As I lay in this dreamy condition I became conscious that the music
had ceased and that the players had departed. But I was not alone;
Doctor Louis was with me.
These facts were made apparent by my inner sense, for I did not
attempt to open my eyes. Indeed, without a determined effort I should
not have succeeded. A wave of cold air passed over my eyelids;
another; another. This did not proceed from an uncontrolled natural
force; Doctor Louis had risen from his seat, and was now standing in
close proximity to me. I did not pause to consider whether he had
moved towards me stealthily, in order not to disturb me. I was content
to accept certain facts without inquiry as to how they were produced.
Again the wave of cold air across my eyelids; again; again.
"To seal them," was the expression of my thought. "So be it--but this
learned doctor shall not quite succeed. He is endeavouring to
magnetise me to his will, but my power is no less than his; it may be
greater. Hidden force shall meet hidden force in friendly and amiable
contest. He will not be aware that I am resisting him, and the
advantage will be on my side. I will play with him as one skilled in
fence plays with an apprentice. My dear doctor's power is the product
of cultivation; he has learnt the art he practises. To me it is
natural, born in my birth without a doubt. What matter how
transmitted? That I am I is the potent fact; and being I, and of and
in the world, I am, to myself, supreme. What to me would be the
marvels of nature, the genius of centuries, the memorials of time from
the first breath of creation, were I not in existence? Therefore am I,
to myself, supreme. The present lives; the past is at rest. The
future? A grey veil spreads itself before me, shutting out from my
view the years of mortal life through which I have yet to pass. But I
possess a talisman. I breathe upon the veil the form of a rose, white
and most lovely, with just a tinge of creamy pink, and it dissolves
into a vision of flowers, amidst which I walk, clasping a hand which,
but that it is flesh and blood, might be the hand of an angel. It is
an angel's hand--mine, and no other man's; mine, to gladden my hours,
and to be for ever creative of joy, of peace, of beauty. How fair the
view! I will have no other.
"I am not fearful that the doctor has evil intentions towards me; and
truly I have none towards him. As regards our relations to each other,
spiritual and temporal, nothing is yet fixed.
"I see him as he stands by my side waiting his turn. A grave,
courteous, and kindly man, whose native instinct it must be to shrink
from evil. Goodness and nobility are inherent in his nature. Not that
he is devoid of cunning. Indeed, is he not practising it at the
present moment? But it is cunning which must always be used to a just
or good end. I do not unite the terms 'just' and 'good,' for the
reason that they are sometimes at war with each other. What is a
blessing to one man is frequently a curse to another. The doctor's
cunning is just now weakened by the fact that it is as much the
cunning of the heart as of the head that he is bringing to bear upon
me. Mixed motives are rarely entirely successful. In enterprises upon
which momentous issues hang, one dominant idea must be the supreme
guide.
"He is not inimical to me, yet is he secretly disturbed--and I am the
cause. Well, doctor, you picked me up in the woods and saved my life.
Who, then, is the responsible one--you or I?
"Between us, for sympathy or repulsion, are a being and an influence
which soon shall become resolved into a bridge or a chasm. I prefer
that it shall be a bridge, but it may be that it will not depend upon
me to make it this or that. Only, I will have my way. No power on
earth shall mar the dearest wish of my heart.
"What being stands between you and me, dear doctor, to unite or sever?
Ah, the fragrant air playing about my face, whispering of spring, of
youth, of joy! Lying back in my chair, with eyes fast closed, I see
the pink and white blossoms growing upwards into the clouds, kissing
heaven. I am lifted heavenward. Delicious and most sweet! If death
bear any resemblance to this state of beatitude, it were good to die.
But I must live--I must live! A heaven awaits me in mortal life. Dear
doctor, whom, unconscious to yourself, I am dominating even as you
would dominate me, which is it to be--a bridge to join our hearts, or
a chasm to hold them apart? The influence is Love, the being,
Lauretta. You cannot quite see into my heart, nor can I quite see into
yours, but the secret which includes love and Lauretta is yours for
the asking. Also, for the asking, my resolve to win both love and her.
