LILITH’S FLIGHT
Do you think, because you fail me
And draw back your hand to-day,
That from out the heart I gave you
My strong love can fade away?
It will live. No eyes may see it;
In my soul it will lie deep,
Hidden from all; but I shall feel it
Often stirring in its sleep.
So remember that the true love,
Which you now think poor and vain,
Will endure in hope and patience
Till you ask for it again.
_A. A. Proctor._
When Lilith left the presence of her husband on that fatal night of
their parting, her mind and heart were in a whirl of confusion and
suffering.
He had accused her of unspeakable, of incomprehensible evil! He had
repudiated her! He had told her that in a few hours he should leave that
house—his patrimonial home—never to return to it while she should
“desecrate it by her presence.”
Her love was wounded to the quick! Her pride was trampled in the dust.
What remained for her to do?
First of all to leave the house which he declared that she “desecrated
with her presence.”
Yes, that was the first and the most urgent duty that she owed to him
who had repudiated her and to herself, and her own honor and
self-respect as well.
It was good to know what first to do. It saved useless brooding and loss
of time.
As soon as she reached her room, therefore, she locked the door to
secure herself from interruption, and then she began to prepare for her
departure.
For she determined to go at once and to take with her nothing, no, not
the smallest trifle, that Hereward had ever given her.
So she took off the deep mourning dress that had been one of Hereward’s
first gifts, hung it up in the wardrobe, and replaced it with a crimson
cashmere, the gift of his father, which since Major Hereward’s death had
been packed away with other clothing, left off when she first went into
black.
From the same depository she took a gray beaver cloth coat, a gray felt
hat, gray barege vail and a pair of gray gloves. These she laid out upon
the bed.
Next she took from her casket the few jewels given her by her
foster-father, and the few hundred dollars she had saved from the
liberal allowance Major Hereward had made her during his life. All
these, together with her comb and brushes, a few pocket-handkerchiefs,
and a single change of underclothing, she packed into a hand-bag.
When her small preparations were all complete, it seemed to require a
painful wrench to tear herself away.
Her husband had outraged and repudiated her indeed; yet she felt that
she could not leave the house without writing to him a few words of
farewell. She meant to write only a very few words, not half a dozen
lines in all, only enough to remind him that she went not of her own
will, but by his will.
Yet, when she sat down at the table and commenced her letter, a flood of
thought and feeling bore her impetuously onward to a fuller utterance,
and she poured forth her soul in that touching, pathetic, yet dignified
letter that he afterwards found upon her dressing-table, and which,
after perusal, and with reckless anger, he committed to the flames.
When she had finished her task, sealed her letter, and pinned it to the
pin-cushion where he could not fail to find it, she put on her gray
beaver coat, hat, vail and gloves, took up her hand-bag and left the
room.
She paused for a moment in the upper hall, and looked over the balusters
to see if any one were in sight or hearing below.
But there was no one. The coast was clear. There was no danger of
interruption.
So Lilith went softly down the stairs, opened the hall door and passed
out into the night.
The sky was clear and the stars were shining brightly down on the
snow-covered earth.
All the servants, horses and carriages attached to the place were at the
young mistress’ order; but she chose to avail herself of none of them.
She would walk to the railway station. The clear, starlit sky and the
snow-white earth rendered her road light enough for convenience. As for
danger, there was none of any sort. No act of violence had ever been
known to occur in that primitive, rural neighborhood, which might almost
have been called Arcadian in its simplicity and innocence. She knew that
she could easily walk the six miles in two hours and catch the ten
o’clock train. So she walked bravely on until she came to the outer
gate. Just as she was in the act of opening it she was startled by a
rushing sound behind her, and turning, saw Lion, the large Newfoundland
dog, at her side, evidently bent on following her.
“Yes, good dog. Good, good dog, you shall go! And then if there could be
any danger you would guard me with your life. Wouldn’t you, good dog?”
Lion assured his mistress, in much eloquent pantomime, that he was her
own devoted dog and would die for her if necessary.
Lilith went on, the dog trotting by her side, over the stubble fields,
into the dense forest, out again, through the narrow mountain pass, out
again into the fields, and finally in sight of the lights at the railway
station.
