My absorption had been so deep in gazing at the beautiful portrait
that I had not observed that Mr. Lister had come up the stairs and was
standing silently behind me.
“Is she not beautiful?” he whispered. “Was she not magnificent at the
fire?”
“She was magnificent, she is beautiful,” I replied, deliberately
turning and facing him. He was a man fair to look upon, and one that
could not fail to be pleasing to a woman’s eye. He was slightly above
the medium height. His well-knit and athletic frame was surmounted by
a well-shaped, intellectual head, which was crowned with clustering
brown hair. A strong, well-shaped nose, rather deep-set, introspective
eyes, and a refined and sensitive mouth, made a countenance of more
than usual interest. Just now it appeared somewhat wan and heavy from
watching, but his was evidently one of those gifted natures that are
subject to sudden, brilliant kindling, like the cheery flame which
sometimes leaps from a smouldering fire.
“Surely,” I thought, “this woman could not but have deeply loved this
man. And yet she left him for the sake of woman.” As this thought
passed through my mind, I unconsciously looked from my friend to the
portrait, and back to him again.
“What are you thinking of?” said Mr. Lister. “That portrait is Allegra
Alliston. You saw her at the fire to-night. She was to have been
married to me on Monday, if it had not been for the Woman’s Strike.”
“I am thinking,” I said slowly, replying to his question, “that I
cannot sleep, and that I would like above all things at this moment to
hear the love story of Justin Lister and Allegra Alliston.”
Mr. Lister, without seeming to hear what I said, took me by the arm and
drew me into his room. He pressed me into an easy chair, and sinking
down into a cosy window-seat opposite, he said, as if continuing what
he had said before:
“Yes, we were to have been married on Monday, the very day when the
ballots are to be cast that will decide the fate of the human race.
But when the Strike came, she said she could not allow her personal
pleasure to stand between her and the obtaining for woman of rights
that were so plainly hers. She is a noble enthusiast in the cause
of woman, and though she was in the midst of preparing her bridal
outfit when the Strike was proposed, she brushed it aside as if it
were cobwebs. She said that she felt that the supreme hour of woman’s
destiny had come, and to miss it were to be a renegade from everything
noble.
“She is beautiful,” continued Mr. Lister, glancing fondly toward the
portrait, “but her irresistible charm is in what she says and in her
manner of saying it. Although she is simple and pure as a lily, she is
continually saying unexpected things, things that give you a start of
surprise, upset your conventionalism and put you into a stimulating
glow in spite of yourself.
“It was a genuine case of love at first sight, or rather of love at
the first meeting, for it was really so dark when I first met her that
I could not distinguish her features clearly. She does not belong to
the wealthy class, and she gave music lessons in order to support
herself and her two little brothers. She called here at this house
at twilight one evening with an acquaintance of my mother to see if
she could obtain a pupil in my sister. It was dusk when I casually
entered the parlour where they sat. The lamps had not been lighted.
I was feeling rather dull and listless from the fatigues of the day,
and scarcely noticed Miss Alliston after the formal introduction. I
sat down rather indifferently, preoccupied with my own thoughts, while
she continued conversation with my mother. Suddenly I remember hearing
her say in answer to some inquiry of my mother, that she was a ‘Yankee
through and through.’ It was a simple thing to say, but, good Heavens!
what subtle power there was in her! That speech aroused me as if I had
been suddenly shaken from sleep! Two or three minutes later she said
something in her bright, bracing, dashing way, that made me feel as
one feels who has had a mirth-provoking tumble. Before I had been in
her society ten minutes, I was talking to her, and was like a man who
was recklessly swallowing wine, glass after glass! When, at last, I
followed her to the carriage in which her friend had brought her, I
loved her as madly as a man ever loved a woman. I could have kissed her
from head to foot. The touch of my hand on her waist as I helped her
into the carriage that evening!--it thrills me now. I can never forget
that, if the Strike should be continued and I should never see her
again.
“After that evening I can truly say that I never went out of my way to
seek her. I know not what the instinct was that restrained me. It is
one of those things about the human heart that is past finding out.
It is true that I thought of her every day, and oftentimes I cast a
wistful glance toward the street in which I knew she lived, but as I
had nothing but my love for me to call there, I could not go.
“And that period when I loved her unknown to herself or to any human
being is treasured up in my soul as one of the purest and sweetest
in existence. I really discovered, past any doubt, that there is a
depth of exquisite joy in simply loving, whether the person you love
knows of your love or not, or whether she returns it or not. It was
like the secret discovery of a clear bubbling spring beside which my
world-wearied spirit could linger in purest contentment and serenest
joy. Love can distil its exquisite perfume in your own soul, whether
it is wafted to others or not. It was when I was feeding upon the
sweet bliss of this discovery that this verse formed itself almost
unconsciously in my mind:
“Hast thou found Love in all the sphere?
Then know it by this perfect token,
Thy love was never known or spoken,
And still thy joy was all unbroken:
Such love the stars revere!
“Sometimes I fancied that she could hear my soul calling to her in the
voiceless night, and that her soul made sweet responses.
“But though I refrained almost conscientiously from seeking Allegra
Alliston, fate seem to continually throw us together without the
slightest design on our part. Do you want to know the surest sign of
love in the world? It is when you can tell every time at which you
have seen her whom you love, without missing a single instance. It may
have been nothing more than a passing glimpse of her face in a prosaic
street car but it is as firmly photographed in your memory as if you
had held her tightly in your arms. I could not only remember every
glimpse I had ever had of Allegra Alliston during the next six months,
but I could repeat, with the accuracy of a phonograph, every word she
had said in my hearing.