"But your inquisitiveness may travel beyond this point; you may seek
to know too much, and I am armed to resist you. Nothing shall you
glean from me that will be to my hurt, that will step between me and
Lauretta. You shall obtain from me no pathognomonic sign which will
enable you to lay your finger upon the secret of my midnight musings,
and of my love for solitude. You shall not make me a witness against
myself. True, I have heard silent voices and have seen invisible
shapes. You would construe the bare fact to my disadvantage. You would
be unable to understand that they are my slaves and have no power over
me. All the dark thoughts they have suggested, all the temptings and
instigations, will presently be slain by love, and will fall into a
deep grave, to lie there for ever still and dead. I am as others are,
human; my life, like the lives of other men, is imperfect. The
purifying influence is at hand. I thank Thee, Creator of all the
harmonies in the wondrous world, that Thou hast sent me Lauretta! Now,
doctor, I am ready for you."
He spoke upon the instant.
"You and I have certain beliefs in common--as that we are not entirely
creatures of chance. There is in all nature a design, down to its
minutest point."
"So far as creation goes," I answered, "so far as this or that is
brought into existence. There ends the design."
"Because the work is done," said Doctor Louis.
"Not so," I said. "Rather is it because nature's part is done. Then
the true work commences, and man is the master."
"Nature can destroy."
"So can man; and, of the two, he is the more powerful in destruction.
His work also is of a higher quality, because of the intelligence
which directs it. He can go on or turn back. Nature creates forces
which, apart from their creator, produce certain results--some
beautiful and harmonious, some frightful and destructive. For these
results nature is only indirectly responsible; the forces she creates
work independently to their own end. When a great storm is about to
burst, it is not in nature's power to will that it shall dissolve into
gentleness. Hence, nature, all powerful up to a given point, is
powerless beyond it."
"And man?"
"_Is_ all powerful. He wills and executes. He aspires to win, and he
works to win. He desires, and he schemes to gratify his desire." I
paused, and as Doctor Louis did not immediately reply, continued: "If
there is not perfect accord between us in large contentious matters
upon which the wisest scientists differ, that is no reason why there
should not be between us a perfect friendship."
"I am pleased to hear you say so; it means that you desire to retain
my friendship."
"I earnestly desire it."
"And would make a sacrifice to retain it?"
"Sacrifice of what?"
"Of some wish that is dear to you," replied Doctor Louis.
"That depends," I said. "In entering upon a serious obligation it
behoves a man to be specific. Doctor, we are drifting from the subject
which occupies your mind. Concentration would be of advantage to you
in any information you wish to obtain from me."
"The flower turns towards the sun," said Doctor Louis, after a pause,
during which I knew that he was bringing himself back to the point he
was aiming at, "and closes its leaves in the darkness. My view has
been that man, though the highest in the scale, is not his own master;
he is subject to the influences which affect lower grades of life. At
the same time he has within him that with which no other form of life
is gifted--discernment, and, as you have said, the power to advance or
recede. It sometimes happens that an impulse, as noble as it is
merciful, arrests his foot, and he says, 'No, I may bruise that
flower,' and turns aside. You follow me?"
"Yes--but you are still generalising. Question me more plainly upon
what you desire to know."
"You are a stranger among us?"
"I was; I do not look upon myself as a stranger now. Here have I found
peace and fitness. Do not forget that, out of your goodness and
generosity, you have treated me with affection."
"I do not forget it, and I pray that it may not lead to unhappiness."
"It is also my prayer--though you must remember that one man often
enjoys at another man's expense."
"You have already told me something of yourself. Again I ask, what are
you?"
"An English gentleman."
"Your father?"
"He was the same."
"Your mother?"
"A lady."
"Were you educated at a public school?"
"No; my studies were conducted at home by private tutors. We lived a
life of privacy, and did not mix with the world."
