OUR accident formed quite a subject of sensation in Saratoga, and, in a
small way, I found myself the hero of the occasion, and scores of the
“fellows” echoed Monte’s sentiments, when he said:
“Smith, I vow I would like to have been in your place. ‘Twas jolly, I
know, saving that angelic Lola. The devil take your good luck! did she
hold on tight?”
The afternoon following the day of the disaster I went over to Congress
Hall, and sent up my card, and inquiries after Carlotta’s health.
The servant returned with a card from mother, saying Carlotta was
almost well enough to go out, but that she was now sleeping under
the influence of an opiate, and must remain quiet all the evening.
They were in their parlor, and insisted that I should join them. I
immediately went up stairs, and was met at the door by mother, with
her bonnet on. She invited me in, in a whisper, and explained that
she had just gotten ready to do some shopping that was necessary. She
pointed to the centre table, on which were some new books, and begged
me to amuse myself for a quarter of an hour, when she would be back, or
Carlotta would awaken.
I accordingly took my seat, nothing loth to watch over such a
beautiful charge, and picking up _Beulah_, which was the sensation
just then, began to read. The room was very quiet, and the shaded
light from the soft green curtains was very pleasant, but I could not
become interested in the book, and, laying it down, I moved a chair
noiselessly near Carlotta, and sat silently looking and loving. She was
reclining on a folding lounge of pink damask, that reflected a faint
tint on her face, which was white as marble. Her hair was parted simply
over her forehead, and fell in voluminous waves over the pillow, while
her lashes lay in deep black crescents on her cheeks. One soft hand
rested under her face, while the other lay at her side, its tapering
fingers half closed. No quivers of the lids, no slightest motion, told
of life, save the rise and fall of the snowy frill at her throat. Oh,
hopeless love! the saddest of all earth’s sadness, the deepest of all
earth’s gloom!
She could not, did not love me, I knew from all the past and the
present. To tell her of my love would only distress her and make home
unhappy. Mine alone must be the struggle and the victory. I would kneel
by her side, touch her cheek but once with my lips, and henceforth only
be her brother. I rose softly and knelt by the sofa, and my face bent
over hers. That kiss was to be the seal of my silence, and I was, from
that moment, to bury the love of my life in my own heart, and trust to
Time to build its tomb. I steadied myself with one hand on the back of
the sofa, leaned down, and whispering only that one word, “Darling!”
kissed her cheek. As gentle as was my touch her eyes unclosed and she
looked in my face. Overwhelmed with shame and confusion, I could not
move or speak, but kneeled motionless with our faces almost touching,
and my eyes fixed on hers. The next instant her soft arm was laid
timidly around my neck, and, with a look that thrilled my very soul,
she said, in a tone of wondrous tenderness, “John!” It was only one
word, but it told me all; and the next instant, in a delirium of
surprise and joy, I had clasped her in my arms, kissing her brow, and
cheeks, and mouth, and murmuring, “Darling, do you love me?”
And when Reason had returned, what a Heaven on earth ‘twas to sit by
her side, to hold her hand in mine, to feel the glorious resurrection
of hope and love from the grave to which I was about to consign them,
to know that the very truth and sincerity of her nature assured the
certainty and earnestness of her love for me! Then it was such a
delightful surprise, so different from what I expected, that I feared
it could not be true—that it was all a dream. “Carlotta,” I said,
looking at her fondly, “is this real, do you love me? Is it possible
that, after all my fears, all my despair, you will be mine, my own
darling—mine to love, cherish and honor, with a devotion man never
knew before?” She looked up into my face with a depth of truth in her
dark eyes that dispelled every doubt, as she said:
“I have always loved you, John.”
