Some forty years ago, there lived in one of the prettiest houses
in Kensington, a rich old wine-merchant, and his two only children.
These young men, Stephen and Maurice Grey, were twins, whose mother
had died at their birth, and all through their infancy and childhood
the old wine-merchant had been to them as father and mother in one,
and the brothers had grown up to manhood, loving him and each other
as dearly as heart could wish. Already Stephen, the firstborn of
the twins, had become partner in his father's flourishing business,
and Maurice was preparing at a military college for service in the
army, which he was shortly to join, when a certain event occurred
at Kensington, trifling enough in itself, but in the sequel pregnant
with bitter misfortune to at least two human souls.
There came to reside in the house adjoining old Mr Gray's, an elderly
widow lady and her orphan niece,--Mrs. Lamertine and Miss Adelais
Cameron. They came there principally for the sake of the latter,--
a pale consumptive girl of eighteen, whose delicate health and
constitution it was thought might be considerably benefited by the
mild soft air of that particular neighborhood. Soon after the
arrival of these ladies in their new abode, the old wine-merchant
in his courtesy and kindliness of heart saw fit to pay them a visit,
and in due time and form the visit was returned, and a friendly
come-and-go understanding established between the two houses. In
this manner it happened that Stephen, the elder son, by living
always in his father's house, from which he was absent only during
the office-hours of the day, saw a great deal of Adelais Cameron,
and learnt before long to love her with all the depth and yearning
that a young man feels in his first rapturous adoration of a
beautiful woman.
For a beautiful woman Adelais certainly was. Very fair to look
upon was the pale, transparent face, and the plentiful braided hair,
golden and soft almost as undyed silk, that wreathed about the lovely
little head. Clear and sweet too were the eyes whence the soul
of Adelais looked forth, clear and brown and sweet; so that people
who beheld her fair countenance and heard her musical voice for
the first time, were fain to say in their hearts, "Such a face and
such a voice as these are not earthly things; Adelais Cameron is
already far on her road towards the land of the angels."
But at least Mrs Lamertine and her friendly neighbors the Grays
could perceive that the pale girl grew none the paler nor sicklier for
her residence at Kensington, and as days and weeks flew pleasantly
by in the long autumn season, the old lady talked more and more
confidently of her niece's complete restoration to health and youthful
vigour. Then by-and-by Christmas drew round, and with it Maurice
Gray came home to his father's house for his last vacation-time;
Maurice, with his frank handsome face and curly hair, always so
cheerful, always so good-humoured, always so unconscious of his
own attractiveness, that wherever he went, everybody was sure to
trust and to idolise him. Ay, and to love him too sometimes, but
not as Adelais Cameron did, when her full womanly soul awoke first
to the living intensity of passion, and she found in him the one
god at whose feet to cast all her new wealth of tenderness and homage.
Never before had Maurice Gray been so beloved, never before had
his own love been so desired and coveted by human soul. And now
that the greatest blessing of earth lay so ready to his grasp, Maurice
neither perceived the value of the gift, nor understood that it
was offered to him. Such was the position when Christmas Day arrived,
and the widower begged that Mrs Lamertine and her niece would do
him the pleasure to dine in his house and spend the evening there,
that they might sing songs and play forfeits together and keep up
the ancient institutions of the time, as well as so tiny and staid
a party could manage to do; to which sociable invitation, the old
dame, nothing averse to pleasant fellowship at any season, readily
consented. But when Adelais Cameron entered Mr Gray's drawing-room
that Christmas evening with her soft white dress floating about
her like a hazy cloud, and a single bunch of snowdrops in the coils
of her golden hair, Stephen's heart leapt in his throat, and he
said to himself that never until now had he known how exceeding
perfect and sweet was the beautiful woman whom he loved with so
absorbing a tenderness. Alas, that life should be at times such
a terribly earnest game of cross purposes, such an intensely bitter
reality of mistakes and blunders! Alas, that men and women can
read so little of each other's heart, and yet can comprehend so
well the language of their own!