"For any particular reason?"
"For none that I am aware of. It suited my parents so to live; it
suited me also. Since the death of my parents I have seen much of the
world, and derived but small enjoyment from it until destiny led me to
Nerac."
"Destiny?"
"It is the only word, doctor, by which I can express myself clearly."
"During your illness you gave utterance to sentiments or ideas which
impel me now to inquire whether, in the lives of either of your
parents, there was that which would cause an honourable man to pause
before he yields to a temptation which may draw an innocent being to
destruction?"
"I would perish rather than destroy the flower in my path."
"You adopt my own figure of speech, but you do not answer my
question--which proves that I have not complete power over you. Your
sense of honour will not allow you to commit yourself to anything
distinctly untruthful. Say there is that in your inner life which
warns you that to touch would be to wither, would you stoop to gather
the flower which it may be awaits your bidding?"
A glow of ineffable delight warmed my heart. "Do you know," I asked,
"that it awaits me?"
"I know nothing absolutely. I am striving to perform a duty. An
ordinarily wise man, foreseeing a storm, prepares for it; and when
that storm threatens one who is dearer to him than life itself, he
redoubles his precautions."
"As you are doing."
"As I am doing--though I am sadly conscious that my efforts may be
vain."
"You are not my enemy?"
"On the contrary. I recognise in you noble qualities, but there is at
the same time a mystery within you which troubles me.
"May you not be in error there?"
"It is possible. I speak from inward prompting, based upon observation
and reflection."
"Dear doctor," I said, with a sense of satisfaction at the conviction
that I was successfully probing him, "if I thought that my touch would
blast the flower you speak of, I would fly the spot, and carry my
unhappiness with me, so that only I should be the sufferer. But no
need exists. Nothing lies at my door of which I am ashamed. No man, so
far as I am aware, is my enemy, and I am no man's. I have never
committed an act to another's hurt. You speak of my inner life. Does
not every human being live two lives, and is there not in every life
something which man should keep to himself. Were we to walk unmasked,
we should hate and loathe each other, and saints would be stoned to
death. We are maculate, and it is given to no man to probe the mystery
of existence. There are pretenders, and you and I agree upon an
estimate of them. If in private intercourse we were absolutely frank
in our confession of temptations, gross thoughts, and uncommitted
sins, it would inspire horror. The joys of life are destroyed by
seeking too far. We are here, with all our imperfections. The wisest
and truest philosophy is to make the best of them and of surrounding
circumstances. Therefore when I see before me a path which leads to
human happiness, I should be mad to turn from it. Will you not now ask
questions to which I can return explicit answers?"
"You love?"
"Yes."
"Whom?"
"Lauretta."
"In honour?"
"In perfect honour. So pure a being could inspire none but a pure
passion."
"You would make a sacrifice to render her happy?"
"I can make her happy without a sacrifice."
"But should the need arise?"
"If I were convinced of it, I would sacrifice my life for her. It
would be valueless to me without her; it would be valueless with her
did not her heart respond to the beating of mine."
"You have not spoken to her?"
"Of love? No."
"You will not, without my consent?"
"I cannot promise."
"You believe yourself worthy of her?"
"No man can be worthy of her, but I as much as any man."
"She is young for love."
"Those words should be addressed to nature not to me."
"Aspiring to win her, you would win her worthily?"
"It shall be my endeavour."
"I do not say she is easily swayed, but she is simple and confiding.
She must have time to question her heart."
"What is it you demand of me?"
"That you should not woo her hastily. I am her father and her natural
guardian. It would not be difficult for me to keep you and her apart."
"Do you contemplate an act so cruel?"
"Not at the present moment seriously, but it has suggested itself to
me as the best safeguard I could adopt to save an inexperienced child
from possible unhappiness."
"She would suffer."
