A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER.
"You are rich, Philip!"
"Yes, Virginia, or soon shall be."
"How like a fairy-story it all sounds."
"Or a modern novel."
"_We can be happy now, Philip!_"
The two young people were leaning over the balustrade of a balcony of
the summer residence of Mortimer Moore. The rich moonlight was still
permeated with the rosy tinges of sunset; the early dew called out the
fragrance of a near meadow in which the grass had been cut that day,
and its odors were mingled with the perfumes of roses and lilies in
the garden beneath the balcony. It was an hour to intoxicate the souls
of the young and loving. If Virginia had been dressing herself for a
ball she would not have used more care than she had shown in the simple
afternoon toilet she now wore--simple, and yet the result of consummate
tact. A single string of pearls looped up the heavy braids of black
hair, an Indian muslin robe, in whose folds lurked precious perfumes,
floated about her form, the wide, full sleeves falling away from the
ivory arms, gave softness to their rounded outlines. A bunch of violets
nestled in the semi-transparent fabric where it was gathered over her
bosom. The creamy tint of her low, smooth forehead just deepened in her
cheek to that faint flush which you see in the heart of a tea-rose;
her straight brows, long lashes, and the deep, dark eyes smiling under
them, all showed to wonderful advantage in the delicious light.
As she uttered the last words, she laid her hand lightly upon Philip's
arm, and looked up into his face. He was fully aware, at that moment,
of her attractions; a smile, the meaning of which she could not fully
fathom, answered her own, as he said:
"I _hope_ we can be happy, my fair cousin. I expect to be very much
blessed as soon as a slight suspense which I endure is done away with."
"Why should you feel suspense, Philip? every thing smiles upon you."
"I see _you_ are smiling upon me, my beautiful cousin; and that is a
great deal, if not every thing. You always promised to smile upon me,
you know, if I ever got gold enough to make it prudent."
"It seems to me as if there was sarcasm in your voice, Philip. You
know that I have always thought more of you than any one else; and if
I would not marry you when poor, it was because I dared not. Now we
are equal--in fortune, youth, health. My father is so much better. He
was out walking this afternoon; the country air has benefited him. The
doctor thinks it may be years before he has another attack. You've been
very kind to him, Philip. When our fortunes are joined, we can live
almost as we please--as well as I care to live. Won't it be charming?"
The tapering white hand slid down upon his own.
"Very. You remember that trite passage in the Lady of Lyons, which
the mob, the vulgar crowd, are still disposed to encore. Supposing
we change the scene from the Lake of Como to the banks of the
Hudson--listen, Virginia! how prettily sentiment sounds in this
moonshine:
"'A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage, musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon
We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder
Why earth should be unhappy, while the heavens
Still left us youth and love. We'd have no friends
That were not lovers; no ambition, save
To excel them all in love--that we might smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours.
And when night came, amidst the breadthless heavens,
We'd guess what star should be our home when love
Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps,
And every air was heavy with the sighs
Of orange-groves and music of sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
In the midst of roses! Dost thou like the picture?'
Go on, Virginia, can't you act your part?"
"Let me see, can I recall it?--
"'Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang
Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue;
Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly--
Who would not love thee like Virginia?'"
"A very passable actress you are, cousin. I'd have thought you really
meant that, once, you put such fervor in your voice. But--
"'O false one!
It is the _prince_ thou lovest, not the _man_.'"
"Nay, Philip, like Pauline, I must plead that you wrong me. Already,
before my father summoned you, before we heard the whisper of your
coming fortune, I had resolved to search you out and take back my
cruel resolution--more cruel to myself than to you. I found that I had
overrated my powers of endurance--that I did not know my own heart.
Dear Philip, will you not forgive me? Remember how I was brought up."
Two tears glimmered in the moonlight and plashed upon his hand. They
ought to have melted a stonier susceptibility than his.
"Willingly, Virginia. I forgive you from my heart--and more, I thank
you for that very refusal which you now regret. If that refusal had
not driven me into the wilds of the West, I should never have met
my perfect ideal of womanhood. But I have found her there. A woman,
a child rather, as beautiful as yourself--as much _more_ beautiful,
as love is lovelier than pride; an Eve in innocence, with a soul as
crystal as a silver lake; graceful as the breezes and the wild fawns;
as loving as love itself; and so ignorant that she does not know the
worth of money, and didn't inquire about the settlements when I asked
her to marry me. Think of that, Virginia!"
"Are you in earnest, Philip?"
"I am. I am sorry for your disappointment, my sweet cousin, and hope
you have not thrown away any eligible chances while waiting for me.
I'm going to-morrow, as fast as steam can carry me, to put an end
to that suspense of which I spoke. My little bird is deep in the
western forests, looking out for me with those blue eyes of hers, so
wistfully, for I promised to be back long ago. Your father's affairs
are in a tangled condition, I warn you, Virginia; and you'd better make
a good match while you've still the reputation of being an heiress.
I've been trying to get my uncle's matters into shape for him; but I'm
quite discouraged with the result."
"Perhaps that's the reason you have forgotten me so easily, Philip."
