"Uncle Orme, are you awake?"
"My dear girl, what is the matter? Is Minnie ill?"
"No, sir; but this is mother's birthday, and, if you please, I want
you. There are a few late peaches hanging too high for my arms, and
such grape-clusters! just beyond my finger tips. Will you be so kind
as to gather them for me? I intended to ask you yesterday afternoon,
but mother kept me on the terrace until it was too late. I have not
heard you moving about? Do get up; the morning air is so delicious,
and the lake lies like a huge rose with crimped petals."
"You are a tormentingly early lark, chanting your hymns to sunrise,
when you should be sound asleep. You waked me in the midst of a
lovelier rose-coloured dream than your tiresome, stupid lake, and I
shall not excuse you for disturbing me. Where is that worthless,
black-eyed chattering monkey Giulio? Am I a boy to climb peach trees
this time of the day, for your amusement? Oh, the irreverence of
American youth!"
"Giulio has gone on a different errand, and I never should insult
your venerable years by asking you to climb trees, even in honour of
mother's birthday breakfast. You can easily reach all I want, and
then you may come back and finish your dream, and I will keep
breakfast waiting until you declare yourself ready. Here is the
basket, I am going out to the garden."
Regina ran down into the flower-plot at the rear of the house, and
after a little while she saw her uncle unencumbered by his coat,
bearing the basket on his arm and ascending one of the winding walks
that terraced the hill.
To her lifelong custom of early rising she still adhered, and in the
dewy hours spent alone in watching the sun rise over Como she
indulged precious recollections that found audience and favour at no
other season.
It was her habit to place each morning a fresh bouquet upon her
mother's plate, and also to arrange the flower stand, that since
their residence at the villa had never failed to grace the centre of
the breakfast-table.
It was a parsonage custom, and had always been associated in her mind
with the pastor's solemn benediction at each meal.
To-day, while filling her basket with blossoms, some stray waft of
perfume, or perhaps the rich scarlet lips of a geranium glowing
against the grey stone of the wall, prattled of Fifth Avenue, and
recalled a gay _boutonnière_ she once saw Mrs. Carew fasten in Mr.
Palma's coat.
Like a serpent this thought trailed over all, and the beauty of the
morning suddenly vanished. Was that grey-eyed Cleopatra with
burnished hair, low smooth brow, and lips like Lamia's, resting in
her guardian's arms--his wife?
Three months had elapsed since the day on which Mr. Chesley received
his last letter, containing tidings that bowed and broke the haughty
spirit of Mrs. Laurance; and if Mr. Palma had written again, Regina
had not been informed of the fact.
Was he married, and in his happiness as a husband had he for a time
forgotten the existence of the friends in Europe?
A shadowy hopelessness settled in the girl's eyes when she reflected
that this was probably the correct explanation of his long silence,
and a deep yearning to see him once more rose in her sad heart. She
knew that it was better so, with the Atlantic between them; and yet
it seemed hard, bitter, to think of living out the coming years, and
never looking upon him again.
A heavy sigh crossed her lips that were beginning to wear the patient
lines of resignation, and turning from the red geranium which had
aroused the memory coiled in her heart she stepped upon the terrace,
leaned over the marble balustrade, and looked out.
The sun was up, and in the verdant setting of its shore the lake
seemed a huge sapphire, girdled with emerald.
In the distance a fishing boat glided slowly, its taut sails gleaming
as the sunlight smote them, like the snowy pinions of some vast bird
brooding over the quiet water; and high in the air, just beneath a
strip of orange cloud as filmy as lace, a couple of happy pigeons
circled round and round, each time nearing the sun, that was rapidly
paving the lake with quivering gold.
Solemn and serene the distant Alps lifted their glittering domes,
which cut sharply like crystal against the sky that was as deeply,
darkly blue as lapis-lazuli; and behind the white villas dotting the
shore, vineyards bowed in amber and purple fruitage, plentiful as
Eshcol, luscious as Schiraz.
The cool air was burdened with mysterious hints of acacias and roses,
which the dew had stolen from drowsy gardens, and over the gently
rippling waters floated the holy sound of the sweet-tongued bell,
from
..."Where yonder church
Stands up to heaven, as if to intercede
For sinful hamlets scattered at its feet."
Into the house Regina passed slowly, a trifle paler from her matin
reverie; and when she entered the pretty breakfast-room, Mr. Chesley
had just deposited his fruity burden upon the floor.