"Less now than at some future time, when what is at present a
transient feeling may become a faith, from which to tear her then
would be to tear her heartstrings. You are, or would be, her lover; I
am her father. Were you in my place and I in yours, you would act
towards me as I am acting towards you. I repeat, you are a stranger
among us; you must give us time to know more of you before I can take
you by the hand and welcome you as a son. You must give my daughter
time to know more of you before you ask her to take the most important
step in a woman's life. It is in my power to-day to make my conditions
absolute, and I intend to use my power.
"You require a guarantee from me?" I said.
"Yes."
"And if I give it, will it be the means of separating me from
Lauretta?"
"No."
The fears which had begun to agitate me vanished. What guarantee could
Doctor Louis demand which I would refuse to give, so long as I was
permitted to enjoy Lauretta's society?
"State what you require," I said.
"I require a sacred promise from you, to be repeated when you are in
full possession of your faculties, that, until the expiration of
twelve months from this day, you will not seek to obtain from my
daughter any direct or indirect pledge of love by which she will be
likely to deem herself bound."
"On the understanding that I am a free agent to stay in Nerac or leave
it, and that you will not, directly or indirectly, do anything to
cause Lauretta and me to be separated, I give you the promise you
demand."
"I am satisfied," said Doctor Louis.
"A moment," I said, a sudden vague suspicion disturbing me; "there is
something forgotten."
"Name it."
"You will bind yourself not to use your parental authority over
Lauretta to induce her to enter into an engagement with, or to marry,
any other man than me."
"I willingly bind myself; my desire is that she shall be free to
choose."
Those were the last words which passed between us on that occasion;
and soon afterwards Doctor Louis left me to my musings. They were not
entirely of a rosy hue. At first I was in a glow of happiness at what
it seemed to me I had learnt from between the lines of Doctor Louis's
utterances. If he had not had good reason to suppose that Lauretta
loved me, he would not have sought the interview. What had been said
was like a question asked and answered, a question upon which the
happiness of my life depended. And it had been answered in my favour.
Lauretta loved me! What other joys did the world contain for me? What
others were needed? None. Blessed with Lauretta's love, all sources
and founts of bliss were mine. It did not immediately occur to me that
the probation of twelve months' delay before heart was joined to heart
was a penance, or that there was danger in it. But certain words which
Doctor Louis had uttered presently recurred to me with ominous
significance: "My desire is that she shall be free to choose." To
choose! Were there, then, others who aspired to win Lauretta? The
thought was torture.
To debate the matter with myself in hot blood I felt would be unwise;
therefore I schooled my mind to a calmer mood, and then proceeded to
review the position in which I stood with respect to the being who was
all the world to me.
It was not to be supposed that Lauretta had grown to womanhood without
forming friendships and acquaintances, but I had seen nothing to lead
to the belief that her heart had responded to love's call before I
appeared. She was sweet and tender to all, but that it was in her
nature to be, and I had allowed myself to be strangely self-deceived
if the hope and the belief were false that in her bearing towards me
there was a deeper, sweeter tenderness than she exhibited to others.
That she was unconscious of this was cause for stronger hope. But did
it exist, or was it simply the outcome of my own feelings which led
the word of promise to my ear?
To arrive at a correct conclusion it was necessary that I should
become better informed with respect to the social habits of Doctor
Louis's family. I had been until this day confined to a sick room, but
I was growing strong, and I had looked forward with tranquil
satisfaction to the prospect of recovering my usual health by slow
stages. This was no longer my desire. I must get well quickly; I would
will myself into health and strength. I was sure that even now I could
walk unaided. By a determined effort I rose to my feet, and advancing
three or four steps forward, stood upright and unsupported. But I had
overtaxed myself; nature asserted her power; I strove to retrace my
steps to the chair, staggered, and would have fallen to the ground had
it not been that a light form glided to my side and held me up.
Lauretta's arm was round me.
"Shall I call my father?" she asked in alarm.
"No, no; do not speak, do not move; call no one; I shall be well in a
moment. I was trying my strength."
"It was wrong of you," she said, in a tone of sweetest chiding.