"I should expect you, my disinterested and very charming cousin,
to entertain such a suspicion; but my pretty forester lives in a
log-cabin, and has neither jewels nor silk dresses. So, you see, I
am not mercenary. _Her_ 'loveliness needs not the foreign aid of
ornament.' She looks better with a wild-rose in her hair than any other
lady I ever saw with a wreath of diamonds."
"You are in a very generous mood, this evening, Philip Moore. You might
at least spare comparisons to the woman you have refused."
"I couldn't inflict any wounds upon your _heart_, cousin; for that's
nothing but concentrated carbon--it's yet beyond the fusible state,
and it's nothing now but a great diamond--very valuable, no doubt, but
altogether too icy cold in its sparkle for me."
"Go on, sir. My punishment is just, I know. I remember when _you_ were
the pleader--yet I was certainly more merciful than you. I tempered my
refusal with tears of regret, while you spice yours with pungent little
peppery sarcasms."
"Don't pull those violets to pieces so, Virginia, I love those
flowers; and that's the reason you wore them to-night. If you'd have
followed your own taste, you'd have worn japonicas. But, seriously, I
must go to-morrow. I have remained away from my business much longer
than I should; but I could not desert my uncle in his sickness and
difficulties until I saw him better. He was kind to me in my boyhood,
he made me much of what I am, and if he did not think me fitted to
carry the honors of his family to the next generation, I can still be
grateful for what he did do."
"You do not give me credit for the change which has come over me--if
you did, you could not leave me so coolly. I'm not so bound up in
appearances as I was once. Ah, Philip! this old country-house will be
intolerably lonely when you are gone."
He looked down into the beautiful face trembling with emotion; he
had never seen her when she looked so fair as then, because he had
never seen her when her feelings were really so deeply touched. The
memory of the deep passion he had once felt for her swept back over
him, tumultuous as the waves of a sea. Her cheek, wet with tears, and
flushed with feeling, pressed against his arm. It was a dangerous hour
for the peace of that other young maiden in the far West. Old dreams,
old habits, old hopes, old associates, the glittering of the waves of
the Hudson, familiar to him from infancy, the scent of the sea-breeze,
and the odors of the lilies in the homestead garden, the beautiful face
upon his arm which he had watched since it was a babe's rosy face in
its cradle,--all these things had power, and were weaving about him a
rapid spell.
"What does that childish, ignorant young thing know of love, Philip?
If some rustic fellow with rosy cheeks, who could not write his own
name, had been the first to ask her, she would have said 'Yes' just
as prettily as she did to you. But I have been tried--I know others,
myself, and you. My judgment and my pride approve my affection. Then
the West is no place for a man like you. You used to be ambitious--to
plan out high things for your future. I adore ambition in a man. I
would not have him sit at my feet day and night, and make no effort
to conquer renown. I would have him great, that I might honor his
greatness. I would aspire with and for him. You might be a shining
light here, Philip, where it is a glory to shine. Why will you throw
yourself away upon a rude and uncultivated community? Stay here a week
or two longer, and think better of the mode of life you have chosen."
The moon hung in the heavens, high and pure, drawing the tides of the
ocean, whose sighs they could almost hear; and like the moon, fair and
serene, the memory of Alice Wilde hung in the heaven of Philip's heart,
calming the earthly tide of passion which beat and murmured in his
breast. He remembered that touching assurance of hers that she would
sacrifice _herself_ for him, at any time, and he could not think her
love was a chance thing, which would have been given to a commoner man
just as readily.
"I have tarried too long already, Virginia; I must go to-morrow."
He did not go on the morrow; for while they stood there upon the
balcony in the summer moonshine, a servant came hastily with word, that
the master of the house was again stricken down, in his library, as he
sat reading the evening paper.
He was carried to his room, and laid upon his bed in an unconscious
state. Everybody seemed to feel, from the moment of his attack, that
this time there was no hope of his recovery. The family physician had
only left him and returned to the city a day or two previously. The
evening boat would be at the landing just below in fifteen minutes;
Philip ordered a trusty servant to proceed on board of her to New York,
and bring back the medical attendant by the return boat in the morning.
Meanwhile he did what little he could for the relief of the unconscious
man, while Virginia, pale as her dress, the flowers in her bosom
withering beneath the tears which fell upon them, sat by the bedside,
holding the paralyzed hand which made no response to her clasp. Hours
passed in this manner; toward morning, while both sat watching for some
sign of returning sensibility to the deathly features, the sufferer's
eyes unclosed and he looked about him with a wandering air--
"Where is Alice? Alice! Alice! why don't you come? I've forgiven you,
quite, and I want you to come home."
"He is thinking of my sister," whispered Virginia, looking with awe
into the eyes which did not recognize her, and drawing her cousin
nearer to her side.
"Don't tell me she is dead--Alice, the pride of my house--not dead!"
"Oh, it is terrible to see him in such a state. Philip, can't you do
something to relieve him?"
"Virginia, poor child! I'm afraid he is beyond mortal aid. Be brave, my
dear girl, I will help you to bear it."
Philip could not refuse, in that sad hour, his sympathy and tenderness
to the frightened, sorrowful woman who had only him to cling to.