“Always, Lottie? What hours of unhappiness ‘twould have saved me had
I known it; for, though I have loved you constantly during these long
years of our separation, yet I have felt that my love was hopeless,
and while I treasured that dear curl, the pledge of your remembrance,
I somehow felt that you would remember me only as the friend, perhaps
the brother of your childhood. As I received letters telling me of your
growth into beautiful womanhood, and of the attention and devotion that
were lavished upon you everywhere, I felt that the gulf between us was
widening—that you would return proud and supercilious, inflated with
your success, and contemptuous of my quiet student life. Almost fearing
to meet you, I delayed along my trip, hoping that when I reached
Niagara I would find our party gone; hence I stopped at the Springs,
intending, after a week’s stay, to run across to the Falls. You know
the rest; how cordially you met me, and how the thraldom of my life
was sealed. The love that had glowed so steadily during your absence
burst into a resistless flame before your superb beauty and lovely
character. Yet O, darling, the anguish of the thought that you would
never love me—that another would soon claim the hand that held in its
grasp my soul! I could have borne it better had I found you haughty
and vain, for then resentment would have aided me; but I found that
you were still the same sweet Carlotta that had told me farewell in
Raleigh; that the brilliant belle of every occasion was as guileless
and pure as when I found her on the beach; that she was unspoilt by
the caresses of society. How I worshipped you none can ever know, and
I longed to fall at your feet and tell you all, but I felt sure you
would laugh at the idea of ‘John’s loving,’ and this evening I was
going to kiss your cheek, and bid farewell forever to my love, when you
awoke—and thank Heaven for it! And now, darling, tell me again that
you love me, for your voice, talking of love, is the sweetest music in
the world to me.”
She smiled such a tender, loving smile, and, nestling up close to me,
said:
“I have loved you, John, ever since we met. When I clasped your hand
first after the shipwreck there was a thrill in my heart that ever came
back when you were near me. So fearful was I that you might detect
this feeling, that I tried to be reserved and silent in your presence,
and even avoided you as much as possible. Conscious of my own love, I
felt, child as I was, that every one else knew it, and hence my extreme
sensitiveness at any connection of our names together. You doubtless
remember the scene with Mrs. Smith, when you were asleep in the hall,
or pretending to be. That explained the nature of my feelings. I shrank
from the position I seemed to occupy—that of awaiting your love, and
of being trained to suit that love if you pleased to confer it. While
I saw you so full of Lulie and Lillian I buried my feelings in my own
heart, and strove strenuously to crush them out of existence; but there
were times when you were tender and loving to me, and then they came
resistlessly. Do you remember one night, years ago, when we were out
on the stoop, and you took my hand and held it awhile? No words can
ever tell how I have treasured up that little scene. When you told me
farewell, the night of our departure for Europe, and I gave you the
curl, it was an earnest pledge of what I faithfully performed.”
“Darling, do not speak of Lulie and Lillian. One was only the passing
object of boyish affection, and the other a heartless though brilliant
woman, who flattered me by her notice into an admiration that was as
vain as it was transient. Dearest Lottie, your heart believes me, I
know, when I vow that the purest, fondest love of my nature is yours,
that without it all life is void and blank. Darling, have you loved me
always, have you never wavered in your love, as affections more worthy,
but none more devoted than mine, have been laid at your feet?”
“Never, John. No faintest shadow of love for another has ever passed
across my mind, and the only pleasure I took in the attention I may
have received has been the thought that, if others see aught in me to
love, perhaps, when we meet, _he_ will.”
“He being myself?” I asked, looking at her with a smile.
“He being yourself. There, I have made enough unladylike confessions
for one afternoon; but ‘tis all a proof of my trust and confidence in
you.”
“As God shall help me it is not misplaced,” and I lifted her hand
tenderly to my lips. “Never was man as proud of as beautiful and pure a
love as I am of yours, and never was a love guarded and cherished as I
will yours, and I will seek no higher happiness on earth than to keep
that dear brow as bright and beautiful as now. Darling, look into my
eyes and read the truth of love.”
She looked, and would have read, perhaps, had not the door opened just
then, and mother entered from her shopping excursion. As she saw us
sitting lovingly together, Carlotta’s hand in mine, she was so utterly
astounded that she stood without moving, her hands full of bundles,
which kept dropping on the floor.
To prevent further embarrassment, I rose from my seat, and taking
mother’s hand, led her to Carlotta.
“She is going to be my wife, mother,” I said, and without waiting to
hear her reply, left the room.
How bright and beautiful all nature seemed. The cloudless sky, the rich
green foliage, and the fragrant roses scenting the evening air—all
were in unison with my heart. The very birds in the lawn seemed to
twitter congratulations. Nothing could have ruffled my temper; a
bootblack might have thrown his brush in my face, and I would have
picked it up for him with a smile. I felt that I could even be kind and
courteous to Miss Finnock.