All the evening, throughout the conversation and the forfeits and
the merry-making, Stephen Gray spoke and moved and thought only
for Adelais, and she for Stephen's twin brother. It was for Maurice
that she sang, while Stephen stood beside her at the piano, drinking
in the tender passionate notes as though they were sweet wine for
which all his soul were athirst; it was at Maurice that she smiled,
while Stephen's eyes were on her face, and to Maurice that she
prattled and sported and made mirthful jests, while Stephen alone
heeded all that she said and did; for the younger brother was
reflected in every purpose and thought of hers, even as her own
image lay mirrored continually in the heart and thoughts of the elder.
But before the hour of parting came that night, Stephen drew Adelais
aside from the others as they sat laughing and talking over some
long-winded story of the old wine-merchant's experiences, and told
her what she, in the blindness of her own wild love, had never
guessed nor dreamed of,--all the deep adoration and worship of his
soul. And when it was told, she said nothing for a few minutes,
but only stood motionless and surprised, without a blush or tremor
or sigh, and he, looking earnestly into her fair uplifted face,
saw with unutterable pain that there was no response there to the
passionate yearning of his own.
"Adelais," said he, presently, "you do not love me?"
"Yes, yes, Stephen," she answered, softly; "as a brother, as a
dear brother."
"No more?" he asked again.
She put her hand into his, and fixing the clear light of her brown
eyes full upon him: "Why," she said, hurriedly, "do you ask me this?
I cannot give you more, I cannot love you as a husband. Let no
one know what has passed between us tonight; forget it yourself
as I shall forget also, and we will always be brother and sister
all our lives."
Then she turned and glided away across the room into the warm bright
glow of the fireside, that lay brightest and warmest in the corner
where Maurice sat; but Stephen stood alone in the darkness and
hid his face in his hands and groaned. And after this there came
a changeover the fortunes of the two households. Day by day Adelais
faded and paled and saddened; none knew why. People said it was
the winter weather, and that when the springtime came the girl would
be herself again, and grow brisker and stronger than ever. But
when Maurice was gone back to his college, to fulfil his last term
there before leaving for India, the only brother of Adelais came
up from his home by the seaside, on a month's visit to his aunt
and his sister at Kensington. He was a man of middle age almost,
this same Philip Cameron, tall and handsome and fair-spoken, so
that the old wine-merchant, who dearly loved good looks and courteous
breeding, took to him mightily from the first, and made much of his
company on all occasions. But as he stayed on from week to week
at Mrs Lamertine's house, Philip saw that the pale lips and cheeks
of Adelais grew paler and thinner continually, that the brown eyes
greatened in the dark sockets, and that the fragile limbs weakened
and sharpened themselves more and more, as though some terrible
blight, like the curse of an old enchantment or of an evil eye,
hung over the sweet girl, withering and poisoning all the life and
the youth in her veins.
She lay on a sofa one afternoon, leaning her golden head upon one
of her pale wan hands, and gazing dreamily through the open casement
into the depths of the broad April sky, over whose clear blue
firmament the drifting clouds came and went incessantly like white-
sailed ships at sea. And Adelais thought of the sea as she watched
them, and longed in her heart to be away and down by the southern
coast where her brother had made his home, with the free salt breeze
blowing in her face, and the free happy waves beating the shore
at her feet, and the sea-fowl dipping their great strong wings in
the leaping surge. Ah to be free,--to be away,--perhaps then she
might forget, forget and live down her old life, and bury it somewhere
out of sight in the sea-sand;--forget and grow blithe and happy
and strong once more, like the breeze and the waves and the wild
birds, who have no memory nor regret for the past, and no thought
for any joy, save the joy of their present being.
"Phil," she said, as her brother came softly into the room and sat
beside her, "take me back with you to the sea-side. I am weary of
living always here in Kensington. It is only London after all."
"My dearest," he answered, kindly, "if that is all you wish for,
it shall certainly be. But, Adelais, is there nothing more than
this that troubles you? There is a shadow in your eyes and on your
lips that used not to be there, and all day long you sit by yourself
and muse in silence; and you weep too at times, Adelais, when you
fancy none is by to see you. Tell me, sister mine, for the sake
of the love that is between us, and for the sake of our father and
mother who are dead, what cloud is this that overshadows you so?"