Presently the wild look faded out of the sick man's eyes.
"Virginia, is that you? My poor child, I am dying. Nothing can save
me now. I leave you alone, no father, no mother, sister, or brother,
or husband to care for you when I am gone. Philip, are you here?
will you be all these to Virginia? Do not hesitate, do not let pride
control you in this hour. I know that I rejected you once, when you
asked to be my son; but I see my mistake now. You have been very kind
and unselfish to me since I sent for you. You are a man of prudence
and honor. I should die content, if I knew Virginia was your wife, if
you had not a thousand dollars to call your own. Poor girl! she will
have very little, after all my vain seeking of wealth for her. Gold
is nothing--_happiness_ is all. Virginia, take warning by me. I am a
witness of the hollowness of pride. I have been a sad and discontented
man for years. The memory of my cruelty to my Alice has stood like a
specter between me and joy. Choose love--marry for love. Philip is more
than worthy of you; try to make him happy. My boy, you do not speak.
Take her hand, here, and promise me that you will take good care of my
last and only child."
He had uttered all this in a low voice, rapidly, as if afraid his
strength would not last him to say what he wished. Virginia turned to
her cousin and seized his hand.
"Philip! Philip! can you refuse--can you desert me, too? O father! I
shall be alone in this world."
"Why do you not promise me, and let me die in peace?" exclaimed the old
man with some of that stern command in his voice which had become a
part of him; "do you not love my child?"
"Not as I did once. At least--but that's no matter. Do not distress
yourself, uncle, about Virginia. I will be to her a true and faithful
brother. I promise to care for her and share with her as if she were my
sister."
"If I could see her your wife, my boy, I should feel repaid for all I
have done for you, since you were thrown upon my hands, an orphan and
friendless, as my child will soon be. Send for the priest, children,
and make it sure."
Philip was silent; his cousin, too, was silent and trembling.
"Don't you see I'm going?--do you want to let me die unsatisfied?"--the
querulous voice was weak and sinking.
"I promise to be a brother to Virginia--to care for her as if she were
my own, uncle. Is not that enough?"
"No--no--no!" fretted the dying man, who, having been unreasonable and
exacting all his life, could not change his nature at the hour of death.
Distressed and uncertain what to do, tempted by the force of
circumstances, Philip wavered; but the moment when his promise would
have given his uncle any satisfaction had passed--the awful change was
upon his face, the sweat upon his brow, the rattle in his throat.
"O, my father!" sobbed Virginia, sinking upon her knees and flinging
her arms over the heart which had ceased to beat.
The gray morning broke over her as she wept wildly beside the bed.
Philip was obliged to draw her away from the room by force, while
others came to attend upon the dead. To see her so given up to grief,
so desolate, with no one but himself to whom she could turn, touched
him with pity and tenderness.
"Weep, if you will, poor girl, it will be better than choking back all
those tears. Weep in my arms, for I am your brother now," he said, very
gently, as he seated her upon a sofa and drew her head to his shoulder,
soothing her and quieting her excess of emotion, until, from fatigue
and exhaustion, she dropped asleep on his bosom.
"How lovely she is, with her arrogance and vanity all melted away
by some real sorrow," he thought, as he laid her carefully upon the
pillow, and went out to give directions to the disturbed household.
During the next week Philip made himself of use to all, overseeing,
quietly directing and controlling every thing; and when the funeral
was over, the outer excitement subsided, and nothing left but that
emptiness and shadow of the house from which the dead has recently been
borne, then he had to consult with the orphan girl what should be done
for the future.
"Will you stay where you are for the summer, while I go back and attend
to my affairs at the West? If you will, I can come back again in the
autumn, and we can then decide upon some settled plan for the future."
"I can stay here, if you think best. But it seems to me as if I shall
go wild with fear and loneliness in this great house, with no one but
the servants, after you are gone. I don't know _what_ to do, Philip."
"Is there no friend of your own sex who would be comfort and company,
whom you could invite to stay with you till I come back? You will not
wish to go into town this weather. Besides, my dear girl, I must tell
you that the town-house will not be long in your hands. When the estate
is settled up, this property here, and a small annuity possibly, will
be all that I can save for you. Will it not be best for you to break
up, dismiss the expensive array of servants, rent your house, and board
in some agreeable family?"
"Oh, Philip, I don't know. I can't think and I can't decide. I know
nothing of business. I wish you to do every thing for me;" her
helplessness appealed to him strongly.
She could only think of one way with which she should be happy and
content; but he did not propose that way.
"I can only suggest this, then, for the present: stay where you are now
until I go home and arrange matters there. I _must_ go home for a few
weeks. In the mean time the affairs of the estate will be closing up.
When I return, I will see to them; and when all is settled, if you wish
to go to the West with me, you shall go. If I have a home by that time,
you shall share it."
"How share it, Philip?"
He did not reply. He was resolved to see Alice Wilde again, to satisfy
himself her character was all he had dreamed it--her love what he
hoped; if so, nothing should tempt him from the fulfillment of the
sweet promise he had made himself and her--neither gratitude to the
dead nor sympathy with the living.