AN ATTRACTION
All night Richard tossed on his bed with his heart in a rapid
canter, and his brain bestriding it, traversing the rich untasted
world, and the great Realm of Mystery, from which he was now
restrained no longer. Months he had wandered about the gates of the
Bonnet, wondering, sighing, knocking at them, and getting neither
admittance nor answer. He had the key now. His own father had given
it to him. His heart was a lightning steed, and bore him on and on
over limitless regions bathed in super-human beauty and strangeness,
where cavaliers and ladies leaned whispering upon close green
swards, and knights and ladies cast a splendour upon savage forests,
and tilts and tourneys were held in golden courts lit to a glorious
day by ladies' eyes, one pair of which, dimly visioned, constantly
distinguishable, followed him through the boskage and dwelt upon him
in the press, beaming while he bent above a hand glittering white
and fragrant as the frosted blossom of a May night.
Awhile the heart would pause and flutter to a shock: he was in the
act of consummating all earthly bliss by pressing his lips to the
small white hand. Only to do that, and die! cried the Magnetic
Youth: to fling the Jewel of Life into that one cup and drink it
off! He was intoxicated by anticipation. For that he was born.
There was, then, some end in existence, something to live for! to
kiss a woman's hand, and die! He would leap from the couch, and rush
to pen and paper to relieve his swarming sensations. Scarce was he
seated when the pen was dashed aside, the paper sent flying with the
exclamation, "Have I not sworn I would never write again?" Sir
Austin had shut that safety-valve. The nonsense that was in the
youth might have poured harmlessly out, and its urgency for
ebullition was so great that he was repeatedly oblivious of his
oath, and found himself seated under the lamp in the act of
composition before pride could speak a word. Possibly the pride even
of Richard Feverel had been swamped if the act of composition were
easy at such a time, and a single idea could stand clearly foremost;
but myriads were demanding the first place; chaotic hosts, like
ranks of stormy billows, pressed impetuously for expression, and
despair of reducing them to form, quite as much as pride, to which
it pleased him to refer his incapacity, threw down the powerless
pen, and sent him panting to his outstretched length and another
headlong career through the rosy-girdled land.
Toward morning the madness of the fever abated somewhat, and he went
forth into the air. A lamp was still burning in his father's room,
and Richard thought, as he looked up, that he saw the ever-vigilant
head on the watch. Instantly the lamp was extinguished, the window
stood cold against the hues of dawn.
Strong pulling is an excellent medical remedy for certain classes of
fever. Richard took to it instinctively. The clear fresh water,
burnished with sunrise, sparkled against his arrowy prow; the soft
deep shadows curled smiling away from his gliding keel. Overhead
solitary morning unfolded itself, from blossom to bud, from bud to
flower; still, delicious changes of light and colour, to whose
influences he was heedless as he shot under willows and aspens, and
across sheets of river-reaches, pure mirrors to the upper glory,
himself the sole tenant of the stream. Somewhere at the founts of
the world lay the land he was rowing toward; something of its
shadowed lights might be discerned here and there. It was not a
dream, now he knew. There was a secret abroad. The woods were full
of it; the waters rolled with it, and the winds. Oh, why could not
one in these days do some high knightly deed which should draw down
ladies' eyes from their heaven, as in the days of Arthur! To such a
meaning breathed the unconscious sighs of the youth, when he had
pulled through his first feverish energy.
He was off Bursley, and had lapsed a little into that musing
quietude which follows strenuous exercise, when he heard a hail and
his own name called. It was no lady, no fairy, but young Ralph
Morton, an irruption of miserable masculine prose. Heartily wishing
him abed with the rest of mankind, Richard rowed in and jumped
ashore. Ralph immediately seized his arm, saying that he desired
earnestly to have a talk with him, and dragged the Magnetic Youth
from his water-dreams, up and down the wet mown grass. That he had
to say seemed to be difficult of utterance, and Richard, though he
barely listened, soon had enough of his old rival's gladness at
seeing him, and exhibited signs of impatience; whereat Ralph, as one
who branches into matter somewhat foreign to his mind, but of great
human interest and importance, put the question to him:
"I say, what woman's name do you like best?"
"I don't know any," quoth Richard, indifferently. "Why are you out
so early?"
In answer to this, Ralph suggested that the name of Mary might be
considered a pretty name.
Richard agreed that it might be; the housekeeper at Raynham, half
the women cooks, and all the housemaids enjoyed that name; the name
of Mary was equivalent for women at home.
"Yes, I know," said Ralph. "We have lots of Marys. It's so common.
Oh! I don't like Mary best. What do you think of Lucy?"
Richard thought it just like another.
"Do you know," Ralph continued, throwing off the mask and plunging
into the subject, "I'd do anything on earth for some names--one or
two. It's not Mary, nor Lucy. Clarinda's pretty, but it's like a
novel. Claribel, I like. Names beginning with 'Cl' I prefer. The
'Cl's' are always gentle and lovely girls you would die for! Don't
you think so?"
