"How Kristel and Avicia first met is soon explained. Her aunt, who was
the only sister of her father, the keeper of the lighthouse, lay
dying, as she believed, in a small hamlet in the Tyrol, and had
written to her brother to allow Avicia to come to her. Avicia's
father, a morose, avaricious man, had the idea that his sister
possessed some treasure in money which, upon her death, should be his,
and which would be lost were he or Avicia not with her when she died.
His duties would not permit him to leave the lighthouse, therefore he
sent Avicia to his sister, with careful instructions how to act. In no
other circumstances would he have consented that his daughter should
leave him, even for a short time, but the temptation was too strong to
be resisted. To Avicia it was a trial to quit the strange place in
which she had been born, and in which she had passed her life, but she
obeyed her father's commands, and it was in the Tyrol that Kristel
first came across her. Fascinated by her beauty he paid her marked
attentions, and during the three weeks she remained with her aunt
(who, instead of dying, recovered her health almost immediately upon
the arrival of her niece) the young people were constantly together.
What kind of encouragement Avicia gave Kristel I am not in a position
to say. That he loved her with all the strength of his heart and soul
is certain, and it could not but be that she was flattered by the
adulation of a young man so handsome and well-born as Kristel. Despite
the difference in their stations he wooed her honourably, and she,
simple and unsophisticated, knew not how to reply. Kristel could not
marry without his father's consent, and so he told her; and she,
enlightened by this avowal as to the right course for her to pursue,
told him that she could not marry without _her_ father's consent.
"'Then write to him,' said Kristel, 'and when he replies, and you
promise to be my wife, I will write home and avow my love.'
"She wrote as he desired, and at the same time informed her father
that her aunt had recovered her health and needed her no longer. It is
my opinion that Avicia must have written in such terms concerning
Kristel as to have inspired in the father's heart a doubt whether the
young gentleman's wooing was prompted by honourable intentions. There
are two other possible interpretations of the course he pursued: one,
that he had no desire to part from his daughter; the other, that he
believed it likely he might make some sort of bargain, to his own
advantage, with a man presumably rich who had become enamoured of
Avicia's beauty.
"'Come back instantly,' the keeper of the lighthouse wrote to Avicia,
in reply to her letter, 'come back within an hour of your reading
these lines. Sleep not another night in your false aunt's house; she
only sent for you to fool you. As for this young gallant of whom you
write, if he is honest, and rich, and reasonable, let him seek you in
your father's home. Beware that he is not also fooling you. I doubt my
wisdom in sending one so simple as yourself into a false world. Obey
me. Come back without an hour's delay.'
"Frank and unsuspicious, Avicia showed this letter to Kristel.
"'Your father suspects me,' he said. 'I will come and seek you the
moment I am free.'
"Being set free by his father's death, he redeemed his promise. Thus
it was that they met again.
"I set myself to the study of Avicia's character; I wished to
ascertain whether she was a coquette. What I learned filled me with
admiration. She was a child of nature; ingenuous and modest, with no
desire to make a traffic of her beauty in the way of winning men's
hearts. She did not win mine as a lover, but she won my esteem as a
friend.
"Needless to say we did not leave the village; indeed, we took up
permanent quarters there. Observing Kristel and Silvain when they were
with Avicia, I foresaw a storm--a storm all the more terrible and
significant because of the peculiar ties of sympathy by which the
brothers were bound to each other. They bought a boat, and took into
their service two men of the village, to row them to and fro. Not a
fine day passed without their visiting the lighthouse, and after a
time they seldom went empty-handed. At first they were unsuspicious of
each other, but presently I intercepted glances, the meaning of which
it was impossible to me--an observer who wished them well and was not
likely to interfere with their heart's dearest wish--to misunderstand.
Love had found its place--and jealousy also. As for Avicia she made no
conspicuous sign. How was it to end. With fear I asked this question
of myself.
"Of the two I distrusted Kristel the more. Of the two I had more dread
of him than of Silvain. Not divining to which of the brothers Avicia's
heart was truly drawn, believing that her faithful love could be won
by either were the other away, I devised a plan--which proved to be a
trap into which I myself was to fall.
