I HAD secured the key from the librarian, and we did not, therefore,
fear interruption, as the library of the Society was only open to the
public on Saturdays.
As we walked from alcove to alcove selecting books, reading an extract
from one, examining the engravings in another, and I realized that we
were all alone in the great silent hall, I felt the resistless current
of my love more strongly than ever, and determined to reveal it if I
could, before we left the library. But the very thought of sitting
by her side and telling her to her face that I loved her made a hot
flutter rise in my heart that imparted its tremor to my limbs, and I
began to think it were best to put off the disclosure a few days yet.
At length we took our seat on one of the sofas, and bent together over
a beautifully illustrated copy of that passionate Persian poem—the
Gitagovinda.
We opened to a picture of Rhada half concealed in the papyri, gazing
on the inconstant Heri as he sports with the laughing shepherdesses.
The sad, wounded look spread over the chiselled features told of the
jealousy within her heart, and shaded the radiance of Heaven with the
blight of Earth’s sorrow.
“Isn’t that face exquisite?” she said, after gazing for some time at it
without speaking; “and the hand half raised, holding the broken stem of
lotus, how perfect in outline. The whole picture is the loveliest thing
I ever saw.”
“You haven’t had the advantage of a mirror recently, then,” I said,
tamely.
“That is fulsome and exceedingly stale,” she said, with a smile that
softened but did not quite destroy the sarcasm of her tone.
“Indeed, Miss Carrover, you are lovely enough to make Heraclitus
cease weeping; but I would not seek your favor with adulation. Your
experience as a flirt has doubtless taught you too well how to estimate
the compliments of—er (I longed for my horse and spur again, but not
having them with me I was forced to its utterance)—lovers.”
“Do you call me a flirt,” she said, closing the book, and setting it
up edgewise on her lap, so that she might lock her beautiful fingers
over it, “after all the consideration and regard I have shown you? Has
anything in my conduct toward _you_ indicated that I was flirting with
you?”
“No; I confess with deep gratitude that, so far as I am concerned, you
do not yet deserve the name. But I do fear your ridicule and sarcasm,
or my bursting heart would tell its love.”
“Poor little heart! do not burst,” she said, patting me with one hand
gently over my heart.
Of course I caught the hand and imprinted a very fervent kiss on it;
a liberty which she resented by calling “Sir-r-r,” with a great many
r’s, and vowing she would not speak to me again while we were in the
library. I gazed at her a moment, and then broke out passionately:
“Miss Lillian—may I call you that?—let’s cease trifling. I love you;
but before you laugh me to scorn let me tell you how I love you. I have
never loved before, can never love again, as I love you now. My life,
my soul is wrapped up in you; my whole being is in yours; and existence
without your love to possess or to hope for is utterly worthless. No
other thought, no other object has been mine since I saw you; and I
solemnly vow to you now, I care for, hope for nothing else on earth
but your smile and favor. I cannot, dare not believe that you love me
now; but give me one ray of hope, one straw to cling to; promise that
you will learn to love me in years to come; that after long, patient
devotion on my part, and satiety of conquest on yours, you will give me
your heart. Dearest Lillian, promise me.”
The sexton of the library had forgotten his broom, and it chanced to be
leaning against the sofa arm near her. She quietly handed it to me, and
said, with an affected sigh:
“Alas! I have no hope to offer, but there is a broom full of straws for
you to cling to.”
I dropped my head into my hands, and moaned:
“Oh heaven! the agony.”
“Really, Mr. Smith, you act your part well. I can only regret that the
programme of courtship you have evidently studied is a hackneyed one.
Indiscriminate flattery, life and death pledges of devotion and vows of
eternal fealty! The addition of a little poetry, about the fountain of
your heart being sealed, to keep its waters, etc., would have made it
perfect.”
“Miss Carrover,” I said, raising my head from my hands, and looking at
her with a countenance so full of despair I saw she knew at last that
I was in earnest, “it is enough. Before we drop the subject, though,
forever, hear me. As I hope to be judged in eternity, every word I
spoke just now was earnest truth. As you value the happiness of a
fellow being, do me the justice, at least, to believe this my solemn
assertion.”