"Thank you, dear Uncle Orme. Mother will enjoy her peaches when she
knows you gathered them with the dew still upon their down. Go,
finish your dream; Heaven grant it be sweet! No one shall even pass
your door for the next hour, unless shod with velvet, or with
silence. This is the first of mother's birthdays I have had an
opportunity to celebrate, and I wish to surprise her pleasantly. Go
back to sleep."
She stood on tiptoe and lightly kissed his swarthy cheek.
"Unfortunately my brain is not sufficiently vassal to my will, to
implicitly obey its mandates; and dropping on my pillow and falling
into slumber are quite different things. Beside (you need not arch
your eyebrows any higher, when I assure you that), despite my
honourable years, my hearing is as painfully acute as that of the
giant fabled to watch 'Bifrost,' and who 'heard the grass growing in
the fields, and the wool on the backs of young lambs.' Last night,
just as I was lapsing into a preliminary doze, two vagrant
nightingales undertook an opera that brought them to the large myrtle
under my window, where I hoped they had reached the _finale_. But one
of them--the female, I warrant you, from the clatter of her small
tongue (if female nightingales can sing)--audaciously perched on the
stone balcony in front of my open window, and such a tirade of
hemi-demi-semi-quavers never before insulted a sleepy man. I clapped
my hands, but they trilled as if all Persia had sent them a
challenge. Now I am going to take a bath, and since you persisted in
making me get up, I intend to punish you with my society, just as
soon as I finish my toilette. If you see a brace of birds smothered
in truffles on the dinner-table, you may suspect the fate of all who
violate my dreams. Even feathered lovers are a pest. My little girl,
before you begin your reign in my California home, I shall remind you
of your promise, that no lover of yours will ever dare to darken my
doors."
With a smile lingering about her lip, after her uncle's departure,
Regina filled the _epergne_ on the table with a mass of rose-coloured
oleanders--her mother's favourite flowers, and fringed the edge with
geraniums and fuchsias. On her plate she laid a cluster of tuberoses,
grouped and tied in the shape of a heart, with spicy apple geranium
leaves girdling the waxen petals. The breath of the oleanders
perfumed the room, and when quite satisfied with the arrangement of
the flowers, Regina piled the crimson peaches and golden grapes in a
pyramid on the silver stand in the centre.
Drawing from her pocket a slender roll of sheet music fastened with
rose ribbon, and a tiny envelope addressed to her mother, she placed
them upon Mrs. Laurance's plate, crowning all with the white heart of
tuberoses.
For some days she had been haunted by a musical idea, which gradually
developed as she improvised into a _Nocturne_, full of plaintive
minor passages; and this first complete musical composition, written
out by her own hand, she had dedicated to her mother. It was called:
"Dreams of my mother."
Standing beside the table, her hands folded before her, and her head
slightly drooped, she fell into a brief reverie, wondering how she
could endure to live without the society of this beloved mother,
which imparted such a daily charm to her own existence, and as she
reflected on the past an expression of quiet sadness stole over her
countenance, and into--
"The eyes of passionless, peaceful blue
Like twilight which faint stars gaze through."
In the doorway fronting the east, Mr. Palma had stood for some
seconds unobserved, studying the pretty room and its fair young
queen.
In honour of her mother's birthday, she wore a white India muslin,
with a blue sash girding her slender waist, and only a knot of blue
ribbon at her throat, where the soft lace was gathered. Her silky
hair rolled in a heavy coil low at the back of her head, and was
secured by a gold comb; and close to one small ear she had fastened
a cluster of snowy velvet pansies, which contrasted daintily with the
glossy blackness of her hair.
To the man who had crossed the ocean solely to feast his hungry eyes
upon that delicate cameo face, it seemed as pure as an angel's.
Although continual heart-ache, and patient uncomplaining need of
something that she knew and felt God had removed for ever beyond her
reach, had worn the cheek to a thinner oval, and left darker shadows
in her calm eyes, Mr. Palma who had so long and carefully
scrutinized her features, acknowledged now, that indeed--
"She grew fairer than her peers;
Still her gentle forehead wears
Holy lights of infant years."
Nearly eight years before, as he watched her asleep in the railway
car, he had wondered whether it were possible that she could carry
her tender loving heart, straightforward white soul, and saintly
young face untarnished and unbruised into the checkered and feverish
realm of womanhood?
