THE FADING OF THE RAINBOW.
I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
LAMB.
Beautifully and truly, in the fourth book of the most poetical of
stories, has a New World romancist described the state of a sorrowing
lover. "All around him," saith he, "seemed dreamy and vague; all within
him, as in a sun's eclipse. As the moon, whether visible or invisible,
has power over the tides of the ocean, so the face of that lady, whether
present or absent, had power over the tides of his soul, both by day and
night, both waking and sleeping. In every pale face and dark eye he saw
a resemblance to her; and what the day denied him in reality, the night
gave him in dreams."
Such was, very faithfully, my own condition of mind during the interval
which succeeded my departure from Paris--the only difference being that
Longfellow's hero was rejected by the woman he loved, and sorrowing for
that rejection; whilst I, neither rejected nor accepted, mourned another
grief, and through the tears of that trouble, looked forward anxiously
to my uncertain future.
I reached Saxonholme the night before my father's funeral, and remained
there for ten days. I found myself, to my surprise, almost a rich
man--that is to say, sufficiently independent to follow the bent of my
inclinations as regarded the future.
My first impulse, on learning the extent of my means, was to relinquish
a career that had been from the first distasteful to me--my second was
to leave the decision to Hortense. To please her, to be worthy of her,
to prove my devotion to her, was what I most desired upon earth. If she
wished to see me useful and active in my generation, I would do my best
to be so for her sake--if, on the contrary, she only cared to see me
content, I would devote myself henceforth to that life of "retired
leisure" that I had always coveted. Could man love more honestly
and heartily?
One year of foreign life had wrought a marked difference in me. I had
not observed it so much in Paris; but here, amid old scenes and old
reminiscences, I seemed to meet the image of my former self, and
wondered at the change 'twixt now and then. I left home, timid, ignorant
of the world and its ways, reserved, silent, almost misanthropic. I came
back strengthened mentally and physically. Studious as ever, I could yet
contemplate an active career without positive repugnance; I knew how to
meet and treat my fellow-men; I was acquainted with society in its most
refined and most homely phases. I had tasted of pleasure, of
disappointment, of love--of all that makes life earnest.
As the time drew near when I should return to Paris, grief, and hope,
and that strange reluctance which would fain defer the thing it most
desires, perplexed and troubled me by day and night. Once again on the
road, the past seemed more than ever dream-like, and Paris and
Saxonholme became confused together in my mind, like the mingling
outlines of two dissolving views.
I crossed the channel this time in a thick, misting rain; pushed on
straight for Paris, and reached the Cité Bergère in the midst of a warm
and glowing afternoon. The great streets were crowded with carriages and
foot-passengers. The trees were in their fullest leaf. The sun poured
down on pavement and awning with almost tropical intensity. I dismissed
my cab at the top of the Rue du Faubourg Montmatre, and went up to the
house on foot. A flower-girl sat in the shade of the archway, tying up
her flowers for the evening-sale, and I bought a cluster of white roses
for Hortense as I went by.
Madame Bouïsse was sound asleep in her little sanctum; but my key hung
in its old place, so I took it without disturbing her, and went up as if
I had been away only a few hours. Arrived at the third story, I stopped
outside Hortense's door and listened. All was very silent within. She
was out, perhaps; or writing quietly in the farther chamber. I thought I
would leave my travelling-bag in my own room, and then ring boldly for
admittance. I turned the key, and found myself once again in my own
familiar, pleasant student home. The books and busts were there in their
accustomed places; everything was as I had left it. Everything, except
the picture! The picture was gone; so Hortense had accepted it.
Three letters awaited me on the table; one from Dr. Chéron, written in a
bold hand--a mere note of condolence: one from Dalrymple, dated
Chamounix: the third from Hortense. I knew it was from her. I knew that
that small, clear, upright writing, so singularly distinct and regular,
could be only hers. I had never seen it before; but my heart
identified it.
That letter contained my fate. I took it up, laid it down, paced
backwards and forwards, and for several minutes dared not break the
seal. At length I opened it. It ran thus:--
"FRIEND AND FELLOW-STUDENT.
"I had hoped that a man such as you and a woman such as I might become
true friends, discuss books and projects, give and take the lesser
services of life, and yet not end by loving. In this belief, despite
occasional misgivings, I have suffered our intercourse to become
intimacy--our acquaintance, friendship. I see now that I was mistaken,
and now, when it is, alas! too late, I reproach myself for the
consequences of that mistake.
"I can be nothing to you, friend. I have duties in life more sacred than
marriage. I have a task to fulfil which is sterner than love, and
imperative as fate. I do not say that to answer you thus costs me no
pain. Were there even hope, I would bid you hope; but my labor presses
heavily upon me, and repeated failure has left me weary and heart-sick.
"You tell me in your letter that, by the time I read it, you will be far
away. It is now my turn to repeat the same words. When you come back to
your rooms, mine will be empty. I shall be gone; all I ask is, that you
will not attempt to seek me.
"Farewell. I accept your gift. Perhaps I act selfishly in taking it, but
a day may come when I shall justify that selfishness to you. In the
meantime, once again farewell. You are my only friend, and these are the
saddest words I have ever written--forget me!
"HORTENSE."
I scarcely know how I felt, or what I did, on first reading this letter.
I believe that I stood for a long time stone still, incapable of
realizing the extent of my misfortune. By-and-by it seemed to rush upon
me suddenly. I threw open my window, scaled the balcony rails, and
forced my way into her rooms.
Her rooms! Ah, by that window she used to sit--at that table she read
and wrote--in that bed she slept! All around and about were scattered
evidences of her presence. Upon the chimney-piece lay an envelope
addressed to her name--upon the floor, some fragments of torn paper and
some ends of cordage! The very flowers were yet fresh upon her balcony!
The sight of these things, while they confirmed my despair, thawed the
ice at my heart. I kissed the envelope that she had touched, the flowers
she had tended, the pillow on which her head had been wont to rest. I
called wildly on her name. I threw myself on the floor in my great
agony, and wept aloud.
I cannot tell how long I may have lain there; but it seemed like a
lifetime. Long enough, at all events, to drink the bitter draught to the
last drop--long enough to learn that life had now no grief in store for
which I should weep again.