“Mr. Smith,” she said quickly, her face losing the expression of
incredulous derision it had worn, and assuming a seriousness I had
never before seen on it, “were you really in earnest?”
“Before my Maker, I was.”
“Can you pardon my unkindness, then,” and she offered her soft little
hand. I took it, but did not release it immediately, but sat holding
it in mine, and gazing down at the floor. Though so near her, I felt
that we were separated by an immense chasm, whose black depths were
unfathomable; but now her last words threw a tiny thread of gold across
it, and on this slender bridge Hope, like another Blondin, prepared to
tread.
“I have been called a flirt,” she continued, to my joyful surprise
letting her hand remain in mine, “and perhaps the title is deserved;
for I confess that I have constantly sought the conquest of hearts,
and I enjoy nothing so much as a long story of love poured out for my
mockery—not that I love to cause pain in others, but I have ever found
men’s vows insincere, deserving nothing better than scorn. Whenever
I have had reason to believe one sincere I have always made the
dismissal, if I rejected him, as kind as possible. With you, my dear
friend—will you allow me to deal candidly?—I was much pleased, and
enjoyed your pleasant vivacity and humor exceedingly; so that I will
confess I looked forward to your visits more pleasantly than to almost
any one else’s. Thus, without intending it, I have encouraged a love
which from the first I knew I could not return, but which I did not
suppose was serious. If I esteemed you less I might bid you hope that
I might retain you as a suitor; but the very earnestness of your love
forbids that I should deceive you. I cannot love you, save as a friend.
That is very trite, isn’t it? Still, it expresses my feelings, and I
trust that you will believe _me_ when I assure you that I do and ever
shall entertain the highest regard for you.”
“Do not say you can not love me, Miss Carrover. Surely a love so
devoted as mine will yet win some return.”
She did not reply; but slipping the diamond ring on her third finger
down to the tip, and holding it there with her thumb, she held it to
me. I looked down on the inside of the gold band and saw, marked in
ruby points, as if written in blood, the names Raymond and Lillian.”
“Raymond!” I exclaimed, “who—what is the surname?”
“DeVare!” she whispered softly.
The golden thread snapped in twain, and Hope fell forever into the
abyss!
I did not reply, for I knew it would have been folly to attempt to
supplant Raymond DeVare, and I would not if I could have done so at a
breath.
As neither of us had any further use for the library we closed it and
walked home. Nothing special was said; only when I bade her good-bye
she said, with the old irresistible look: “You will still visit me?”
I bowed low, and said, “If you wish me to.”
On my way home I made up my mind to one thing, that, however much I
might feel depressed, I would not let Ned find it out. He had provoked
me enough with his predictions; he should not now have the triumph of
saying, “I told you so.”
After tea I took a long stroll with DeVare, and, as the conversation
led to it, I told him all. He smiled when I concluded, and said he had
been expecting as much. He then, in return for my confidence, told
me that they had been engaged since early in the summer. That he and
Carrover had gone to Newport, and he had met her there and loved her;
that they were betrothed before he left, and that they were to be
married the coming June, immediately after his graduation.
“That is,” he continued, “if the meeting we have arranged for in
December does not prevent it.”
“Does she know of it?” I asked.
“No; and I would not have her to for worlds.”
“But, Ramie, there will never be a meeting,” I said, cheerily. “Brazon
is too cowardly to fight; and if he were not, time would make the
affair too trivial to be remembered, especially as it is safest to
forget it.”
“Brazon would never have begun,” he said, “had it not been for the
advice of others. Of course their purpose is to continue the affair, as
they suffer no uneasiness on account of it.”
“Well, Ramie, let us look on the bright side of things. I do not
believe that the affair will come off at all, and if it does it will be
without danger to yourself.”
DeVare then gave me his personal history, stating that he was an
only child; that his father had been dead a great many years; that
his mother was perfectly devoted to him, and that this was the first
session she had passed without spending most of the time at Chapel Hill
or Raleigh, where he could run down to see her often.
“She will not leave New Orleans till the close of November,” he
continued, “when we will together go to Richmond to spend my vacation.
The thought of the terrible blow to her, if I should fall, is the only
thing that makes me shrink somewhat from the meeting.”