Here Lilith stopped to draw the vail more closely around her face, for
she did not wish to be recognized by any acquaintance who might ask her
questions. Here, too, she must part with her dog. It would not be well
to take him with her to the railway station, either for her sake or for
his own. So she must send him home; but she wished to part pleasantly
with her fourfooted friend—not to drive him away from her, but to send
him on an errand for her; so she opened her hand-bag and took off a
paper which had been wrapped around her brushes, breathed into the
paper, rolled it up to a convenient size and gave it to the dog, putting
it between his jaws, patting him on the head, turning him with his nose
towards the Cliffs, and saying:
“Good dog! Good dog! Good fellow! Carry it home! Carry it home!”
And Lion, delighted at having an important commission to execute, set
off at a run.
Lilith dashed a tear from her eye and hurried on to the railway station.
There was not a soul there except the ticket agent and a rough-looking
passenger.
Lilith knew exactly the price of a ticket to Baltimore, and had her
change ready. She went into the musty office, pushed the money on the
ledge of the ticket window, and said, from behind her vail:
“One, to Baltimore.”
The agent, behind the partition, drew in the money and pushed out the
ticket, without seeing or caring to see whether the passenger standing
aside in the shadow were man, woman or child, but taking a man for
granted.
Lilith got on the train while the railway porters were throwing off and
throwing on mail bags, and by the time she had dropped into her seat,
midway in a nearly empty car, the train started again.
The car was but dimly lighted, and there were but five other passengers
in it besides Lilith. They were all strangers to her—probably country
merchants on their way to the Eastern cities to buy their Spring
goods—mostly clothed in heavy gray overcoats, with their hats pulled low
over their foreheads, and their hands thrust into their pockets. They
seemed more inclined to doze than to talk, and seldom spoke, except to
remark how very cold the weather was, opine that the mercury was at
zero, and declared that such a thing had never occurred in that
neighborhood so late in March within the memory of man.
And then they hugged their overcoats more closely around them, pulled
their hats down lower, and relapsed into silence and dozing.
Lilith, now that the hurry and excitement of her sudden departure was
over, and she was seated in the car, with nothing to do, suffered a
natural reaction into depression and great discouragement.
What was before her? Whither should she go? What could she do? What was
to be her future life? Who were to be her future friends or companions?
She was leaving her old familiar home, leaving all the friends of her
youth, going among perfect strangers, without one single letter of
introduction to any one. What would be the end?
Had she done right to take the responsibility of her future into her own
young, inexperienced hands? Would it not have been better to have borne
the reproach and humiliation she suffered at Cloud Cliffs, and to have
remained there and patiently waited for events? She would at least have
been safe.
But in answer to these thoughts came the memory of her husband’s cruel
words hissed into her ears:
“In a few hours I shall leave here—leave my father’s house—never to
return to it while you desecrate it with your presence.”
And she felt that it was better to go out into the bitter world of
strangers than to lose the last remnant of her self-respect by remaining
in the home which her husband had scornfully declared that her presence
desecrated.
Then Lilith broke down for the first time since that crushing blow, and
wept bitterly though silently behind her vail.
Her fellow-passengers did not seem to notice the weeping, or even if
they did, they probably thought her tears were only caused by some
ordinary parting with friends, a mere matter of course, too trifling to
cause remark or sympathy.
The motion of the cars often has a soporific effect upon passengers, and
especially upon a woman traveling alone and at night. So it came to pass
that Lilith, poor, tired child that she was, cried herself to sleep, and
slept soundly, rocked by the swift, smooth motion of the train.
She dreamed a very vivid dream, that seemed a very graphic reality. In
her dream her husband was seated by her side, and they were traveling to
Washington together. Her promise of secrecy had been canceled, and her
tongue had been loosed in some strange way, possible only in dreams, and
she was telling him, with her head upon his bosom and her arms around
his neck, the wonderful story of her parents’ youthful life and love and
sorrow, and the true story of her own birth.
And he, holding her in his arms, pressed her to his heart, was listening
with such affection, sympathy and admiration. He was saying so
earnestly:
“And you, my brave little darling, you have borne all this
misconstruction, all this humiliation, rather than betray your trust.