In this pleasant frame of mind I went in to tea, and found the two
gentlemen and Mrs. Marshman at our table, Mrs. M., after inquiries
about Carlotta, and some compliments to her beauty, thought of a note
for me, from Miss Finnock; and, as she gave it to me, said that Sappho
had been quite indisposed all day, and had suffered severely from her
fright, and the shock of the cold water.
Excusing myself, I opened the little three cornered note, and read:
“Will the generous and unselfish preserver of my life do me the
favor to call this evening at our parlor, No.—, that I may unburden
my heart of its gratitude, and offer a hecatomb of thanks to his
self-sacrificing spirit. Call at eight.
WAITING.”
In much smaller writing, just beneath this, were some verses, as usual,
across which she had drawn her pen, as if to erase them, taking care,
however, to leave them sufficiently legible—
“But for thy hand I might have slept
Deep in the bosom of yon lake,
And no one for me would have wept,
And none have wished that I might wake.”
That’s the first sensible poetry you ever wrote, I muttered, as I read
it. But there was more:
“I would not shun the wild waves’ wrath,
Could we sink clasping hand in hand,
To walk together pearly paths
Of mermaids, down the coral strand.”
You ought to have said “path,” Saph; you’ve spoiled your rhyme; and
“mermaids” and a “coral strand,” out in this little lake, are very much
strained, but so are the verses. I was, as I have stated, in a pleasant
frame of mind, and thus jested to myself with the verses as I read
them. The next verse, however, put the case a little more strongly:
“I fain would seek a watery grave,
To dwell with thee in grottoes bright,
Or roam through halls where the sea-weeds wave,
And love would make the darkness light.”
To think of marrying her anywhere! much less down in a grotto, with
sea-weeds and bad colds, and coral, etc. No, I could not “fain,” as
she did; but I glanced at my watch as I rose from the table, and found
that it wanted a quarter of eight. Fifteen minutes with a Partaga,
and I tapped at the door of her parlor. Miss Finnock after Carlotta!
‘Twas like a dessert of nutgalls after Hymettean honey; but I felt that
the necessary exercise of my ingenuity would be rather pleasant than
otherwise, and looked forward to our interview, with anticipated pride
in my skilful retrogression.
When I entered I found Miss Finnock reclining in an easy chair, and
looking as little like her Lesbian nomenclatress as scant strings of
hair, an unmade, stiff figure, and pale blue eyes, in a sallow face,
could make her. She smiled a faint little welcome, and pointed me to a
seat in front of her.
“Please lower the gas,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand; “you
must excuse me, Mr. Smith, for seeing you in such _deshabille_, but I
felt sure you would appreciate this liberty, and feel more free and
unrestrained than if I had prepared formally to see you.”
“I do appreciate and thank you for your consideration,” I said, feeling
assured that if she had known how different was the effect of her
_deshabille_ from what she intended it should be, she would not have
been so considerate.
“I sent for you, Mr. Smith,” she continued, in a whispering kind of
voice, “that I might express my gratitude for your heroic efforts to
save me yesterday.”
I would have suspected any one else of irony, but I knew she was in
earnest.
“Really, Miss Finnock, you overestimate my conduct,” I said; “I must
be candid with you, and tell you that I was doing all I could to save
myself, which was almost impossible with yourself and Miss Rurlestone
on my arms.”
She looked at me with a queer little smile, and said: “What a trying
ordeal for you! If no boat had been near us, ‘twould have been an
effectual test of your love, indeed. Would you have found it difficult
to have made a choice, if you had seen you could not save but one?”
“Not at all,” I replied, hoping she would construe the preference as
intended for herself, and let the subject rest.
She played with the tassel of her wrapper, and said softly, “Which
would you have chosen?”
I pretended not to have heard, and asked if she had suffered any
serious inconvenience from the accident?
“Not much,” she said, with something of a sigh in her tone. “I have
been feeble to-day, but hope to gain strength rapidly. I expect to take
a stroll every morning before breakfast, and to ride with brother in
the afternoons.”