To-day she stood as fair and pure as in her early childhood, a gentle
image of renunciation, "all unspotted from the world," whose
withering breath he had so dreaded for his flower.
Watching her, a sudden splendour of hope lighted his fine eyes, and a
glow of intense happiness fired his usually pale cheek.
Slowly she turned away from the table, and against the glory of the
sunlight streaming through the open door, she saw her guardian's tall
figure outlined.
Was it a mere blessed vision, born of her recent reverie on the
terrace; or had he died, and his spirit, reading the secret of her
soul, had mercifully flown to comfort her by one farewell appearance?
He opened his arms and his whole face was radiant with passionate and
tender love. She did not move, but her eyes gazed into his, like one
in a happy dream, who fears to awake.
He came swiftly forward, and holding out his arms, exclaimed in a
voice that trembled with the excess of his joy:
"My Lily! My darling!"
But she did not spring to meet him, as he hoped and expected, and
thrilled by the music of his tone she grew paler standing quite
still, with trembling lips and eyes that shone like stars when autumn
mists begin to gather.
"My Lily, come to me, of your own dear will."
"Mr. Palma, I am glad, very glad, to see my guardian once more."
She put out her hand, which shook, despite her efforts to keep it
steady, and her own voice sounded far, far off, like an echo lost
among strange hills.
He came a step nearer, but did not take her hand, and when he leaned
toward her, she suddenly clasped her hands and rested her chin upon
them, in the old childish fashion he remembered so well.
"Does my Lily know why I crossed the Atlantic?"
A spasm of pain quivered over her features, and though he saw how
white her lips turned at that instant, her answer was clear, cold,
and distinct.
"Yes, sir. You came on your bridal tour. Is not your wife at Como?"
"I hope so. I believe so; I certainly expected to see her here."
He was smiling very proudly just then, but beginning to suspect that
he had tortured her cruelly by the tacit imposture to which he had
assented, his eyes dimmed at the thought of her suffering.
She misinterpreted the smile, and quickly rallied.
"Mr. Palma, I hope you brought Llora also with you?"
"No. Why should I? She is much better off at home with her mother."
"But, sir, I thought--I understood----"
She caught her breath, and a perplexed expression came into her
wistful deep eyes, as she met those, fixed laughingly upon her.
"You thought, you understood what? That after living single all these
years, I am at last foolish enough to want a wife? One to kiss, to
hold in my arms, to love even better than I love myself? Well, what
then? I do not deny it."
"And I hope, Mr. Palma, that she will make you very happy."
She spoke with the startling energy of desperation.
"Thank you, so do I. I believe, I know she will; I swear she shall!
Can you tell me my darling's name?"
"Yes, sir, it is no secret. All the world knows it is Mrs. Carew."
She was leaning heavily upon her womanly pride; how long would it
sustain her? Would it snap presently, and let her down for ever into
the dust of humiliation?
Mr. Palma laughed, and putting his hand under her chin, lifted the
face.
"All the world is very wise, and my ward quite readily accepted its
teachings. None but Olga suspected the truth. I would not marry
Brunella Carew, if she were the last woman left living on the wide
earth. I do not want a fashion-moth. I would not have the residue of
what once belonged to another. I want a tender, pure, sweet, fresh
white flower that I know, and have long watched expanding from its
pretty bud. I want my darling, whom no other man has kissed, who
never loved any one but me; who will come like the lily she is, and
shelter herself in my strong arms, and bloom out all her fragrant
loveliness in my heart only. Will she come?"
Once more he opened his arms, and in his brilliant eyes she read his
meaning.
The revelation burst upon her like the unexpected blinding glow of
sunshine smiting one who approaches the mouth of a cavern, in whose
chill gloom, after weary groping, all hope had died. She felt giddy,
faint, and the world seemed dissolving in a rosy mist.
"My Lily, my proud little flower! You will not come? Then Erle Palma
must take his own, and hold it, and wear it for ever!"
He folded his arms around her, strained her to his bosom, and laid
his warm trembling lips on hers. What a long passionate kiss, as
though the hunger of a lifetime could never be satisfied.
After his stern self-control and patient waiting, the proud man who
had never loved any one but the fair young girl in his arms,
abandoned himself to the ecstasy of possession. He kissed the
eyebrows that were so lovely in his sight, the waving hair on her
white temples, and again and again the soft sweet trembling lips that
glowed under his pressure.