"I intercept the course of my narrative at this point by mentioning
something which should have been mentioned earlier. Baldwin was the
name by which Avicia's father was known. I have told you he was an
avaricious man. He was something more than this--he was a designing
man, and he played one brother against the other. They grew, as I have
said, into the habit of taking presents with them when they visited
the lighthouse, presents of wine and food and flowers. The wine and
food were acceptable to Avicia's father, the flowers he despised.
"'But,' said Kristel to him, 'the flowers are for Avicia.'
"'Exactly,' said Baldwin, 'but were I a young man, and rich, and made
presents to a young girl, they should not always be flowers which fade
in a day, and are flung into the sea. I should think of things more
substantial, things that would last and would always retain their
value.'
"Upon this hint they were not slow to act. They sent letters to
distant towns; they made secret visits to places not so far away as to
necessitate their absence for not longer than twenty-four hours, and
armed with ornaments and jewels they made their appearance at the
lighthouse, and presented them to Avicia. She wore none of them; her
father took possession of them, with the remark, 'It would be
unbecoming for a single girl to display these gewgaws upon her neck
and arms. By and by, when she is a married woman, then will be the
time, if other things are in keeping. Meanwhile, I am a safe
custodian--and mark you,' he added, with an emphasis which caused me
to regard him with abhorrence (for I was present when he said it), 'my
daughter has been taught to obey me. My will is her law.'
"They saw not the meaning of the cunning words; I, cooler and more
collected, with no blinding, passionate thrills in my pulses, was
gifted with a keener insight. I made one slight, impotent attempt to
open their eyes, but the manner in which I was met warned me not to
repeat it if I wished to be of service to them, and to avert a
calamity. He was Avicia's father, and, as such, incapable in their
judgment of a mean or sordid act.
"Now for the trap I set, into which I was the only one to fall. I had
really, with the best wisdom at my command, reviewed and studied the
lamentable position of affairs, and it appeared to me a necessity that
one of the brothers must suffer. If he suffered without guilt upon his
soul, it would be the be-all and the end-all of the torture. His
suffering would be his own, and would not bring misery upon others.
And in the light of the inevitable, his honourable feelings and the
promptings of conscience--to which I believed both Silvain and Kristel
to be amenable--would assist him to bear it in silence, however bitter
and poignant it might be. I decided that Silvain was the better able,
upon moral grounds, to bear the suffering, although, had it devolved
upon me to deliberately contribute to the happiness of only one of the
brothers, my choice would have fallen upon Silvain. My scheme was to
endeavour to take him from this scene of silent, agonising contention
of love. Upon his return he would find matters so far advanced that he
would be deterred from advancing another step towards Avicia.
"I opened the matter privately with Silvain.
"'I am called away from you,' I said to him, 'and shall be absent for
three or four months.'
"'I am sorry to hear it,' said Silvain. 'Is it imperative?'
"'Yes,' I said, 'it is imperative.'
"'I do not ask you upon what errand you are compelled to leave us,'
said Silvain, 'because if the matter were not as private as it is
urgent, I think you would confide in me voluntarily. Unhappily,' he
added, with a sigh, 'we all have secrets which it is incumbent upon us
to conceal even from our dearest friends.'
"I understood the allusion, and my heart bled for him.
"'Silvain,' I said, 'I have grown so accustomed to your society, and
if you will forgive me the confession, have grown so to love you, that
I shall feel inexpressibly lonely and unhappy without you. Why not
accompany me?'
"There was a sad surprise in his eyes as he answered,
"'If it were possible, it would afford me great pleasure. But it is
not possible.'
"'Why not?'
"'Do not ask me; you would not understand.'
"'Is it really necessary you should stay here?'
"'Vitally necessary. To leave would snap my heart-strings. I should
die.'
"'Silvain,' I said, with all my earnestness, 'sometimes in a man's
life there comes a crisis----'
"He stopped me with a firmness and decision which were unanswerable.
"'I do not, I must not seek to know your meaning. Surely you can see
that I am suffering. All would be dark, but for the light of one star
which illumines the world for me. Not another word. You say you love
me. If your love is sincere, you will spare me.'
