Oh, to be idle one spring day!
To muse in wood or meadow;
Glide down the river 'twixt the play
Of sun and trembling shadow.
I'd see all wonders neath the stream,
The pebbles and vex'd grasses;
I'd lean across the boat and dream,
As each scene slowly passes.
--A. L. B
The bright, golden summer days were growing scarcer and scarcer; band
nights experiences were fast becoming items of the past--that past which
had realized itself so strangely to poor Honor. She had hoped
sanguinely, trustingly, and now it seemed that fate would bring her
defiant proofs of its iron will in spite of herself.
She had not taken it as a sign of inconstancy, that Guy had never sent
the smallest message of encouragement to her, but rather tried to weave
it in as a sprig of the laurel crown she daily wove in silent sadness,
for her truant lover, when he would return, full of happy explanations,
to claim her all his own.
Vivian was as constant and devoted when the leaves began to turn, as
when the leaves began to bud. This was perhaps the most intricate plot
of his scheming life, but he was proving himself equal to it: he was
probing his way slowly and quietly into the well guarded sanctum of
Honor Edgeworth's heart, trying to accumulate every energy of his soul
into one eloquent appeal to her obstinate nature.
The gorgeous colors of the western sky were fading dimly one evening,
behind the misty mountain tops. It was towards the end of August, a
lovely evening, such as comes back to us before the autumn, as a
reminder of the closing season.
Vivian Standish, pausing suddenly, rested his oars on the placid water,
and contemplated in silence, the figure of Honor Edgeworth, reclining on
the cushioned seat of his handsome boat. They had rowed a long way up
the canal, and any sentimental readers who have been there, either
alone, with only the memory of some dearer one, or still better, in the
actual company of some strangely loved acquaintance, will not hesitate,
in pronouncing this still, cool, shady retreat, one of the most
suggestive spots on earth. If anyone's untiring devotion and wildest
appeals have not, up to this, made any impression upon the being one
loves, the very best remedy is to launch a cosy boat into this very
canal, and pull with a mighty strength for four or five miles up from
the "deep cut." Soon a sequestered paradise is reached, where the bended
boughs interlacing, whisper, in caressing, rustling to each other, over
the narrow stream of rippling water below, here pause and wait. There is
a hush whose voice is more eloquent than any human appeal. The low
gurgling music of the little waves that creep techily over and under the
hanging boughs that teaze and obstruct them in their onward passage, the
crowded leaves, rubbing their swaying heads affectionately together; the
gentle wind resting in sighs of relief upon the graceful tree tops, and
sending its messages of love from bough to bough, until it spends itself
upon the quiet bosom of the waters below; the love-sick birds that woo
our beauteous nature in this, her bewitching costume, with their rich
and rarest warblings, vie with one another in chanting from their
ruffled throats their little tales of ecstasy and love, all teach us
clearly, that out in the busy world there is no witchery like this.
In the open sunlight, nature dons her every day attire, but in the shady
retreat of these, her chosen spots, she coquettishly arrays herself in
most resistless costumes.
While one pauses, leaning on his oars amid such scenes as this, one
cannot but feel like flirting very earnestly with nature; the
surrounding beauty cannot help reflecting some of its liveliness upon
the admirers, and the stray, "tangled" sunbeams that lose one another in
the thick foliage cannot but give a new love-light to the eyes that
linger thoughtfully upon them. So that the first impulse to admire
nature being gratified, each finds a consequent impulse towards natural
admiration, creeping into the heart. _She_ looks questioningly into
_his_ eyes, and if _he_ knows anything he will respond appropriately,
and after that, each finds out that the other is one of the most
enhancing elements of the beautiful that they have been contemplating
all the while.
To Honor Edgeworth, it was the most delightful treat possible, to drink
in the beauty and elegance of such surroundings, to this at least, her
heart was never closed--it was easy enough to battle against the hoarse
voice of temptation in the busy world, but here, all was different, this
was a spot created, not for the art and acceptations of conventionality,
but for the freedom ahd expansion of the heart and soul.
To lie in a recumbent attitude and feel the gentle breath of the breeze,
playing among her yielding curls, or listen to it, whispering its
effective lullaby into her ears, to drink such a long draught of
nature's own narcotic, as would steal her away from the world of
reality, closing her drowsy lids upon the actual, and unfolding to her
in tempting dreams, the realizations of all her exaggerated, but
cherished ideals, this was the luxury of living, this made life worth
prizing, worth striving for in Honor Edgeworth's eyes.