"My precious violet eyes, so tender and holy. My silver Lily, mine
for ever. Erle Palma's first and last and only love!"
When, with his cheek resting on hers, he told her why his sense of
honour had sealed his lips while she was a ward beneath his roof,
entrusted by her mother to his guardianship, and dwelt upon the
suffering it had cost him to know that others were suing for her
hand, trying to win away the love, which his regard for duty
prevented him from soliciting, she began to realize the strength
and fervour of the affection that was now shining so deliciously
upon her heart. She learned the fate of the glove he had found on
his desk and locked up; of the two faded white hyacinths he had
begged and worn in his breast pocket because they had rested on her
hair; of the songs he wanted simply for the reason that he had heard
them on the night when she fainted and he had first kissed her cold
unconscious lips.
Would the brilliant New York Bar have recognized their cool,
inflexible, haughty favourite in the man who was pouring such fervid
passionate declarations into the small pearly ear that felt his lips
more than once?
Erle Palma had much to tell to the woman of his love, much to explain
concerning the events of the day when Elliott Roscoe witnessed her
first interview with Peleg Peterson, and subsequently aided in his
arrest, but this morning long audience was denied him.
In the midst of his happy whispers a step which he did not hear came
down the stairs, a form for whom he had no eyes, stood awhile
perplexed, and amazed on the threshold. Then a very stately figure
swept across the marble tiles, and laid a firm hand on Regina's
shoulder.
"My daughter!"
The girl looked up, startled, confused; but the encircling arms would
not release her.
"My dear madam, do not take her away."
Mrs. Laurance did not heed him, her eyes were riveted on her child.
"My little girl, have you too deceived and forsaken your unfortunate
mother?"
She broke away from her lover's clasp, and threw her arms around her
mother's neck.
Pressing her tightly to her heart, Mrs. Laurance turned to Mr. Palma,
and said sternly:
"Is there indeed no such thing as honour left among men? You who knew
so well my loneliness and affliction--you, sir, to whom I trusted my
little lamb--have tried to rob me of the only treasure I thought I
possessed, the only comfort left to gladden my sunless life! You have
tried to steal my child's heart, to win her from me."
"No, mother, he never let me know, and I never dreamed that--that he
cared at all for me until this morning. He did not betray your trust,
even for----"
"Let Mr. Palma plead his own defence, if he can; look you to yours,"
answered her mother, coldly.
"It is much sweeter from her lips, and you, my dear madam, are very
cruel to deny me the pleasure of hearing it. Lily, my darling, go
away a little while, not far, where I can easily find you, and let me
talk to your mother. If I fail to satisfy her fully on all points, I
shall never ask at her hands the precious boon I came here solely to
solicit."
He took her hand, drew her from the arms that reluctantly relaxed,
and when they reached the threshold smiled down into her eyes.
Lifting her fingers, he kissed them lightly, and closed the door.
What ailed the birds that trilled their passionate strains so
joyously as she ran down the garden walk, and into the rose-arbour?
Had clouds and shadows flown for ever from the world, leaving only
heavenly sunshine and Mr. Palma?
"I wonder if there be indeed a quiet spot on earth where I can hide;
a sacred refuge, where neither nightingale nor human lovers will vex
my soul, or again disturb my peace with their eternal madrigals?"
She had not seen her uncle, who was sitting in one corner, clumsily
tying up some roses which he intended for a birthday offering to his
niece.
At the sound of his quiet voice, Regina started up.
"Oh, Uncle Orme! I did not see you. Pray excuse me. I will not
disturb you."
She was hurrying away, but he caught her dress.
"My dear, are you threatened with ophthalmia, that you cannot see a
man three yards distant, who measures six feet two inches? Certainly
I excuse you. A man who is kept awake all night by one set of love
ditties, dragged out of his bed before sunrise, and after taking
exercise and a bath that render him as hungry as a Modoc cut off from
his lava-beds, is expected and forced to hold his famished frame in
peace, while a pair of human lovers exhaust the vocabulary of cooing
that man can patiently excuse much. Sit down, my dear girl. Because
my beard is grey, and crow-feet gather about my eyes, do you suppose
the old man's heart cannot sympathize with the happiness that throbs
in yours, and that renews very sacredly the one sweet love-dream of
his own long-buried youth? I know, dear; you need not try to tell me,
need not blush so painfully. Mr. Palma reached Como last evening; I
knew he was coming, and saw him early this morning. I can guess it
all, and I am very glad. God bless you, dear child. Only be sure you
tell Palma that we allow no lovers in our ideal home."