"'It is because my love is sincere,' I urged, 'that I would give much
if I could prevail upon you.'
"But he broke from me and would listen no further.
"'Next I tried Kristel, and found him, as I feared and expected,
obdurate and violent. In the interval which elapsed between my
speaking to Silvain and Kristel, all the village knew that I was about
to leave, and the fishermen, and their wives and children, with whom I
had become a general favourite, freely expressed their regret at the
prospect of losing me.
"'But I am coming back,' I said with an attempt at gaiety.
"They expressed their joy at hearing this. There was no retreat open
to me. Had I manufactured an excuse for staying, I felt that I should
have been looked upon with suspicion by Kristel and Silvain. In that
case, my possible usefulness would be destroyed, and I could never
regain the position of confidence I had gained with them. Therefore I
bade them farewell, and much distressed and disturbed took my
departure.
"I returned at the end of three weeks, the shortest limit I had set
upon my absence. I had written to Kristel and Silvain, announcing my
return and expected to be greeted by them upon my arrival. To my
disappointment I saw nothing of them, and upon inquiring for them, I
was informed that they had gone from the village.
"'Gone!' I cried.
"'Yes,' was the answer, 'disappeared.'
"That was all the satisfaction I obtained from the men in the village,
my inquiries being at first confined to them. As a rule, they were not
given to tittle-tattle, and accounted it a virtue to hold their
tongues. Most of the women followed the lead of the men in this
respect, but there were a few gossips among them, and I sought out the
most garrulous of the class, who was generously discursive and
communicative. She was an old woman whose name I have forgotten, and
she tardily enlightened me--to my sorrow and dismay. She commenced in
a roundabout fashion.
"'You see, sir,' the old soul said, 'there's no telling what there is
in man or woman till they are set loose. Tie a young girl up, keep her
from mixing with folk, and prevent her from making friends, and
frolicking a bit in a harmless way, with girls and boys of her own
age, and likely as not mischief will come of it. Not that I believe
there's any harm in her.'
"'In her!' I exclaimed. 'In whom?'
"'In Avicia, of course. I don't say it's her fault, but beauty's a
snare. You see, sir, she was brought up wrong. 'Twas not her fault but
her misfortune that her mother died when she was a little one--too
little to remember anything of her who suckled her. Then said we to
her father, the keeper of the lighthouse, "You and a babe are not a
match. Being a man, you are an ignoramus in the ways of a child, who
hasn't yet learnt to prattle. Let her come among us, and we will rear
her for you, and make a bright woman of her." For even then, young as
she was, we women knew that she was going to grow up beautiful. Men
think all babes alike, but we know better. Avicia's father would not
have it so. "My child shall not leave my side," said he. "She will be
better off without a parcel of women about her." We settled it among
ourselves that he was too mean and stingy to do as we wanted, thinking
it would cost him something. He's a rare close-fisted man is Baldwin,
and fairly dotes on gold--though, as he declares he will live and die
on the lighthouse, it's hard to say what good all the gold in the
world could do him. We offered to take the babe for nothing, but even
that he wouldn't listen to, being suspicious that we had designs on
him. So Avicia was left with him, and he brought her up in his lonely
home, in which no child but his own has ever set foot. Give the
devil his due--which isn't saying much, for if you don't give it him
he'll be quick enough in taking it, and a bit over if he's got the
chance--Baldwin didn't let Avicia grow in ignorance; he taught her
useless things, such as reading and writing, and perhaps the child
didn't miss much, in her own reckoning, by not mixing with us. Anyhow,
there she was, a maid as beautiful as can be found, sea-born and
sea-bred, fit for a lighthouse and for nothing else. That didn't stand
in the way of the young men in the village falling in love with her,
but she would have nothing to say to one of them, and as they received
no encouragement from her father to woo her, they let her alone. Our
men are not of the sort to go puking and sighing over a woman. It's a
fair match when they come together, and the men don't always get the
best of it. We take care of that. But when you and your gentlemen
friends came among us--and you're likely men the three of you--we saw
how the cat jumped. There was a fat fish to hook, and Baldwin set
about it. Let him alone for setting a line--but it can't be denied
that he'd a rare bait at the end of it. "Which one is it?" asked we of
one another when we were talking about it. None of us could decide. We
had only two to guess one from, for we saw that _you_ weren't being
fished for, and still we couldn't decide whether it was Master Silvain
or Master Kristel. They were both mad in love with her pretty face,
and, being brothers, we thought it a pity, for love is like a poison.