Richard had never been acquainted with any of them to inspire that
emotion. Indeed these urgent appeals to his fancy in feminine names
at five o'clock in the morning slightly surprised him, though he was
but half awake to the outer world. By degrees he perceived that
Ralph was changed. Instead of the lusty boisterous boy, his rival in
manly sciences, who spoke straightforwardly and acted up to his
speech, here was an abashed and blush-persecuted youth, who sued
piteously for a friendly ear wherein to pour the one idea possessing
him. Gradually, too, Richard apprehended that Ralph likewise was on
the frontiers of the Realm of Mystery, perhaps further toward it
than he himself was; and then, as by a sympathetic stroke, was
revealed to him the wonderful beauty and depth of meaning in
feminine names. The theme appeared novel and delicious, fitted to
the season and the hour. But the hardship was, that Richard could
choose none from the number; all were the same to him; he loved them
all.
"Don't you really prefer the 'Cl's'?" said Ralph, persuasively.
"Not better than the names ending in 'a' and 'y,'" Richard replied,
wishing he could, for Ralph was evidently ahead of him.
"Come under these trees," said Ralph. And under the trees Ralph
unbosomed. His name was down for the army: Eton was quitted for
ever. In a few months he would have to join his regiment, and before
he left he must say good-bye to his friends.... Would Richard tell
him Mrs. Forey's address? he had heard she was somewhere by the sea.
Richard did not remember the address, but said he would willingly
take charge of any letter and forward it.
Ralph dived his hand into his pocket. "Here it is. But don't let
anybody see it."
"My aunt's name is not Clare," said Richard, perusing what was
composed of the exterior formula. "You've addressed it to Clare
herself."
That was plain to see.
"Emmeline Clementina Matilda Laura, Countess Blandish," Richard
continued in a low tone, transferring the names, and playing on the
musical strings they were to him. Then he said: "Names of ladies!
How they sweeten their names!"
He fixed his eyes on Ralph. If he discovered anything further he
said nothing, but bade the good fellow good-bye, jumped into his
boat, and pulled down the tide. The moment Ralph was hidden by an
abutment of the banks, Richard perused the address. For the first
time it struck him that his cousin Clare was a very charming
creature: he remembered the look of her eyes, and especially the
last reproachful glance she gave him at parting. What business had
Ralph to write to her? Did she not belong to Richard Feverel? He
read the words again and again: Clare Doria Forey. Why, Clare was
the name he liked best--nay, he loved it. Doria, too--she shared his
own name with him. Away went his heart, not at a canter now, at a
gallop, as one who sights the quarry. He felt too weak to pull.
Clare Doria Forey---oh, perfect melody! Sliding with the tide, he
heard it fluting in the bosom of the hills.
When nature has made us ripe for love, it seldom occurs that the
Fates are behindhand in furnishing a temple for the flame.
Above green-flashing plunges of a weir, and shaken by the thunder
below, lilies, golden and white, were swaying at anchor among the
reeds. Meadow-sweet hung from the banks thick with weed and trailing
bramble, and there also hung a daughter of earth. Her face was
shaded by a broad straw hat with a flexible brim that left her lips
and chin in the sun, and, sometimes nodding, sent forth a light of
promising eyes. Across her shoulders, and behind, flowed large loose
curls, brown in shadow, almost golden where the ray touched them.
She was simply dressed, befitting decency and the season. On a
closer inspection you might see that her lips were stained. This
blooming young person was regaling on dewberries. They grew between
the bank and the water. Apparently she found the fruit abundant, for
her hand was making pretty progress to her mouth. Fastidious youth,
which revolts at woman plumping her exquisite proportions on
bread-and-butter, and would (we must suppose) joyfully have her
scraggy to have her poetical, can hardly object to dewberries.
Indeed the act of eating them is dainty and induces musing. The
dewberry is a sister to the lotus, and an innocent sister. You eat:
mouth, eye, and hand are occupied, and the undrugged mind free to
roam. And so it was with the damsel who knelt there. The little
skylark went up above her, all song, to the smooth southern cloud
lying along the blue: from a dewy copse dark over her nodding hat
the blackbird fluted, calling to her with thrice mellow note: the
kingfisher flashed emerald out of green osiers: a bow-winged heron
travelled aloft, seeking solitude: a boat slipped toward her,
containing a dreamy youth; and still she plucked the fruit, and ate,
and mused, as if no fairy prince were invading her territories, and
as if she wished not for one, or knew not her wishes. Surrounded by
the green shaven meadows, the pastoral summer buzz, the weir-fall's
thundering white, amid the breath and beauty of wild flowers, she
was a bit of lovely human life in a fair setting; a terrible
attraction. The Magnetic Youth leaned round to note his proximity to
the weir-piles, and beheld the sweet vision. Stiller and stiller
grew nature, as at the meeting of two electric clouds. Her posture
was so graceful, that though he was making straight for the weir, he
dared not dip a scull. Just then one enticing dewberry caught her
eyes. He was floating by unheeded, and saw that her hand stretched
low, and could not gather what it sought. A stroke from his right
brought him beside her. The damsel glanced up dismayed, and her
whole shape trembled over the brink. Richard sprang from his boat
into the water. Pressing a hand beneath her foot, which she had
thrust against the crumbling wet sides of the bank to save herself,
he enabled her to recover her balance, and gain safe earth, whither
he followed her.