NED and I are again at Chapel Hill, in our old room. We found our books
and furniture dusty, but undisturbed, and a day’s preparation sufficed
to get us in harness again.
It was with great difficulty father had secured my re-admission. His
first application was peremptorily refused, but by many letters and
pledges to the trustees and faculty, and in consideration of my youth
and inexperience, I was at last allowed to go on with my class.
For all this I had made extra resolves of diligence, and had promised
father that nothing should divert me from intense application to my
books.
Of Miss Carrover I thought but little. I had heard from Charleston,
whither she had gone soon after the duel, that she was the gayest
belle of its society. This disregard of what was due the memory of her
betrothed, coupled with the gradually acquired conviction that my suit
was hopeless, and a conscientious desire to do well in my studies,
had somewhat impaired the romantic fervor of my admiration for her,
and I heard with remarkable composure the statement that she would
spend a week or two in Chapel Hill on her way to New York. I resolved
at first not to see her at all; but, feeling that this was too great
a confession of weakness, even to myself, and having, besides, in my
possession the valuables DeVare had requested me to deliver to her, I
determined to call just once, that I might mark her deportment before
making up my final judgment on her character. Of one thing I was fully
resolved, that whether she was gay or sad, whether kind and cordial or
cold and distant towards me, no word or glance of mine should betray
the faintest trace of the old love, or depart from the consistent
seriousness of real bereavement.
When I entered the parlor at Professor Z——’s I found her surrounded
by a throng of admirers. As she came forward to meet me, the same
superbly beautiful woman I had once adored, her usual queenly air
softened into one of kindest greeting, and gave me both hands in her
warm welcome, my heart bounded wildly, and for a moment I had forgotten
Ramie, resolves, and everything save the rapture of being near her
again—of hearing her soft, rich voice, and gazing into her dreamy
eyes. The presence of other gentlemen restrained me, or I believe I
should have knelt at her feet.
Taking my seat in the circle, and dropping into a commonplace
conversation, I gradually regained my senses and my self-control. And
as I became composed, and marked the levity of her conduct—the jest,
the sarcasm and the repartee—and then thought of the cold form in the
cemetery at home, my admiration of her beauty was tinged with contempt
for her frivolity.
Her visitors began to depart, and I was about to say good night without
having accomplished my mission, when she handed me a slip of paper, on
which she had scribbled the words “Don’t leave.”
Of course I waited, and we were soon in the parlor alone.
As the last one closed the door she moved on the sofa and said:
“Come, sit by me. Oh, how tiresome those fellows are! and I wanted to
be alone with you so much. Now tell me all about yourself, for it has
been a dreary, long time since I have seen you.”
“I thought you were aware, Miss Carrover, that I was connected with
a most unfortunate affair at the close of the session,” I replied,
nervously twisting my watch chain, for I hardly knew what reply to
make, and felt embarrassed and awkward.
“Oh! do not speak of that,” she exclaimed, burying her face in her
handkerchief, and trembling with very inaudible sobs. “I was trying
to avoid that subject. My heart has been almost broken in its agony.
Only in the past few days have I been able to compose my thoughts and
feelings. Oh, the terrible shock of the announcement!” Her voice was so
muffled by the handkerchief over her face that her words were almost
indistinguishable. Far better could they have been lost in the cambric
folds than to have vibrated into eternal existence!
The only reply I could make was to give her the casket containing
Ramie’s ring and jewels, as he had directed.
She lifted her face, with eyes rather dry for such convulsive weeping,
and taking the casket pressed it to her lips, as she said:
“And did he think of me! Oh, how can I ever love you enough for your
kindness to him!”
I ventured to say, “Love his memory.”
“I do, I do,” she replied, looking into my eyes with hers clear and
tearless. “Heaven alone knows how I cherish the memory of my noble
Ramie!”
I did her the justice to believe her, but said nothing.
She continued, trying to open the back of the watch:
“But, my dear friend, for this mutual grief has made you seem nearer
than ever before, there is one point on which I want your counsel. How
must I act towards society? Must I open my heart to its hundred eyes,
and, by a sudden seclusion and retirement, reveal my sacred sorrow to
its gaze; or must I go through the hollow mockery of gaiety, and assume
a cheerful face with an aching heart? Gentlemen call every evening,
and I am at a loss to know what to do. If I refuse to receive visitors
it will cause remark and inquiry, and my engagement with Mr. DeVare
will be made public, with all the usual train of disagreeable comment.
I sometimes think it were best to do violence to my own feelings,
and appear in company as if nothing had happened, while I am here.
I will soon be in New York, where I can adapt my conduct to my sad
bereavement. Do you not think so?”
“Really, Miss Carrover,” I replied, coldly, for the veil of her
pretended sorrow was too thin, “I do not feel competent to advise
you. You know best how the death of DeVare affects you; and, if you
will pardon me for saying it, your smiles and favors to the frivolous
throng to-night would indicate that your course of action is already
determined.”
