Let me recall it--softly,--softly! Let me recall that evening spent
with her!--that evening, the last before darkness rose between us like a
solid wall.
It was evening, at the close of summer. The sun had set, the twilight
was lingering still. We were in the old monastic garden,--garden so
quiet, so cool, so fragrant. She was seated on a bench under the one
great cedar-tree that rose sombre in the midst of the grassy lawn with
its little paradise of flowers. I had thrown myself on the sward at
her feet; her hand so confidingly lay in the clasp of mine. I see her
still,--how young, how fair, how innocent!
Strange, strange! So inexpressibly English; so thoroughly the creature
of our sober, homely life! The pretty delicate white robe that I touch
so timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that so well become the
soft colour of the fair cheek, the wavy silk of the brown hair! She is
murmuring low her answer to my trembling question.
“As well as when last we parted? Do you love me as well still?”
“There is no ‘still’ written here,” said she, softly pressing her hand
to her heart. “Yesterday is as to-morrow in the Forever.”
“Ah, Lilian! if I could reply to you in words as akin to poetry as your
own!”
“Fie! you who affect not to care for poetry!”
“That was before you went away; before I missed you from my eyes, from
my life; before I was quite conscious how precious you were to me, more
precious than common words can tell! Yes, there is one period in love
when all men are poets, however the penury of their language may belie
the luxuriance of their fancies. What would become of me if you ceased
to love me?”
“Or of me, if you could cease to love?”
“And somehow it seems to me this evening as if my heart drew nearer to
you,--nearer as if for shelter.”
“It is sympathy,” said she, with tremulous eagerness,--“that sort of
mysterious sympathy which I have often heard you deny or deride; for I,
too, feel drawn nearer to you, as if there were a storm at hand. I was
oppressed by an indescribable terror in returning home, and the moment I
saw you there came a sense of protection.”
Her head sank on my shoulder: we were silent some moments; then we both
rose by the same involuntary impulse, and round her slight form I twined
my strong arm of man. And now we are winding slow under the lilacs and
acacias that belt the lawn. Lilian has not yet heard of the murder,
which forms the one topic of the town, for all tales of violence and
blood affected her as they affect a fearful child. Mrs. Ashleigh,
therefore, had judiciously concealed from her the letters and the
journals by which the dismal news had been carried to herself. I need
scarcely say that the grim subject was not broached by me. In fact,
my own mind escaped from the events which had of late so perplexed
and tormented it; the tranquillity of the scene, the bliss of Lilian’s
presence, had begun to chase away even that melancholy foreboding which
had overshadowed me in the first moments of our reunion. So we came
gradually to converse of the future,--of the day, not far distant, when
we two should be as one. We planned our bridal excursion. We would visit
the scenes endeared to her by song, to me by childhood,--the banks
and waves of my native Windermere,--our one brief holiday before life
returned to labour, and hearts now so disquieted by hope and joy settled
down to the calm serenity of home.
As we thus talked, the moon, nearly rounded to her full, rose amidst
skies without a cloud. We paused to gaze on her solemn haunting beauty,
as where are the lovers who have not paused to gaze? We were then on the
terrace walk, which commanded a view of the town below. Before us was
a parapet wall, low on the garden side, but inaccessible on the outer
side, forming part of a straggling irregular street that made one of
the boundaries dividing Abbey Hill from Low Town. The lamps of the
thoroughfares, in many a line and row beneath us, stretched far away,
obscured, here and there, by intervening roofs and tall church towers.
The hum of the city came to our ears, low and mellowed into a lulling
sound. It was not displeasing to be reminded that there was a world
without, as close and closer we drew each to each,--worlds to one
another! Suddenly there carolled forth the song of a human voice,--a
wild, irregular, half-savage melody, foreign, uncomprehended words,--air
and words not new to me. I recognized the voice and chant of Margrave. I
started, and uttered an angry exclamation.
“Hush!” whispered Lilian, and I felt her frame shiver within my
encircling arm. “Hush! listen! Yes; I have heard that voice before--last
night--”
“Last night! you were not here; you were more than a hundred miles
away.”
“I heard it in a dream! Hush, hush!”
The song rose louder; impossible to describe its effect, in the midst
of the tranquil night, chiming over the serried rooftops, and under
the solitary moon. It was not like the artful song of man, for it was
defective in the methodical harmony of tune; it was not like the song of
the wild-bird, for it had no monotony in its sweetness: it was wandering
and various as the sounds from an AEolian harp. But it affected the
senses to a powerful degree, as in remote lands and in vast solitudes I
have since found the note of the mocking-bird, suddenly heard, affects
the listener half with delight, half with awe, as if some demon creature
of the desert were mimicking man for its own merriment. The chant now
had changed into an air of defying glee, of menacing exultation; it
might have been the triumphant war-song of some antique barbarian race.
The note was sinister; a shadow passed through me, and Lilian had closed
her eyes, and was sighing heavily; then with a rapid change, sweet as
the coo with which an Arab mother lulls her babe to sleep, the melody
died away. “There, there, look,” murmured Lilian, moving from me, “the
same I saw last night in sleep; the same I saw in the space above, on
the evening I first knew you!”