He put his hand on her drooping head, and drawing it down, she
silently pressed it in her own. So they sat; how long, neither knew.
She dreaming of that golden future that had opened so unexpectedly
before her; he listening to memory's echoes of a beloved tone long
since hushed in the grave.
When approaching voices were heard, he rose to steal away and tears
moistened his mild brown eyes.
"Stay with me, please," she whispered, clinging to his sleeve.
Through the arched doorway of the arbour, she saw two walking slowly.
Mrs. Laurance leaned upon Mr. Palma's arm, and as he bent his
uncovered, head, in earnest conversation, his noble brow was placid
and his haughty mouth relaxed in a half-smile. They reached the
arbour, and paused.
In her morning robe of delicate lilac tint, Mrs. Laurance's sad
tear-stained face seemed in its glory of golden locks, almost as
fair as her child's. But one was just preparing to launch her frail
argosy of loving hopes upon the sunny sea that stretched in liquid
splendour before her dazzled eyes; the other had seen the wreck of
all her heart's most precious freight, in the storm of varied griefs,
that none but Christ could hush with His divine "Be still."
The repressed sorrow in the countenance of the mother was more
touching than any outbreak could have been, and after a strong
effort, she held out her hand, and said:
"My daughter."
Regina sprang up, and hid her face on her mother's neck.
"When I began to hope in a blind dumb way that nothing more could
happen to wring my heart, because I had my daughter safe, owned her
entire undivided love, and we were all in all to each other; just
when I dared to pray that my sky might be blue for a little while,
because my baby's eyes mirrored it, even then the last, the dearest
is stolen away, and by my best friend too! Child of my love, I would
almost as soon see you in your shroud as under a bridal veil, for you
will love your husband best, and oh! I want all of your dear heart
for my own. How can I ever give you away, my one star-eyed angel of
comfort!"
Her white hand caressed the head upon her bosom, and clasping her
mother's waist, the girl said distinctly:
"Let it be as you wish. My mother's happiness is far dearer to me
than my own."
"Oh, my darling! Do you mean it? Would you give up your lover, for
the sake of your poor desolate mother?"
She bent back the fair face and gazed eagerly into the girl's eyes.
"Mother, I should never cease to love him. Life would not be so sweet
as it looked this morning, when I first learned he had given me his
heart; but duty is better than joy, and I owe more to my suffering
mother than to him, or to myself. If it adds to the cup of your many
sorrows to give me even to him, I will try to take the bitter for my
portion, and then sweeten as best I may the life that hitherto you
have devoted to me. Mother, do with your child as seems best to your
dear heart."
She was very white, but her face was firm, and the fidelity of her
purpose was printed in her sad eyes.
"God bless my sweet, faithful, trusting child!"
Mrs. Laurance could not restrain her tears, and Mr. Palma shaded his
eyes with his hand.
"My little girl, make your choice. Decide between us."
She moved a few steps, as if to free herself, but in rain; Regina's
arms tightened around her.
"Between you? Oh no, I cannot. Both are too dear."
"To whom does your heart cling most closely?"
"Mother, ask me no more. There is my hand. If you can consent to give
it to him. I shall be--oh, how happy! If it would grieve you too
much, then, mother, hold it, keep it. I will never murmur or
complain, for now, knowing that he loves me, I can bear almost
anything."
Tears were streaming down the mother's cheeks, and pressing her lips
to the white mournful face of her daughter she beckoned Mr. Palma to
her side. For a moment she hesitated, held up the fair fingers and
kissed them, then as if distrusting herself, quickly laid the little
hand in his.
"Take my darling; and remember that she is the most precious gift a
miserable mother ever yielded up."
After a moment Mrs. Laurance whispered something, and very won the
lovely face flushed a brilliant rose, the soft tender eyes were
lifted timidly to Mr. Palma's face, and as he drew her to aim, she
glided from her mother's arms into his, feeling his lips rest like a
blessing from God on her pure brow.
"Does my Lily love me best?"
Only the white arms answered his whisper, clasping his neck; and Mrs.
Laurance and Mr. Chesley left them, with the dewy roses overhead
swinging like censers in the glorious autumn morning and the sacred
chimes of church bells dying in silvery echoes, among the olive and
myrtle that clothed the distant hills.