“Once during this time I was passing a house in which she gave music
lessons, although I did not know it until I heard her rapturous voice
singing. I had never heard the song before, but being sung by her it
was indelibly fixed in my memory. See, I can repeat it now:
“COME BACK.
“‘Come back!’ from many a broken home
There comes a voice of sad endeavour
To bring the loved ones back who roam
To bring them back to dwell forever.
‘Come back, dear ones, Love calls you home,
No more to doubt, no more to roam
Come back--come back.’
“’Tis borne across the ocean’s main
And blown along the desert’s tract
In words which tell earth’s deepest pain.
Come back! ye loved ones, O come back.
‘Come back, dear ones, Love calls you home,
From her warm arms no more to roam,
Come back--come back.’
“‘Dear ones come back to that sweet home
Where loves strong ties are parted never,
No more to weep, no more to roam,
Come back and dwell in peace forever
Come back dear ones, Love calls you home,
From her fond breast no more to roam,
Come back--come back.’”
“As I said, although Miss Alliston did not enter our house again for
a long time after that first evening, fate threw us together in the
most unexpected ways. At last when I had not seen her for some weeks, I
started to drive to a village a few miles distant on a business errand.
As I drove along the lonely country road, I was in an exceedingly
happy frame of mind. The solitude and a radiant fragrant autumn day
were favourable to my deep enjoyment of the incense that burned upon
the secret altar of my soul. I remember feeling a special glow of
satisfaction that morning that I was content simply to have Love as a
noble guest in the chambers of my heart. I asked no other gifts from
her hands.
“As I made a turn in the road, which was lined with woods on one side,
I noticed to my surprise a woman dressed in black picking her way
somewhat daintily along the muddy roadside at some distance ahead of
me. By the way, don’t you like to see women dressed in black? It is my
favourite dress. There is a rich grace and dignity about women dressed
in black that seems wanting in any other colour. Their throats are so
white, and their forms so sweetly and seriously graceful; it makes them
doubly mysterious and captivating to me.
“Of course when I saw this lady walking by the roadside, I decided at
once to offer her a seat in my carriage. But I had not the slightest
idea who she might be, nor indeed did I spend a moment’s thought upon
it. Judge then of my electrifying surprise when I had stopped the
carriage, and she had for the first time turned her face toward me, to
see that it was Allegra Alliston! I felt as if I were in a dream as I
helped her into the carriage, and she was apparently as much surprised
as I was. But the explanation of her being there was very simple.
She had obtained a new pupil in the sleepy village toward which we
were going, and as she had no other means of getting there, she was
heroically walking, although the distance was five miles.
“Do you believe in the sharpness of woman’s intuition? If there is such
a thing, I told Allegra Alliston that I loved her a thousand times
during that short ride. Not in words, or by any intent, but--I made a
desperate effort to appear natural and unconcerned. There was a rich
glow upon her face from walking. I drew the carriage robes around her
and asked her if she was dressed warmly enough to ride. I tried to hide
my secret, but every motion I made, every word I uttered seemed to give
it hopelessly away. I became positively frightened, for it seemed as if
at every turn of the carriage wheels I was saying, ‘I love you, I love
you, I love you!’
“As we drew near the little village, Miss Alliston said something
about its dulness, and I replied that possibly it might become a
populous city some day; that sometimes such places, after long lying in
lethargy, were found to possess unsuspected advantages, and sprang into
sudden life and importance.
“‘But it will be after our time,’ she said, ‘some hundreds of years
from now. Where shall we be then?’
“I did not premeditate at all what I said in reply to this. A man who
is deeply in love has a tongue that is set on a hair trigger. I talked
without knowing what I was saying.
“‘If we meet in another sphere, Miss Alliston, and I confess I indulge
myself in the perhaps foolish hope that congenial souls will meet and
recognize each other hereafter, I shall have something to tell you
about this strange and far-distant earth-life. I assume that there will
be no such artificial trammels there as to prevent me from speaking to
you without fear.’
“‘Oh,’ said she, with the charming audacity that is so characteristic
of her, ‘tell me now. A woman, you know, can neither keep a secret, nor
rest till she finds one out.’
“‘Tell you!’ I cried, with a sudden burst of vehemence that was almost
like anger. ‘I have told you a thousand times. Oh, God! I have tried to
hide it, and yet you know as well as if I had shouted it to the hills,
that I love you unutterably, that I have never ceased loving you since
I first saw you.’
“The reins had fallen from my hands and the horse had stopped in
uncertainty. She caught the reins, but strange as it may seem, this
burst of vehemence produced something very much like it in her. Her
great eyes turned upon me with a blazing light which I had never seen
in them before.
“‘And you, too!’ she cried, ‘do you blame me for my skill at
concealing my heart? Since when has woman been permitted to manifest
her feelings toward man in the slightest degree? You could not hide
your love because man has always had the liberty to express it. But
woman, compelled for ages to stifle every heart-beat, has learned her
unnatural lesson too well. Like the stoical Indian she can bear her
torture without flinching. But,--but,’ and her splendid voice began to
falter, ‘I have loved you none the less.’ And we were both crying.
“Had a traveller been concealed on that country road he would have
been puzzled to see a young man and woman sitting in a carriage, and
apparently quarrelling at one moment, but at the next locked in each
other’s arms and smothering each other with kisses.”
[Illustration]