Her eyes were fixed, her hand raised; my look followed hers, and rested
on the face and form of Margrave. The moon shone full upon him, so full
as if concentrating all its light upon his image. The place on which
he stood (a balcony to the upper story of a house about fifty yards
distant) was considerably above the level of the terrace from which we
gazed on him. His arms were folded on his breast, and he appeared to be
looking straight towards us. Even at that distance, the lustrous youth
of his countenance appeared to me terribly distinct, and the light of
his wondrous eye seemed to rest upon us in one lengthened, steady ray
through the limpid moonshine. Involuntarily I seized Lilian’s hand, and
drew her away almost by force, for she was unwilling to move, and as
I led her back, she turned her head to look round; I, too, turned in
jealous rage! I breathed more freely. Margrave had disappeared!
“How came he there? It is not his hotel. Whose house is it?” I said
aloud, though speaking to myself.
Lilian remained silent, her eyes fixed upon the ground as if in deep
revery. I took her hand; it did not return my pressure. I felt cut to
the heart when she drew coldly from me that hand, till then so frankly
cordial. I stopped short: “Lilian, what is this? you are chilled towards
me. Can the mere sound of that man’s voice, the mere glimpse of that
man’s face, have--” I paused; I did not dare to complete my question.
Lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and I saw at once in those eyes a
change. Their look was cold; not haughty, but abstracted. “I do not
understand you,” she said, in a weary, listless accent. “It is growing
late; I must go in.”
So we walked on moodily, no longer arm in arm, nor hand in hand. Then it
occurred to me that, the next day, Lilian would be in that narrow world
of society; that there she could scarcely fail to hear of Margrave, to
meet, to know him. Jealousy seized me with all its imaginary terrors,
and amidst that jealousy, a nobler, purer apprehension for herself.
Had I been Lilian’s brother instead of her betrothed, I should not have
trembled less to foresee the shadow of Margrave’s mysterious influence
passing over a mind so predisposed to the charm which Mystery itself
has for those whose thoughts fuse their outlines in fancies, whose world
melts away into Dreamland. Therefore I spoke.
“Lilian, at the risk of offending you-alas! I have never done so before
this night--I must address to you a prayer which I implore you not to
regard as the dictate of a suspicion unworthy you and myself. The person
whom you have just heard and seen is, at present, much courted in the
circles of this town. I entreat you not to permit any one to introduce
him to you. I entreat you not to know him. I cannot tell you all my
reasons for this petition; enough that I pledge you my honour that those
reasons are grave. Trust, then, in my truth, as I trust in yours. Be
assured that I stretch not the rights which your heart has bestowed
upon mine in the promise I ask, as I shall be freed from all fear by a
promise which I know will be sacred when once it is given.”
“What promise?” asked Lilian, absently, as if she had not heard my
words.
“What promise? Why, to refuse all acquaintance with that man; his name
is Margrave. Promise me, dearest, promise me.”
“Why is your voice so changed?” said Lilian. “Its tone jars on my ear,”
she added, with a peevishness so unlike her, that it startled me more
than it offended; and without a word further, she quickened her pace,
and entered the house.
For the rest of the evening we were both taciturn and distant towards
each other. In vain Mrs. Ashleigh kindly sought to break down our mutual
reserve. I felt that I had the right to be resentful, and I clung to
that right the more because Lilian made no attempt at reconciliation.
This, too, was wholly unlike herself, for her temper was ordinarily
sweet,--sweet to the extreme of meekness; saddened if the slightest
misunderstanding between us had ever vexed me, and yearning to ask
forgiveness if a look or a word had pained me. I was in hopes that,
before I went away, peace between us would be restored. But long ere her
usual hour for retiring to rest, she rose abruptly, and, complaining
of fatigue and headache, wished me “good-night,” and avoided the hand I
sorrowfully held out to her as I opened the door.
“You must have been very unkind to poor Lilian,” said Mrs. Ashleigh,
between jest and earnest, “for I never saw her so cross to you before.
And the first day of her return, too!”
“The fault is not mine,” said I, somewhat sullenly; “I did but ask
Lilian, and that as a humble prayer, not to make the acquaintance of
a stranger in this town against whom I have reasons for distrust and
aversion. I know not why that prayer should displease her.”
“Nor I. Who is the stranger?”
“A person who calls himself Margrave. Let me at least entreat you to
avoid him!”
“Oh, I have no desire to make acquaintance with strangers. But, now
Lilian is gone, do tell me all about this dreadful murder. The servants
are full of it, and I cannot keep it long concealed from Lilian. I was
in hopes that you would have broken it to her.”
I rose impatiently; I could not bear to talk thus of an event the
tragedy of which was associated in my mind with circumstances so
mysterious. I became agitated and even angry when Mrs. Ashleigh
persisted in rambling woman-like inquiries,--“Who was suspected of
the deed? Who did I think had committed it? What sort of a man was Sir
Philip? What was that strange story about a casket?” Breaking from such
interrogations, to which I could give but abrupt and evasive answers, I
seized my hat and took my departure.