Long time he pressed and besought her, pleading by turns his power
to help, and her need of tenderness; but yet Adelais was afraid
to speak, for the love that was breaking her heart was unreturned.
So the next day he found her alone again, and prayed her to tell
him her sorrow, that even if he could not help nor comfort her,
they might at least lament together. Then at last she bowed her
head upon his breast, and told him of Maurice, and of his near
departure for India, and of her own disregarded love; but not a
word she said of Stephen, because she had promised him to hold her
peace. And when she had told her brother all, she laid her arms
about his neck and cried, weeping, "Now you know everything that
is in my heart, Phil; speak to me no more about it, but only promise
to take me away with you when you go, that I may the sooner forget
this place and all the sorrow and the pain I have suffered here."
And Philip Cameron kissed her very tenderly, and answered, "Be at
rest, sister, you shall have your will."
But when the evening came, he went over to the house of the wine-
merchant, and questioned him about Maurice, whether he cared for
Adelais or no, and whether he had ever said a word to his father
or brother of the matter.
"Ay, ay," quoth the old gentleman, musingly, when Philip had ceased,
"'Tis like enough if there be anything of the sort that the boys
should talk of it between them, for, God be thanked, they were always
very fond of each other; yet I never heard it spoken about. But
then youth has little in common with age, and when young men make
confidences of this kind, it is to young men that they make them,
and not to grey-beards like me. But tell me, Cameron, for you know
I must needs divine something from all this; your sister loves my
boy Maurice?"
"If you think so, sir," answered Philip, "you must keep her secret."
"Cameron, Cameron," cried the wine-merchant, "Adelais is failing
and sickening every day. Every day she grows whiter and sadder
and more silent. Don't tell me it's for love of Maurice! It's
not possible such a woman as she is can love anybody in vain!
She's an angel on earth, your sister Adelais!"
Then because the old man was kindly and wise and white-headed,
Philip told him all that Adelais had said, and how he had promised
to take her home with him, and had come unknown to any one to ask
before they went whether or not there was any hope for her of the
love on which she had so set her heart.
And when Philip was gone the old gentleman called his elder son,
Stephen, and asked him--but warily, lest he should betray Adelais--
how Maurice bore himself in Stephen's presence when they were alone
together and chanced to speak of her, and if Stephen knew or guessed
anything of what was in his mind towards her. Then the young man
understood for the first time all the blindness of his eyes and
the dulness of his heart; and the pain and the desolation and the
hopelessness of his life that was to be, rose up before him, and
he knew that from thenceforth the glory and the light of it were
put out for ever.
"Father," he said, "I know nothing whatever of all this. Is it
your wish then that these two should marry?"
"It is my wish, Stephen, and the wish also of our friend Philip
himself. Maurice could not take with him to India a sweeter or a
worthier wife than Adelais Cameron."
"And does she wish it too?" he asked again. "Tell me, father, for
I have guessed already." He lifted his eyes to the old man's face
as he spoke, and perceived at once the sudden confusion arid surprise
that his words had caused there, yet he said no more, but waited
still for a reply.
"My dear boy," said the old gentleman at last, "if you have guessed
anything, that is enough; say no more about it, but let it rest
with yourself. I have never yet deceived either of my sons. But
when Maurice comes home again you can help us very much, for you
can question him on the matter more naturally than I could do, and
no doubt he will tell you his mind about it, as you say he always
does about everything, but with me he might be reserved and bewildered
perhaps. Ask him, my boy, but keep your guesses to yourself."
"Father," cried Stephen, pressing his hands together in agony as
though his heart were between them, and he would fain crush it into
dust and destroy it for ever; "tell me, if I am to do this, does
Adelais love my brother?"
"If I tell you at all, boy," said the wine-merchant, "I shall tell
you the truth; can you hold your peace like a man of discretion?"
"I have kept other secrets, father," he answered, "I can keep this."