“Oh, Mr. Smith, you blame me, I know you do, and perhaps I deserve it;
but you cannot appreciate my feelings. I did love Ramie devotedly,
for he was the noblest and best of earth; but no one knew we were
betrothed, and to retire from society now would be only to reveal what
he wished kept secret. Besides, I will be candid enough to confess
that I find the best cure for a sad heart in a round of pleasure, and,
knowing that seclusion and manifested grief were not expected of me, I
have sought to drown my sorrow in a whirl of frivolity.”
She paused, and looked at me for some reply, but, as I could make none
but what would have offended her, I said nothing.
“I know serious people will blame me for this trifling,” she continued,
“but gaiety and pleasure are as much my element as the air I breathe.
Those who know me will not cease to love me. And you, who once
professed such devotion, now hate me, because I do not wear a widow’s
weeds! Please do not desert me when we ought to become better friends;
love me still,” and she laid her soft, beautiful hand on mine.
Who could have resisted? A moment before I was despising her
heartlessness, now, at the electric touch of her hand, I was changed;
the old flame burst forth again with resistless fervor, and I could
take her, heartless as she was, to be forever mine, only so that she
loved me. I almost crushed her hand in mine as I pressed my lips upon
it again and again.
“Love you, Lillian! Heaven only knows how madly, how wildly I do love
you. Only say just once that you love me, or bid me hope. I have never
ceased to love you, Lillian, but your faith was plighted to another,
and I crushed my heart into silence. But he who stood between us is
dead, and, as God shall judge me, I have sorrowed sincerely over his
grave; but nothing now binds you; you are free to love me if you will.
Darling, darling Lillian, come to my heart and be its queen.”
I put forth my arms to draw her to my side, but she drew back and said:
“No, sir, the change is too sudden. A moment ago there was a look of
contempt on your face—nay, do not deny it—and now you would have me
believe these wild protestations of your phœnix-like love.”
There was a gleam of triumph in her eyes that told me she did believe
me, and gloried in her wondrous power, but I was careless of everything
save to be lord of her hand and heart.
“Lillian,” I said, gazing into her face with such intense earnestness
that even her eyes fell beneath my gaze, “you once believed me; will
you doubt me now when I swear to you that I love you as no other man
ever dared love you before—that I am willing to give up everything for
your sake, even the memory of Ramie? If that stands between our love, I
will forget that he ever lived and forget that he ever died.”
I felt a shudder run from her frame into her hand as the harsh words
fell from my lips, but ‘twas only a shudder.
“You are sure you mean what you say?” she said, with a half credulous
smile that irritated me, and a slight pressure of her fingers that
soothed and made me hopeful. I waited for her to continue, and we both
sat for a few moments gazing into the glowing coals on the hearth
before us. Suddenly, deep in the fire, where the heat was whitest, a
dull red spot appeared, that seemed to rise and fall as if there was
breath beneath it. In an instant I was again kneeling on the damp
ground, with a white face resting on my arm, and pale lips bubbling
blood as they bade me farewell. It was as vivid as vision itself; and
after the eyes were closed by the surgeon’s hand, I could still see the
pale lips murmuring, “False! False!”
My hands and forehead grew cold as ice, and my heart, in its remorse,
beat audibly, “False loving false! False loving false!” My resolve
was taken from that moment; I would not be shaken from it by scorn or
tears. I dropped her hand and, rising, said:
“Miss Carrover, I did mean all that I said; you know that I have loved
you; but forget it. Even if you could love me, which I dare not hope,
it must not be—Ramie’s spirit forbids it. Will you pardon what I have
said tonight?”
She rose and stood before me, the personification of anger and scorn,
her dreamy eyes now flashing, and her beautiful face flushed with her
feeling.
“Do you fear that I am going to accept your paltry love, that you
hasten to retract it? Not content with insulting me with your cant
about what was due the dead, you have attempted a contemptible
flirtation. To say that I saw through your pitiful design, would
indicate that I paid some attention to your rhodomontade, which I did
not; but ‘tis useless to waste further words upon you; I can never
sufficiently express my contempt; there! go, sir!” and with a gesture
that would have graced Siddons she pointed her jewelled hand to the
door.
With a profound bow, I said:
“Thanks, Miss Carrover, for the lesson of to-night. But before I take
my leave permit me to remind you that you asked my adv——” but she had
swept magnificently from the room.
The next evening, while strolling with Ned on the suburbs of the
village, I met Miss Carrover riding in a buggy with Ellerton, who had
not yet applied for re-admission to the University, but was staying
with a friend. She looked confused as she passed us, and averted her
head, while I turned and stared at them till they were out of sight.
“Oh, Ramie, Ramie,” I murmured, as we turned homeward, “better to wed
death than the false creature of thy betrothal; better the worm at thy
lips than her kiss; better the sod on thy cheek than her Delilah-like
caresses.”