There are many beside her, who are fond of being nursed into this drowsy
state by some such delightful influence. People, there are, who without
ever acknowledging their weakness, for such a thing, are often seized
with the strangest moods and cravings, a longing for sweet words, or
tender caresses, or something correspondingly emotional in the abstract
fills them up, they would like to lie lazily by some smouldering fire,
on an easy couch, and have some gentle hand to smoothe away the wrinkles
from their brows, or some loving voice to whisper suggestive little
trifles, into their willing ears: when they see a flood of moonlight
filling the earth with its soft stillness, they immediately long to
animate the scene by their own presence, but, with some treasured
beauty, leaning on one arm, and looking bewitchingly into their love-lit
eyes, every emotional sight, sound or feeling, brings to them the
possible intensity of a gratified love, the fruits, they _might_ gather
from their own sentiment, if they had power to indulge it. This is why
we meet so many dreamy, romantic girls, who are ever on the _qui vive_,
expecting the hero, with deep eyes and heavy moustaches, that never
comes. Girls who see more beauty, and poetry, and romance, in the
distant "red light of a cigar" twinkling through the darkness, on some
quiet night, than in all the stars of heaven combined; girls who expect
that every silent, handsome man, who gives them a passing glance (of
aimless curiosity) is a wonderful character, just stepped over the
threshold of some of Ouida's or The Duchess' volumes, ready to seize
them in his steady arms, if they sprain an ankle, or faint over some
fright; ready to rescue them from some terrible accident, and then fall
violently in love, marry them, but, unlike the book, in reality, "live
in miserable wretchedness for ever after."
Such also are those _yearning_ men, who are ever taking flights into the
delightful world of the ideal--men, who try, with a pair of plentiful
eyes, to conquer "female heartdom," who think to find the "open sesame"
to that valuable depository, by knocking the practical element out of
life, and by grasping at chance, in the dim, soulful, dreamy, intense,
abstract world of thought. Men, who the punster would say in the dewy
twilight or still moonlight, are _pie_ously all for _soul_, but who in
the raw early afternoon are _sole_ly all for _pie_.
But from a suspicion of an inclination to such influence, I must surely
except Vivian Standish, he could neither see, hear or feel any
fascination in those things, and yet, he was not without knowing, that
herein lay the weak point of souls more susceptible than his own; he was
cunning enough to know, that a young lady is at the limit of all her
reason and control, when ushered into such a spot, as that which he had
chosen as a resting-place during their row, on this eventful evening.
But with all his precious knowledge, there were a few very simple
things, which Vivian Standish had never learned; he understood other
people perfectly, it is true, human nature, was as legible to him, as
the plainest book, as a rule, he read faces, as he would the morning-
paper, and yet, strange to say, he knew less of his own self than he did
of any one--he was clever enough to veneer his character well, that
others might not know him, but apart from that he was a mystery to
himself--he had certain instinctive ideas of his own bias and
inclinations; he knew every positive quality or defect he had, and in
that same he had plenty to remember, but he never asked himself, whether
he was proof against every passing circumstance or not; he met them
generally, with an admirable collectedness and _sang-froid_, but,
depending on the spur of the moment is not the safest thing in a person
of his pursuits. The cleverest diplomatists and adventurers have been
betrayed by themselves and so was he.
While he sat, watching the contemplative features of the girl in the
boat before him, something, in the clear depths of the admiring eyes,
struck him; there was an expression of infinite longing over her face,
her mouth was drawn into a sad smile, and her hands were folded
listlessly on her lap: a few withering daisies and butter-cups, that she
had snatched an hour before as they skimmed along the shore, lay
carelessly between her fingers, and the loose ties of her broad hat were
fluttering on the breeze, under her pretty, upturned chin. If ever
repentance could have worked its influence over a guilty soul, it could
not have found a moment more propitious than this, wherein to accomplish
its task, the very last susceptibility of a heart, hardened and inured
to sin was struggling to assert itself, a long, unheeded impulse, was
trying to shake away the fetters of vice and crime, and free itself to
noble action.
The fierce combat between his good and evil spirits waged for an
instant, he must either fall before this commanding angel, or crush with
a mighty blow, and forever, the already weak agent of good, whose "wee
small voice" tantalized him strangely at this moment.
But while he hesitated, his destiny decided itself; a new phase suddenly
substituted his calculating indifference, he felt a strong, jealous
passion flooding his whole soul, he saw the beauty of Honor Edgeworth's
face by an entirely new light, he scorned the suspicion--but the truth
was terribly bare, he had been caught in his own meshes--he loved this
girl. It did not steal upon him, nor come by slow degrees, but rushed in
a crushing torrent of realization, into his heart. All the words of
devotedness and admiration, that he had spoken to her of late, were only
a mockery, to what his passion suggested now.
