The following morning was warm and springlike, and Arthur was
sufficiently strong and well to walk out a little in the open air. He
had been seated upon the veranda conversing with Beverly and Harold,
when the latter proposed a stroll with Beverly, with whom he wished to
converse in relation to his proposed marriage. As the beams of the
unclouded sun had already chased away the morning dew, and the air was
warm and balmy, Arthur walked out into the garden and breathed the
freshness of the atmosphere with the exhilaration of a convalescent
freed for the first time from the sick-room. Accidentally, or by
instinct, he turned his steps to the little grove which he knew was
Oriana's favorite haunt; and there, indeed, she sat, upon the rustic
bench, above which the drooping limbs of the willow formed a leafy
canopy. The pensive girl, her white hand, on which she leaned, buried
among the raven tresses, was gazing fixedly into the depths of the
clear sky, as if she sought to penetrate that azure veil, and find some
hope realized among the mysteries of the space beyond. The neglected
volume had fallen from her lap, and lay among the bluebells at her feet.
Arthur's feeble steps were unheard upon the sward, and he had taken his
seat beside her, before, conscious of an intruder, she started from her
dream.
"The first pilgrimage of my convalescence is to your bower, my gentle
nurse. I have come to thank you for more kindness than I can ever repay,
except with grateful thoughts."
She had risen when she became aware of his presence; and when she
resumed her seat, it seemed with hesitation, and almost an effort, as if
two impulses were struggling within her. But her pleasure to see him
abroad again was too hearty to be checked, and she timidly gave him the
hand which his extended palm invited to a friendly grasp.
"Indeed, Mr. Wayne, I am very glad to see you so far recovered."
"To your kind offices chiefly I owe it, and those of my good friends,
your brother and Harold, and our excellent Miss Randolph. My sick-room
has been the test of so much friendship, that I could almost be sinful
enough to regret the returning health which makes me no longer a
dependent on your care. But you are pale, Miss Weems. Or is it that my
eyes are unused to this broad daylight? Indeed, I trust you are not
ill?"
"Oh, no, I am quite well," she answered; but it was with an involuntary
sigh that was in contrast with the words. "But you are not strong yet,
Mr. Wayne, and I must not let you linger too long in the fresh morning
air. We had best go in under shelter of the veranda."
She arose, and would have led the way, but he detained her gently with a
light touch upon her sleeve.
"Stay one moment, I pray you. I seem to breathe new life with this pure
air, and the perfume of these bowers awakens within me an inexpressible
and calm delight. I shall be all the better for one tranquil hour with
nature in bloom, if you, like the guardian nymph of these floral
treasures, will sit beside me."
He drew her gently back into the seat, and looked long and earnestly
upon her face. She felt his gaze, but dared not return it, and her fair
head drooped like a flower that bends beneath the glance of a scorching
sun.
"Miss Weems," he said at last, but his voice was so low and tremulous
that it scarce rose above the rustle of the swinging willow boughs, "you
are soon to be a bride, and in your path the kind Destinies will shower
blessings. When they wreathe the orange blossoms in your hair, and you
are led to the altar by the hand to which you must cling for life, if I
should not be there to wish you joy, you will not deem, will you, that I
am less your friend?"
The fair head drooping yet lower was her only answer.
"And when you shall be the mistress of a home where Content will be
shrined, the companion of your virtues, and over your threshold many
friends shall be welcomed, if I should never sit beside your
hearthstone, you will not, will you, believe that I have forgotten, or
that I could forget?"
Still lower the fair head drooped, but she answered only with a falling
tear.
"I told you the other day that we should be strangers through life, and
why, I must not tell, although perhaps your woman's heart may whisper,
and yet not condemn me for that which, Heaven knows, I have struggled
against--alas, in vain! Do not turn from me. I would not breathe a word
to you that in all honor you should not hear, although my heart seems
bursting with its longing, and I would yield my soul with rapture from
its frail casket, for but one moment's right to give its secret wings. I
will bid you farewell to-morrow"--
"To-morrow!"
"Yes, the doctor says that the sea air will do me good, and an occasion
offers to-morrow which I shall embrace. It will be like setting forth
upon a journey through endless solitudes, where my only companions will
be a memory and a sorrow."
He paused a while, but continued with an effort at composure.
"Our hearts are tyrants to us, Miss Weems, and will not, sometimes, be
tutored into silence. I see that I have moved, but I trust not offended
you."
"You have not offended," she murmured, but in so low a tone that perhaps
the words were lost in the faint moan of the swaying foliage.
"What I have said," he continued earnestly, and taking her hand with a
gentle but respectful pressure, "has been spoken as one who is dying
speaks with his fleeting breath; for evermore my lips shall be shackled
against my heart, and the past shall be sealed and avoided as a
forbidden theme. We are, then, good friends at parting, are we not?"
"Yes."
"And, believe me, I shall be happiest when I think that you are
happy--for you will be happy."
She sighed so deeply that the words were checked upon his lips, as if
some new emotion had turned the current of his thought.
"Are you _not_ happy?"
The tears that, in spite of her endeavor, burst from beneath the
downcast lids, answered him as words could not have done. He was
agitated and unnerved, and, leaning his brow against his hand, remained
silent while she wept.