"Strength! You have none. Why, _I_ could vanquish you!"
"You have done so, Lauretta."
She gazed at me in innocent surprise, and I equivocated by asking,
"You are not angry at my calling you Lauretta?"
"No, indeed," she replied; "I should feel strange if you called me by
any other name. Lean on me, and I will guide you to your chair. You
will not hurt me; I am stronger than you think."
Her touch, her voice with its note of exquisite sympathy, made me
faint with happiness, I sank into the chair, and still retained her
hand, which she did not withdraw from me.
"Do you feel better?"
"Much better, Lauretta, thanks to your sweet help. Remain with me a
little while."
"Yes, I will. It was fortunate my father sent me to you, or you might
have fallen to the ground with your rash experiment."
"Your father sent you to me, Lauretta?"
"Yes."
This proof of confidence, after what had passed between us, did
wonders for me. A weight was lifted from my heart, a cloud from my
eyes. I would prove myself worthy of his confidence.
"The colour has come back to your face," said Lauretta. "You are
better."
"I am almost quite well, Lauretta. I have been so great a burden to
you and your good parents that I thought it was time to give up my
idle ways and show I was capable of waiting upon myself."
"It was very, very wrong of you," she repeated. "And as wrong to say
you are a burden to us. It is almost as if you believed we thought you
were. I must tell my dear mother to scold you."
"No, do not tell her, Lauretta; it might pain her. I did not mean what
I said. Let it be a secret between us."
"A secret!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to my face. "I never had
one; but there is no harm in this."
"You have no secrets, Lauretta?"
"Not one," she replied, with guileless frankness; "and I will promise
that my mother shall not chide you if you will promise not to try to
force yourself into strength. The wisest and cleverest man cannot do
that. But perhaps you are weary of us, and wish to run away?"
"I should be content to remain here for ever, Lauretta."
"Well, then," she said gaily, "be patient for a few days, and, as my
dear father would say, do not be inconsistent." She uttered the last
four words in playful imitation of her father's voice, and I was
enchanted with this revealment of innocent lightness in her nature.
"But I am losing sight of his admonition."
"He bade you do something?"
"Yes; he said you might like me to read or play for you. Which shall I
do?"
"Neither, Lauretta."
"Can I do nothing?"
"Yes; talk to me, Lauretta."
I was never tired of uttering her name. It was the sweetest word in
all the languages.
"Well, then," she said, clasping her hands in her lap, she had gently
withdrawn the hand I held, "what shall I talk about?"
"About your friends. When I am strong, I shall want to know them.
Introduce me to them beforehand."
"I introduce you, then," she said with tender gravity, without losing
touch of her lighter mood, "to everybody."
"Is everybody your friend, Lauretta?"
"Yes, everybody--truly! and it makes me very glad to know it."
"But there are special ones, Lauretta."
"Of course there are special ones. First, my dearest."
"Your parents?"
"Yes, they are the first, the best, the dearest. It is well known; my
mother is an angel."
"I honour them, Lauretta."
"All do. That is why people like me; because I belong to them, and
they to me."
"You are loved for yourself, Lauretta."
"No," she said, with pretty wilfulness, "because of them. Then there
is Father Daniel, a saint, my mother says; then Eric and Emilius--and
that is all, I think, who can be called special."
"Eric and Emilius?" I said, in the form of a question.
"Yes, they are brothers, handsome, brave, and strong. You will like
them, I am sure you will."
Handsome, brave, and strong! I gave Lauretta a searching look, and she
returned it smilingly. There was no blush, no self-consciousness. Why,
then, should I feel disturbed? Why should Eric and Emilius become
established in my mind as barriers to the happiness for which I
yearned. I did not dare to trust myself to ask for information of
these friends of Lauretta, so handsome, brave, and strong--I was
fearful that my voice might betray me; and as I could converse on no
other topic with ease, I remained silent while Lauretta chatted on
sweetly and artlessly.