It was a very fine opening for engagements; but I had had enough of
strolls, and so I said nothing. There was a pause of some length,
during which I saw a scrap of paper lying on the table, and as my name
was on it, I looked at it more closely. The light in the room was very
dim, and Miss Finnock was all the while stealing quick glances at
me; besides, I knew ‘twas highly improper to read it, yet under all
these difficulties I managed to make out its purport. It was a note
from Miss Belle Monte, Miss Finnock’s dearest friend and adviser, to
her “precious Saph,” telling her that I was only trifling with her,
that her brother had certain information that I was engaged to Miss
Rurlestone; that my attentions to Miss F. were all insincere; that the
best thing to do was to secure an interview with me, and, on my first
committal, discard me promptly and finally.
I now saw that I had been invited to her parlor that she might have
the credit of dismissing me, and I resolved that say what she would, I
would not, by any reply, give her an opportunity of so doing.
“When do you think of leaving?” she asked, at length, lifting her head
wearily from her hand.
“We will leave to-morrow or next day for Newport, where we will spend
some weeks before going home.”
“Oh, that is too soon,” she said; “you have not seen enough of the
Springs.”
“As I have not seen my parents in several years, and came on here
to meet them, I must regulate my movements by theirs. Besides,” I
continued, “they were here some time before I came, and desire a
change—at least, Miss Rurlestone does, I am sure—as she has captured
every heart here, and perhaps pines for more.” This I said a little
maliciously.
“Miss Rurlestone can probably account for your filial devotion—at
least gossip says so.”
“Gossip knows very little about such matters,” I replied, cautiously.
“But is gossip wrong in this instance?”
“Oh, I must not commit myself,” I said, with a forced smile.
“You are so tantalizing,” she said, throwing her tassel at me, “and
that reminds me that you promised to complete that unfinished sentence
soon.”
“What unfinished sentence?” I asked, with pretended ignorance.
“You must be forgetful, indeed; do you not remember your promise when
we parted yesterday morning?”
“Pardon me; I do remember now,” and instantly the thought flashed on
me that I would candidly inform her of my intended flirtation, confess
my sin, ask her forgiveness, and thus prevent her acting on Miss Belle
Monte’s advice. “I recollect now distinctly the sentence to which you
refer, and its intended termination. My remarks were made in the same
light style in which we were conversing, and I had no idea you would
attach sufficient importance to anything I said to think of it at all
afterwards. I was about to ask, if _I_ loved you—if I offered my
heart—would you reject it? I——”
“That’s what I suspected, sir,” she cut in before I could finish, and
with a deprecatory wave of her hand dismissing what I had said as
painful, “and while the suspicion flattered it pained me.”
“But, Miss Finnock,” I said, hurriedly, “you certainly misun——”
“Flattered, indeed, I was,” she went on, without allowing my
interruption, “because one so noble and gifted as yourself had
conferred on me the honor of his love, and pained that I must refuse
it.”
I was too much astonished to reply, while she went on:
“But, Mr. Smith, while a calm review of my own feelings forces me to
discard you, or if that is too harsh a word, to ask you to be _only_
my friend, I can assure you that our brief intercourse has been
exceedingly pleasant to me. It will ever be an oasis in the desert of
my past, and I trust that the rainbow of mutual regard and esteem will
ever arch brightly o’er our pathways, however diverse they may be. And
when Time’s fingers have plastered over the scars I regret to inflict,
and you have found another love, whose voice may be sweeter, and eye
brighter, and heart dearer than mine, I hope you will not think of this
evening with anger, but with the pleasure of forgiveness.”
“With pleasure, certainly,” I managed to edge in, as she drew her
breath.
“And at your life’s close,” she went on, in her peculiar strain, “may
your barque furl its sails in a peaceful harbor, and having bosomed”
(Sapphic for breasted) “every wave, anchor safely there.”
As she paused, I broke in——
“Miss Finnock, you have wofully misinterpreted my meaning. I was only
jesting, as I thought you were; and my words had no more serious import
than the verses in a _bon-bon_.”
“I hardly expected that you would thus try to evade the subject, Mr.
Smith. But I have too much consideration for your feelings to place
your name on my list of rejected ones. The result of our interview
shall be strictly _entre nous_.”
“Your list must be immensely long, if you put every name down with as
little reason as you have mine. I will leave you, Miss Finnock; for I
can gain nothing in a contest with a lady who makes half the addresses
she rejects.” This I said without thought, being thrown off my guard by
her treatment; and the moment after I had closed the door I felt like
going back to ask her pardon. Pride, however, suggested that she had
overstepped the bounds of womanly delicacy in her conduct towards me,
and that she must take outside treatment.