But I love you more than ever for all that you have borne and suffered,
my Lilith.”
A shock startled Lilith out of her deep sleep and dispelled her
beautiful dream.
What was this? Where was she?
On the train, indeed—on the train, that had just stopped at a crowded
junction and taken on additional cars, which had joined with a shock
that waked her. But——
Where was Tudor?
Not seated by her side, certainly. Not even gone out to stretch his
limbs. Ah, no! he had vanished with the dream.
Again her eyes overflowed with tears, and she sat back in her seat and
wept bitterly in the loneliness and desolation of her heart. She missed
the Tudor of her lovely dream. She longed for him with an infinite,
agonized longing. She felt an almost irresistible impulse to leave the
cars at that junction, and take the next train to her home, where she
could arrive by morning—where she could throw herself upon her husband’s
mercy and remain in peace.
But then again the memory of his cruel words pierced her through the
heart, and left her helpless—wounded to the death, as it were. Those
words were ringing through her spirit:
“No; I thank Heaven that I never loved you! I married you only to please
my father! I never loved you! That dishonor has been spared me! In a few
hours I shall leave this house—my father’s house—never to return while
your presence desecrates it!”
Oh, no! With the sound of these degrading words still reverberating
through her soul, she could not go back any more than she could have
remained when she was there.
The car was now filled with passengers, and even the seat by her side
was taken by a fat woman with an immense bundle in her lap, who crowded
Lilith close against the side. She turned towards the window, drew her
thick vail closer over her face, and wept silently but bitterly until
once more overtasked nature yielded to weariness and to the smooth,
swift, soothing motion of the train, and she slept; this time a
dreamless sleep, that lasted until the train ran into the Baltimore
station.
It was now six o’clock, and the eastern horizon was flushed with the
coming sun.
Lilith awoke to find the train at a standstill, and all the passengers
in motion. She roused her stupefied faculties and realized that she was
at Baltimore, and that she wished to continue her journey to New York.
She arose and took up her hand-bag and left the car, went to the ticket
office and inquired when the next train would leave for New York.
“At six-fifteen,” the busy agent replied.
Lilith glanced at the large station clock. It was now five minutes past
six. She bought her ticket, got a cup of coffee at the refreshment
counter, and then followed the throng who were crowding through the
gates to get on the New York train.
She got a corner chair on a Pullman car, wheeled it around towards the
window, so that her back would be turned to her fellow-passengers, and
gave herself up to thought.
She had been driven from her home in dishonor, and her flight and the
letter she had left behind had cut off all retreat, and made a voluntary
return impossible.
What were they doing at Cloud Cliffs this morning? Her husband had not
probably received her letter until this morning, because he had not, she
thought, entered her room during the night.
What would he think of her letter? How would it affect him?
She could not conjecture, especially as she could not remember what she
had written, in the white heat of her emotions, when about to leave him,
perhaps forever.
And old Nancy! What would she think of this sudden flight? Would Nancy
be very sorry for her? And the other domestics, who had known and loved
her from her babyhood—would they care?
Oh, yes, indeed, she felt and knew that all the servants, old and young,
would grieve for her, and all the animals would miss her.
Then Lilith fell to weeping again at the thought of all human and brute
that she had loved so well, and yet had left, perhaps forever.
Her paroxysm of tears exhausted itself, but her distressing thoughts
continued.
What would the neighbors think or say about her disappearance? They
would certainly ask a great many questions. Country people always do.
They would question and cross-question Mr. Hereward.
How would he answer them? Would he tell them the truth, or would he
evade inquiry? And oh, above all, would he, could he, be any happier now
that she was gone? Would he not sometimes remember how much she had
loved him? How hard she had tried to please him? How diligently she had
worked to help him, answering his letters, copying his speeches,
searching out his authorities, and through all this secretary work
keeping his one room in the attic of the crowded hotel neat, bright and
attractive, and always taking such pure delight in being useful to him?
Would Tudor remember these things, and think more kindly of her?
Ah, no! for he did not love her; he had told her so, and thanked the
Lord that he did not love her! So all that she had tried to do had
failed to please him.
Again the child Lilith wept as if her heart were breaking; and there was
no one to comfort her.