"Harold is a noble fellow," he said at last, after a long silence, and
when she had grown calmer, "and deserves to be loved as I am sure you
love him."
"Oh, he has a noble heart, and I would die rather than cause him pain."
"And you love him?"
"I thought I loved him."
The words were faint--hardly more than a breath upon her lips; but he
heard them, and his heart grew big with an undefined awe, as if some
vague danger were looming among the shadows of his destiny. Oriana
turned to him suddenly, and clasped his hand within her trembling
fingers.
"Oh, Mr. Wayne! you must go, and never see me more. I am standing on the
brink of an abyss, and my heart bids me leap. I see the danger, and, oh
God! I have prayed for power to shun it. But Arthur, Arthur, if you do
not help me, I am lost. You are a man, an honest man, an honorable man,
who will not wrong your friend, or tempt the woman that cannot love you
without sin. Oh, save me from myself--from you--from the cruel wrong
that I could even dream of against him to whom I have sworn my woman's
faith. I am a child in your hands, Arthur, and in the face of the
reproaching Providence above me, I feel--I feel that I am at your mercy.
I feel that what you speak I must listen to; that should you bid me
stand beside you at the altar, I should not have courage to refuse. I
feel, oh God! Arthur, that I love you, and am betrothed to Harold. But
you are strong--you have courage, will, the power to defy such weakness
of the heart--and you will save me, for I know you are a good and honest
man."
As she spoke, with her face upturned to him, and the hot tears rolling
down her cheeks, her fingers convulsively clasped about his hand, and
her form bending closer and closer toward him, till her cheek was
resting on his bosom, Arthur shuddered with intensity of feeling, and
from his averted eyes the scalding drops, that had never once before
moistened their surface, betrayed how terribly he was shaken with
emotion.
But while she spoke, rapt as they were within themselves, they saw not
one who stood with folded arms beside the rustic bench, and gazed upon
them.
"As God is my hope," said Arthur, "I will disarm temptation. Fear not.
From this hour we part. Henceforth the living and the dead shall not be
more estranged than we."
He arose, but started as if an apparition met his gaze. Oriana knelt
beside him, and touched her lips to his hand in gratitude. An arm raised
her tenderly, and a gentle voice murmured her name.
It was not Arthur's.
Oriana raised her head, with a faint cry of terror. She gasped and
swooned upon the intruder's breast.
It was Harold Hare who held her in his arms.
Arthur, with folded arms, stood erect, but pale, in the presence of his
friend. His eye, sorrowful, yet calm, was fixed upon Harold, as if
awaiting his angry glance. But Harold looked only on the lifeless form
he held, and parting the tresses from her cold brow, his lips rested
there a moment with such a fond caress as sometimes a father gives his
child.
"Poor girl!" he murmured, "would that my sorrow could avail for both.
Arthur, I have heard enough to know you would not do me wrong. Grief is
in store for us, but let us not be enemies."
Mournfully, he gave his hand to Arthur, and Oriana, as she wakened from
her trance, beheld them locked in that sad grasp, like two twin statues
of despair.
They led her to the house, and then the two young men walked out alone,
and talked frankly and tranquilly upon the subject. It was determined
that both should leave Riverside manor on the morrow, and that Oriana
should be left to commune with her own heart, and take counsel of time
and meditation. They would not grieve Beverly with their secret, at
least not for the present, when his sister was so ill prepared to bear
remonstrance or reproof. Harold wrote a kind letter for Oriana, in which
he released her from her pledged faith, asking only that she should take
time to study her heart, but in no wise let a sense of duty stand in the
way of her happiness. He took pains to conceal the depth of his own
affliction, and to avoid whatever she might construe as reproach.
They would have gone without an interview with Oriana, but that would
have seemed strange to Beverly. However, Oriana, although pale and
nervous, met them in the morning with more composure than they had
anticipated. Harold, just before starting, drew her aside, and placed
the letter in her hand.
"That will tell you all I would say, and you must read it when your
heart is strong and firm. Do not look so wretched. All may yet be well.
I would fain see you smile before I go."
But though she had evidently nerved herself to be composed, the tears
would come, and her heart seemed rising to her throat and about to burst
in sobs.
"I will be your true wife, Harold, and I will love you. Do not desert
me, do not cast me from you. I cannot bear to be so guilty. Indeed,
Harold, I will be true and faithful to you."
"There is no guilt in that young heart," he answered, as he kissed her
forehead. "But now, we must not talk of love; hereafter, perhaps, when
time and absence shall teach us where to choose for happiness. Part from
me now as if I were your brother, and give me a sister's kiss. Would you
see Arthur?"
She trembled and whispered painfully:
"No, Harold, no--I dare not. Oh, Harold, bid him forget me."
"It is better that you should not see him. Farewell! be brave. We are
good friends, remember. Farewell, dear girl."
Beverly had been waiting with the carriage, and as the time was short,
he called to Harold. Arthur, who stood at the carriage wheel, simply
raised his hat to Oriana, as if in a parting salute. He would have given
his right hand to have pressed hers for a moment; but his will was iron,
and he did not once look back as the carriage whirled away.