Love, to so many others an enviable blessing, threatened to be a
miserable portion for him, for naturally enough, coming to him as it did
through the channels of the soul, it had to partake of the unholy nature
of these unhealthy and corrupt by-ways; and hence instead of the pure,
buoyant emotion that fills the honest breast, in the redeeming passion
of its first exalted love, there rushed into the heart of Vivian
Standish, a poisonous torrent of insuperable desire, that held him like
an iron-bound victim, foaming and struggling in his own chains. A look
of devouring admiration flashed from his fiery eyes over the face of the
girl. She was thinking; thinking something pleasant, something
fascinating, thinking of someone agreeable to her thought--who was not
_he_, this he knew, and a crushing feeling of envy, worse than the worst
hatred, filled him. Whose memory did he, by his own voluntary action,
awake within her by bringing her to this spot? who was it, conjured by
her, sat between them, or perhaps substituted him altogether? "Egad," he
stifled, between his teeth, "I must know the worst of this." With a
voice that bespoke a terrible power of self-command, Vivian, blandly
broke this heavy silence--
"I need not ask if you enjoy yourself, Honor, I can see that?"
The girl turned her head slowly towards him, as if loth to raise her
eyes from the visionary world, that fascinated her, and smiling, as if
in sad remembrance, answered abstractedly,
"Yes, I am easily influenced by such surroundings as these," and as she
spoke she waved her hand with a graceful gesture that took in her
picturesque environs.
"That _movement_, included me, I wonder if the _words_ did as well," he
said quickly, and so huskily, that Honor looked up a little startled.
"Well--yes, you too," she said laughingly, though a little stiffly, "you
must suppose that you have your share of influence over me as well as
every other thing and person associated with my life."
"Only as well, as every other thing, eh?" he interrupted sneeringly,
"only as well, as a terrier dog--or a dutiful servant--or a well-cooked
dinner, I suppose, is that it?" and leaning over on his oars, he looked
savagely into the trembling girl's face.
Honor straightened herself into a stiff, sitting posture, and looking
indignantly into his eyes, answered haughtily--
"Mr. Standish, you have rather a strange way of jesting to-day, might I
trouble you to resume your old self, at least while I am obliged to be
with you?" but his eyes only rivetted themselves still more greedily
upon her, and his hands trembled still more nervously, as he clutched
the oars.
"Jesting?" he said in a mocking tone, "jesting, did you say? No Honor, I
have jested all my life, but I swear to you, that now I am in terrible
earnest, do not provoke me at this moment, for I can scarcely hold
myself responsible, hereafter, for what I may do--it is your work that I
am in such a state, not mine--come now--tell me, of whom were you
thinking when I spoke to you a moment ago? I must know it or you regret
it--tell me?"
A slow withering smile of sublime contempt, crept into the handsome face
of the threatened girl--
"Spare your _brutem fulmen_, Mr. Standish, I pray you," she said in
pitiful sarcasm, "you will not terrify me--I must say, that I did not
require this emphatic proof to convince me of how thorough a gentleman
you are, I could have believed without it, but I think if your intention
was to take advantage of respectable circumstances and gain a noble
victory for yourself, you might possibly find easier terms yet than
those which oppose you now, get some one who defies you infinitely less
than I do; you need not then trouble to bray so loud." And as she
finished speaking, she turned her head, in languid disgust away from the
peering face of her companion, and carelessly paddled the tips of three
dainty fingers in the quiet water, at the same time humming a gay little
selection to herself. Her perfect ease and composure disconcerted him,
not a little, it certainly was the most efficacious way of bringing him
back to his polished senses again.
But though the first madness of his attack, was gradually subsiding, he
still sat silently gazing into her face, until becoming somewhat
concerned, Honor looked coldly back into his searching face and said
with the most provoking supineness, in her tone.
"When you have gratified your eyes sufficiently with their insolent
occupation, will you be kind enough to either row me yourself, or allow
me to row myself back to the boat-house, or anywhere convenient to the
shore?"
This awoke him to the actual state of things; he straightened his oars,
and made sundry other preparations to start, but as he leaned forward to
take the first backward stroke, he looked steadily into her face and
said in a husky, almost defiant tone,
"Dust, like this, can never blind my eyes, but resign yourself, for Guy
Elersley and you will never meet again." In spite of herself, Honor was
startled a little; a greyish shadow flitted across her face, her lips
trembled for an instant, and a wincing expression shot from her eyes,
the words sounded so much like a prophecy of evil, how could he say them
so emphatically unless he knew something, could it be possible that Guy
was dead? Oh no, she would not yield to such a gloomy idea of the
possible, this man was only trying to frighten her--but frightened she
would not be, she suddenly recollected herself, and in a splendid manner
answered him,--
"Indeed, Mr. Standish! Although you introduce a strangely inappropriate
subject, I must say your intelligence grieves me, for I like Guy
Elersley exceedingly well, and should be heartily sorry were I given to
credit your statements with the slightest suspicion of truth."
