RALPH DESERTETH HIS DUTY--ALL FOR LOVE, OR "THE WORLD WELL LOST," WITH
HIS WITS INTO THE BARGAIN--VERY NICE DISQUISITIONS ON HONOUR.
The _soyez tranquille_ of Monsieur Manuel had but a transient effect.
It brought no consolation with it. What I had heard, seemed to clog the
usual healthy beating of my heart; my respiration laboured, and I fell
into a bitter reverie. The profoundest pity, the most impassioned
admiration, and the most ardent desire to afford protection--are not
these the ingredients that make the all-potent draught of love? Let
universal humanity reply--I loved. But the feeling, generally so
blissful, came upon my young heart, and steeped it in the bitterness of
apprehension. My bosom was swollen with big resolves, with the deepest
affection for one, and hate for all the rest of my species; and the
thought came over me vividly, of flight with the young and pensive
beauty into the inaccessible seclusion of the woods, and of the
unalloyed happiness and the imaginary glories of a savage life. In this
sudden depression of spirits, my mind looked not unloathingly on mutual
suicide. It was a black and a desponding hour, and fell upon me with
the suddenness of a total eclipse on a noontide summer's day.
I sat with my clasped hands between my knees, and my head hanging upon
my breast, almost unconscious of the black servitors around me, who were
re-ordering the room that I had so recently disarranged. I noted all
this as something that did not belong to the world in which I had
existence. Everything around me seemed the shadows of somebody's dream,
in which I had no part, and could take no interest. I had but two
all-absorbing ideas; and these were--injustice and Josephine. So
distraught was I with the vastness of the one and with the loveliness of
the other, that, when the young and splendid reality stole into the
apartment softly, and moved before my eyes in all the fascination of her
gracefulness, yet was I scarcely conscious of the actual presence of her
whose ideal existence was torturing my brain.
To the cold, the unimpassioned, or the unpoetical, this may seem
impossible. I will not go into metaphysical reasonings on the subject.
I only know that it was true. Whilst I was conceiving her flying from
oppression with me, her protector, into some grim solitude, she came and
placed herself, almost unnoticed, by my side, took my unresisting hands
between her own, and, seeing how little I appeared to notice the
endearment, she gradually sank on her knees before me, and, placing her
forehead upon my hands, remained for a space in silence. Feeling her
hot tears trickling through my fingers called me back from my dark
reverie: and, as I became aware of the present, a sigh so deep and so
long burst forth, that it seemed to rend my bosom.
Those dark, lustrous, melancholy eyes, swimming in tears, were then
lifted up to mine. Ages of eloquence were contained in that one look.
In it, I read the whole story of her life, the depth of her love, the
fealty of her faith, and the deep, the unspeakable prayer for sympathy,
for love, and for protection. The mute appeal was unanswerable. It
seemed to be conveyed to me by the voice of destiny, to my mind, louder
and more awful than thunder. At that moment, I pledged myself eternally
to her; and, gradually drawing up her yielding, light, and elastic form
from my knees to my bosom, I sobbed out, "Whilst I breathe, dearest,
thou shalt never writhe under the lash;" and then, giving way to an
uncontrollable passion of weeping, I mingled my tears with hers--and we
were happy. Yes, our young love was baptised with tears--an ominous and
a fitting rite. We cried in each other's arms like children, as we
were; at first, with anguish; then, with hope and affection; and, at
length, in all the luxury of a new-born bliss.
When this passion had a little subsided, and smiles, and murmuring
ejaculations of happiness, had driven away the symbols of what is not
always anguish, old Manuel approached, and appeared much pleased at the
tokens of affection that we mutually lavished upon each other. And
then, with my arm encircling Josephine's slender waist, and her fair
face upon my shoulder, he began his artful discourse. Gradually, he led
me to speak of myself, my friends, my views; and, ultimately, my strange
and mysterious story was fully unfolded. Even in this prolonged
relation, I was amply rewarded by the impassioned looks, at once so
tender and so thrilling, of the beauteous listener by my side, and by
the ready tear at every passage that told of suffering; the fond
creature still creeping more closely to me at every instance of danger;
and bright the beam of triumph would flash from her eye, responsive to
every incident of my success.
When all was told, and half wondering, and faintly smiling, I finished
by the rather silly expression of--"And here I am," I was immediately
imprisoned in the arms of Josephine, as she pathetically exclaimed, "and
for ever!"
"Josephine speaks well," said Manuel, rising and placing patriarchally a
hand on the head of each of us. "My children, would it were for ever!
It appears, by the narrative, that Monsieur has done us the great honour
to relate that he is a castaway--an unowned--and, if my young friend
makes use of all the wisdom he doubtless possesses in so high a degree,
he will join us in blessing Providence, that has given the gallant young
homeless one a home; for I need not tell him that all he sees around is
his--the land and the house, and, to the hitherto unloved, a young and
tender heart that will cherish him, to the fatherless a father."
And thus the old _emigre_ concluded his speech, with a tear glistening
in his eye--and an unexceptionable bow. Had he flung himself into my
arms, the effect would have been complete. I hate to record scenes of
this sort; but, as I have imposed the task upon myself; I will go
through it; and, though the temptation is great, seeing what I was then,
the disciple as well as the offspring of romance, and what I now am,
worldly in the world's most sordid worldliness, to do my penance in
self-mockery--for the sake of the young hearts still unseared, I will
refrain.
I was exceedingly affected and agitated at this appeal, the purport of
which I could not misunderstand. My emotions, at first, prevented me
from speaking. I arose from the sofa, Josephine still hanging upon my
shoulder, and taking her father's hand, led them both to the window.
The sun was near the horizon; and mountain, sea, and green valley, and
dark forest, were steeped in a roseate glory. About three miles
distant, and beneath us, my gallant frigate sat in the bosom of the
gently rippling waters, like a sultana upon her embroidered divan, her
ensign and her pennant streaming out fair and free to the evening
breeze. I pointed to her, and with a voice scarcely articulate--for, at
that period, the sob would rise too readily to my throat, and the tear
start too freely to my eye--I exclaimed:
"Behold my home--my country claims the duty of a son!"
"Monsieur knows best," said Manuel, almost coldly. "His countrymen have
conquered us: you are a gallant race, undoubtedly; but one of them has
not shown much mercy to my daughter."
The passionate girl was at my feet--yes, kneeling at my feet, and her
supplicating hands were clasped in that attitude of humility that is due
only to God. Who taught her the infinite pathos of that beautiful
posture? Taught her! She had no teacher, save Nature and Love.
"Josephine," said I, lifting her gently up, and kissing her fair brow,
"you are breaking my heart. I cannot stand this--I must rush out of the
house. I have never said I loved you;"--(mean subterfuge!)
"But you do, you do--it is my fate,--it is yours--for three years I have
been expecting you--disbelieve me not--ask the Obeah woman. It is
true," and then, hurrying out the words like the downpouring of the
mountain torrent, she continued, "Do you love me?--do you love me?--do
you love me?"
"I do, Josephine--I do distractedly! But stern honour stands in the
way."
"And what is this honour?" she exclaimed, with genuine simplicity; for
it was evident that, if she had ever heard the word before, she had not
the remotest idea of its meaning: "_Et quelle est cette honneur-la_?"
and there was contempt in her tone.