However, it was for them to settle it, and settled it is, one way or
another.'
"'How?' I asked, in a whirl of apprehension.
"'That,' replied the old woman, 'is what we're waiting to find out.'
"'It is true that my friends have left the village, is it not?'
"'There's nothing truer.'
"I saw that she had not imparted to me all she knew, and that she was
enjoying herself at my expense by doling it slowly out. My mood was
too impatient for crumbs, and I said, if she were not more swiftly
communicative, that I would go immediately to the lighthouse, where I
could doubtless obtain from Avicia information of the movements of
Silvain and Kristel. The old woman laughed, and said I must seek
elsewhere for Avicia.
"'I thought I told you,' she said, 'that Avicia had also disappeared.
Be a little patient, and you will know everything. You're lucky, for
I'm the only one in the village that can tell you things.'
"I had no choice; I was compelled to be patient, and, related in my
own words, this is what I learnt:
"After my departure the wooing of Kristel and Silvain had become more
fierce, and they were aware that they were rivals. It may or may not
have been that Avicia had given and confessed her love to one of the
brothers, but upon this point there was not even the evidence of
hearsay, and my perplexity and distress were the greater because of my
ignorance. Avicia came more frequently from the lighthouse to the
village, and always in the company of both Kristel and Silvain. These
visits were made during the day, and in the evening the brothers,
having dispensed with the service of the boatmen they had engaged,
were in the habit of rowing Avicia home. One night, upon the return of
Silvain and Kristel to the village, the old woman from whom I obtained
these particulars overheard them conversing. She was unable to fix the
identity of each speaker, for the night was dark, and she could not
distinguish the voices as coming from either the one or the other. I
could well excuse her for this, because, if I had been in her place,
and concealed as she was, I myself should have been in doubt of the
particular speaker who, for the moment, engaged my attention. This is
what she overheard:
"'It is time to put an end to this. I have suffered in silence too
long, and I can no longer bear my sufferings. Why do you bar my path
to happiness?'
"'Why do you bar mine? I love Avicia.'
"'I also love her.'
"'You have concealed it from me.'
"'Have you not done the same by me?'
"'How, then, could I suspect that you were my rival?'
"'How could I?'
"'You madden me by your retorts. Can you not understand that you are
driving me to desperation? She is the light of my life!'
"'And of mine!'
"That was all she heard. They moved away out of sight, and she was
afraid to follow.
"Two days before my return to the village, Avicia, Kristel, and
Silvain rowed, as usual, from the lighthouse to the shore. They were
accompanied on this occasion by Avicia's father, who had engaged an
experienced man to take his place on the lighthouse during his
absence. It was a breach of duty, but he risked it. The sea was calm
and the weather fine, and likely to remain so. The risk, therefore,
was not great.
"How they passed the day was not known. They did not mingle with the
inhabitants of the village, who, without invitation, were not likely
to obtrude upon them, their own concerns being quite sufficient to
occupy their attention. What _was_ known was, that the father,
daughter, and the twin-brothers passed out of the village, and that
there appeared to be some kind of awkwardness and constraint upon
them, the precise nature of which was not discernible; and that at
sunset Avicia's father came back alone, and rowed himself to the
lighthouse. From that moment nothing more had been seen of the young
people.
"What had become of them? Whither had they gone? It appeared to me
that Avicia's father was the only person who could allay my anxiety,
and to him I went on the following day. He received me civilly enough,
but I learnt little from him.
"'If you come to me,' he said, 'to pry into my daughter's
concerns--which are mine--I say they are none of yours. You are little
more than a stranger to me, and I have no business with you, and
desire none. If you come to ascertain where you can find your friends,
you will learn nothing from me. As to one, perhaps it is in my power
to tell you, but I do not choose to gratify you. As to the other,
perhaps you are as likely to light upon him as I am.'