He had begun to congratulate himself that, at last, he had secured her
unawares, but the last remark confounded him altogether--baffled in
every attempt he gave up trying to threaten her, and resolved to come
back now, if he could, at least to her former favor.
Carefully smothering all his latent passion of jealousy and rage, he
addressed his next words in tones of such humiliation and regret as took
Honor by the greatest surprise.
"Honor, what have I done?" he said seriously and sorrowfully, "have I
forgotten your dignity in the intensity of my emotion?"
"It was your own you forgot," she interrupted, "or you could never have
forgotten mine, but then one can't be too hard on a person for
forgetting such mere trifles, I don't blame you, yours is so
insignificant, that I often forget it myself."
"I deserve it all, Honor, go on--I have been a brute I see--but it was
not I, it was the demon of jealousy within me, will you not say that you
absolve me Honor, for believe me I knew not what I did?"
Something of actual despair rung from his voice, he bowed his face with
its pained expression, and Honor believed him sincere, perhaps, after
all the man was beside himself she thought, he who had never before made
the most pardonable breach of etiquette or courtesy.
The jealousy that was the evident cause of his strongest utterance, was
perhaps, what any woman can forgive her lover's rival most easily, for
it gives a spice to love, so with a little appeal to her womanly
sympathies, Honor thawed out, and answered his miserable
self-condemnations in forgiving but reserved terms.
"Do not trouble yourself so," she said half consolingly. "I assure you,
your words have had no effect in the world on me; if I thought
differently of you, they would have meant more, but as it is, console
yourself that you have injured no one half so much, as you have
yourself."
The ambiguous words deceived him--he looked gladly up and exclaimed--
"You are an angel, Honor!" but he had not understood the deep meaning of
her thought, he did not know, that, when we love, truly and devotedly,
or even cherish and esteem some one, an unkind word or a cruel retort,
from those lips to us, makes a breach, which no forgiving phrases can
ever right again. When the heart that loves has been wounded by the hand
it adores, no remedy can ever fully heal the rankled spot, where the
poisoned arrow has lodged. We can forgive the injury of one, whom we
have never cherished nor loved, we can treat with indifference the
slights of those we care little about, but it takes an angel's mercy, an
infinite fortitude, a supernatural test of our moral strength to raise
up again the golden idol that one word of cruel unkindness, has
shattered within our hearts.
It was nearly dusk when Honor and Vivian Standish landed at Mr. Rayne's
boat-house, near the bridge. The night air was growing cooler, and the
stars were breaking through the cloudless sky in quiet succession.
With the tenderest of solicitude, Vivian carefully placed Honor's wrap
around her shoulders, and gently assisting her up the steep ascent of
the boat-house stairs, he stole his hand under the knotted fringe of the
warm shawl, and thrust it within her arm.
Honor, for a great many reasons, chose to sign a treaty of peace with
Vivian Standish. She suspected that he knew, perhaps more than he cared
to show, of her attachment for Guy, and if a word of unmeaning
forgiveness, could serve to buy him over, she did not hesitate in
purchasing discretion with such counterfeit coins, for she cared little,
if she were exalted or not in such opinions as his.
Thus, they proceeded, quite amicably on their homeward way, both in an
unusually good humor. There is a auspicious feature about such suddenly
assumed gaiety, that cannot but amuse the disinterested participator;
when either in such a case as that of Vivian Standish we wish thereby to
drown the memory of a recent mistake or blunder, by indulging in loud
mirth, that distracts the mind from the unpleasantness just experienced,
or when we are under the painful influence of some personal trouble, be
it a substantial loss of any sort, or the more unfortunate burden, cast
upon us by any social stigma, then, when the whole world, learning of
our misfortune extends its hand in stinging sympathy, and looks with
painful enquiry of curious compassion, to see "how we take it," what a
piercing spur we thrust into our pride, to drive into it that forced
merriment and happy resignation, which we blindly hope will stand for
indifference in the eyes of a criticising society, at all times, it is
neccessarily a short-lived effort, and so it was in the case of those
two young people. When they reached Mr. Rayne's house, and separated at
the gate, the masks fell immediately, and each went his way laughing at
the absurd mockeries of life, by which, we cheat one another face to
face, at those ridiculous attempts at veneering, through which it is as
easy to see, as through a pane of polished glass, and yet, to which we
have constant recourse, as though the human heart were more presentable
in its mean disguises of truth and honesty, than when laid bare, in the
actual existing state, of diplomacy, selfishness, and deceit.