Then his father told him.
Early in May, Adelais Cameron went to the Devonshire sea-coast with
her brother and her aunt, and they stayed there together a long
while. But the accounts that came from week to week to Kensington
were none of the best, for Adelais had borne the long journey but
ill, and her strength did not return.
Then came the summer and the vacation-time, and Maurice Gray was
home again, full to the brim of schemes for his future life, and
busy all day with head and hands over his preparations for leaving
England in the autumn. But when Stephen talked to him of Adelais,
and told him she was gone to the sea-side, Maurice only laughed
and answered lightly, that she was a sweet lovable girl, and that
he grieved to hear of her illness; no doubt the southern breezes
would bring back the color to her cheeks, and he should hear before
he had been long gone that she was quite well and strong again.
At least he hoped so.
"Then, Maurice, you don't care to see her once more before you sail?
You don't want to say goodbye?"
"O well, if she's here, of course, but that's another thing; I
wouldn't for worlds have her come back to Kensington just to bid
me goodbye. And really you know, Steenie, I've too much to do just
now to be running about and saying farewells everywhere. The time
that's left me now to be at home with you and my father is none
too long. What is Adelais Cameron to me, when all my world is here?"
"Maurice," said Stephen again, in a voice that sounded strained
and hard, like the voice of an old man trying to be young; "you're
a dear affectionate fellow, and as things are, perhaps this is all
very well. But supposing Adelais loved you, and my father and--
and--everybody else you know, wished her to be your wife, how would
you feel towards her then? Supposing, Maurice--only for the sake
of supposing, of course."
"What a strange fellow you are, Steenie! Why, supposing as you say,
such a very wild improbable circumstance were to occur, I should
be heartily sorry for poor Adelais! Only imagine me with such a
wife as she would make! Why I wouldn't have so transparent, white-
skinned a beauty about my house all day for a mine of gold! I
should be seized with lunacy before long, through mere contemplation
of her very unearthliness, and be goaded into fancying her a picture,
and hanging her up framed and glazed over my drawing-room mantelpiece!
No, no, I'll leave Miss Cameron for you, you're just her style, I
take it; but as for me, I never thought of marrying yet, Steenie,
for I never yet had the luck or ill-luck to fall in love, and certainly
you'll allow that nobody ought to think of marriage until he's really
in love. So I'll wish you all success, old boy, and mind you write
and tell me how the wooing gets on!"
O Maurice! Maurice!
Then, by-and-by, the young officer sailed, and Adelais heard of
his going, and her heart died within her for greatness of sorrow
and pain, yet still she held her peace, and lived her life in patience.
And so for two whole years they kept her by the sea, hoping against
hope, and whispering those idle convictions that affection always
suggests, about the worst being over now, and the time of convalescence
being always tedious and unpromising. But in the third year, when
the autumn days grew darker, and the sun set redder in the sea,
and people began to talk again of Christmas, Adelais called her
brother one evening and said:--
"Philip, I have been here very long, and I know that nothing more
on earth can ever make me well again now. You will not refuse me
the last request I shall make you, Phil? Take me back to the old
house at Kensington, that I may see dear old Mr. Gray, and my friend
Stephen, once more; and you, Phil, stay with me and Auntie there
until I die, for it won't be very long now, and I want to see you
near me to the last."
So they brought her back again to the old house, next door to the
wine merchant's, and they carried her over the threshold, because
she was too weak to walk now, and laid her on the old sofa in the
old place by the window, for she would have it, and Philip Cameron
did her bidding in everything. And that same evening, Stephen Gray
came in to see her, and they met as old friends meet who have been
long parted, and sat and talked together until past sunset. But
at length Adelais asked him for news of Maurice, what he was doing,
and how he was, and when they heard from him last, and what he
thought of India and of the new life there, and his companions,
and the climate, and the customs of the place; for she never guessed
that Stephen knew of her hopeless love. But Stephen turned away
his face and answered her briefly, that his brother was well and
prosperous, and wrote home constantly. How could he tell her that
Maurice had already found himself a rich handsome wife in India?