"During my visit I kept myself on the alert to discover some trace of
Avicia, for it might be that the villagers were mistaken in their idea
that she had disappeared at the same time as Silvain and Kristel. She
might have returned in the middle of the night when all the village
was asleep. I saw no signs of her, however, and when I left the
lighthouse I was confident that she was not there.
"I was at a loss what to do. There was absolutely no clue to direct me
to my friends, and my anxiety became almost unbearable. I made
inquiries in neighbouring villages and towns, and I employed men to
search for them--but all was of no avail. At the end of a couple of
months I was not a whit the wiser. To remain any longer in the village
would have been folly, and it was with pain and reluctance that I bade
the simple inhabitants farewell. They expressed a hope that they would
see me again, and I promised to pay them another visit before twelve
months had passed. It was a promise not lightly given, and it was my
intention to perform it. I argued with myself that Avicia was certain
to return at some time within the period I have mentioned, and that,
directly or indirectly, I should succeed in renewing my acquaintance
with Silvain. That she was married to one of the brothers was in my
view an established fact, but I found it impossible to decide upon
which of them her choice had fallen. Bearing in mind the absorbing
love which both had entertained for her, I shuddered to think of the
consequences that might ensue from despair and jealousy.
"Before I left the village to resume my travels I went to the
lighthouse to see Avicia's father, to acquaint him with my impending
departure. He seemed to me restless and uneasy, and threw out vague
hints of having been deceived, and of promises broken by those who
owed him love and duty. Taking advantage of these hints I pressed him
closely, but he surlily refused to give me the least information.
"'It can surely do you no harm,' I urged, 'to tell me to whom your
daughter is married.'
"'If I come face to face with the man who says the contrary,' he
cried, 'he will not live to repeat the lie.'
"He had misunderstood my question, and thought I intended to cast a
doubt upon his daughter's good name. Having assured him that I had no
such intention, and pacified him, I repeated my question.
"'Find out for yourself,' he said morosely, 'for the fortieth time,
you will learn nothing from me.'
"Why he should have been so persistently and unnecessarily brutal
puzzled me. Suddenly a bright idea occurred to me. Baldwin was
avaricious and a miser. He loved gold; it was as precious to him as
his life's blood.
"I took my purse from my pocket, and emptied several gold pieces into
the palm of my hand. A hissing sound escaped from between his closed
teeth, and his eyes were fixed upon the money greedily, and then upon
me ferociously.
"I laughed lightly and disdainfully. I made a motion of my head
towards the boat which was moored to a staple in the outer wall of the
lighthouse. Two fishermen were in the boat, waiting to row me back to
the village.
"'If I do not go to them soon,' I said, 'they will come and seek me.'
"'What do you mean by that?' he asked, with a dark frown on his face.
"'You decline to answer my questions,' I replied, 'and I decline to
answer yours. But I can do what you would be unwilling to do.'
"'What is that?'
"'I can pay for information. Ten of these gold pieces are yours, if
you tell me truly to whom your daughter is married.'
"'Give me the money.'
"I gave him the gold, and he bit the coins singly with his strong
teeth. Then he said, 'She is married to Silvain.'
"'Heaven pity him,' I said, preparing to descend, 'for such a
father-in-law.'
"'He needs no pity,' retorted Baldwin, 'he has Avicia.'
"As we rowed to land I kept my face towards the lighthouse, and saw,
with my mind's eye, the image of the beautiful girl, as I had seen her
for the first time, standing on the topmost gallery, with her
luxuriant hair hanging loose, and the scarlet covering on her head. In
the lives of Kristel and Silvain the lovely vision was the embodiment
of a terrible fate. Red lips parted, white teeth gleaming, wistful
eyes gazing, a face of bewitching beauty and innocence---- And
suddenly the vision grew indistinct in a mass of whirling clouds,
which in my fevered fancy became pregnant with angry passions. I
dashed my hand across my eyes.
"'Steady, sir,' said the rowers, as their boat grated on the beach.
"Before night fell I was far away."
END OF VOL. I.
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LONDON AND BUNGAY.