclosed was a check for two hundred pounds and a little slip of paper
with a few penciled lines in Sister Teresa's handwriting.
"For the love of Heaven do not send or come--it would be worse
than useless, he is nearly beside himself with anger; your
maid interceded for you with tears, and has been sent away
with her wages. No one dares to say a word."
Oh, fathers! provoke not your children to wrath. It was that hard,
cruel letter that changed Nea's repentance to unrelenting bitterness.
Instinctively she felt the iron of her father's will enter into her
soul. In a moment she understood, as she had never done before, the
hardness and coldness of his nature, the inflexibility of his purpose;
as well might she dash herself against a rock as expect forgiveness.
Well, she was his own child, her will was strong too, and in the
anguish of her despair she called upon her pride to support her, she
leaned her fainting woman's heart upon that most rotten of reeds.
He had disinherited her, his only child; he had flung her away from
him. Well, she would defy him; and then she remembered his ill-health,
their projected trip to Pau, their happy schemes for the future, till
her heart felt almost broken, but for all that she stood like a
statue, crushing down the pain in the very stubbornness of her pride.
Ah, Nea, unhappy Nea! poor motherless, willful girl; well may she look
round her with that scared, hunted look.
Was this her future home, these poor rooms, this shabby furniture?
Belgrave House closed to her forever. But as she looked round with
that fixed miserable glance, why did the tears suddenly dim her eyes?
Her glance had fallen on Maurice, still sitting motionless with his
hands before his eyes--Maurice her husband; yes, there he sat, the man
whom her own willfulness had dragged to the brink of ruin, whose faith
and honor she had tempted, whose honest purpose she had shaken and
destroyed, who was so crushed with remorse for his own weakness that
he dared not look her in the face; and as she gazed at him, Nea's
whole heart yearned with generous pity over the man who had brought
her to poverty, but whom she loved and would love to her life's end.
And Maurice, sitting crushed with that awful remorse, felt his hands
drawn down from his face, and saw Nea's beautiful face smiling at him
through her tears, felt the smooth brown head nestle to his breast,
and heard the low sobbing words--
"For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, till death us do part,
have I not promised, Maurice? Take me to your heart and comfort me
with your love, for in all the world I have no one but you--no one but
you!"