The south of France. There is music in the very words--sunshine,
poetry, and a sense of calm; a suggestion of warmth and of infinite
delight. No wonder pain, care and invalidism, flock there, from less
favored climes, for comfort and healing; returning, year after year, to
rest beneath the shadow of olive and ilex, and to dream the luscious
days away beside the blue waters of the Mediterranean, drinking in
strength and peace with every far-reaching gaze into the cloudless
azure of the southern sky, every deep-drawn breath of the sunny
southern air.
Mrs. Smith grew daily stronger, more like herself. Time, and care, and
ceaseless affection, had wrought their beneficent work, and mind and
body were recovering a healthier tone; her interest revived, and her
hold on life renewed itself. As the weeks drifted into months, her
condition became so materially improved that the anxiety of her family
subsided and left room for other thoughts and interests; and finally
her health was sufficiently re-established to admit of her husband's
leaving them in the picturesque French village, while he returned to
America.
In the quaint little village, time glided softly by on golden-slippered
feet, the peaceful monotony broken only by little jaunts to neighboring
hamlets, the arrival and departure of the mails, and long, blissful
sails on the deep blue sea. Blanche's sweet face and gentle ways
speedily won the simple hearts of the fisher-folks, and her letters
were filled with anecdotes of her village _protégés_, and their
picturesque life. And a steamer would have been necessary to convey
away the floral and aquatic treasures heaped on her by the kindly
peasants and their little brown-legged children.
The family would winter abroad, and return to America in the spring for
the wedding, which Blanche had decided should take place in June. June
was a lovely month, she thought, past all the uncertainty of spring,
and with the glory of summer beyond it.
Some weeks after General Smith's return to New York, Nesbit Thorne
joined his relatives in the pretty Mediterranean village. The general
had found his nephew so changed, so worn in mind and body, that the
kindly old soldier became seriously alarmed, and insisted on trying the
remedy uppermost in his mind. He had come, with unswerving faith, to
regard the south of France as an unfailing sanitarium, and he took his
nephew promptly in hand, and gave him no peace until he consented to go
abroad, never leaving him until he had secured his stateroom, and seen
him embarked on his voyage.
Thorne went indifferently enough, partly to escape his uncle's
persistence, and partly because all places were alike, all equally
wearisome to him. He cherished also a hope of hearing, through
Blanche, some tidings of the woman who still possessed him like a spell.
When he first joined them, Norma's waning hopes flickered up, in a
final effort at revivification, but not for long. That her cousin
should be moody, listless and thoroughly unhinged, did not surprise
her, since the trials through which he had recently passed were
sufficient to have tried a more robust physique than his. She set
herself to interest and cheer him, and, at first, was in a measure
successful; for Thorne--always fond of Norma, observed her efforts and
exerted himself to a responsive cheerfulness, often feigning an
interest he was far from feeling, in order to avoid disappointing her.
But as he grew accustomed to her ministrations, the effort relaxed and
he fell into gloom and bitterness once more.
There was in the man a sense of wrong, as well as failure. Life had
dealt hardly with him--the bitterness had been wrung out to him to the
very dregs. In all things--whether his intentions had been noble or
ignoble, he had alike failed. He could not understand it. In his
eyes, the conduct of the two women whose influence had been potent in
his life, while springing from different causes, had resulted in the
same effect--uncompromising hardness toward _him_. The diverse
properties of the solutions had made no appreciable difference in the
crystallization.
His love for Pocahontas had suffered no diminution; rather, it had
increased. His longing for her presence, for her love, was so great at
times, that the thought would come to him to end the intolerable pain
by stopping forever the beating of the heart that would not break.
Her second refusal had been a cruel blow to him. He had seemed to
himself so patient, so tenderly considerate; he had made allowance for
the conservatism, the old world principles and prejudices amid which
she had been reared; he had given her time to weigh and consider and
plead. That the verdict should have gone against him, admitted, in his
mind, but of one conclusion--Pocahontas did not love him. Had she
loved him, she _must_ have proved responsive; love, as he understood
it, did not crucify itself for a principle; it was more prone to break
barriers than to erect them. And this point of hers was no principle;
it was, at noblest, an individual conscientious scruple, and to the man
of the world it appeared the narrowest of bigotry.
His mind slowly settled to the conviction that she had never loved him
as he had loved her--as he still loved her. Then began a change for
the worse. The doubt of her love begot other doubts--a grisly brood of
them--doubt of truth, doubt of generosity and courage, doubt of
disinterestedness, doubt of womanhood. Thorne was getting in a bad
way. Over the smoldering fires of his heart a crust of cynicism began
to form and harden, powdered thick with the ashes of bitterness. What
was the worth of love?--_he_ had found it but a fair-weather friend. A
storm--less than a storm--a cloud, though but as big as a man's hand,
had sent the frail thing skurrying to cover. All ended in self--the
_ego_ dominated the world. Righteousness and unrighteousness arrived
at the same result. The good called it self-sacrifice, and blinded and
glorified themselves; the bad were less hypocritical; _they_ gave it no
sounding name and sought it openly. Self--from first to last, the same
under all names and all disguises. Nay, the wicked were truer than the
good, for the self-seeker inflicted no lasting injury on any save
himself, while the ardor with which the self-immolator flourished the
sacrificial knife imperiled other vitals than his own.
Truly, Thorne was getting into a very bad way. His was not the nature
that emits sweetness when bruised; it cankered and got black spots
through it. And he knew no physician to whom he could go for healing;
no power, greater than his own, to set his disjointed life straight.
Love and faith, alike, stood afar off. The waters of desolation
encompassed his soul, without a sign of olive branch or dove.
Norma, watching him with the eyes of her heart, as well as those of her
understanding, learned something of all this. Thorne did not tell her,
indeed he talked little in the days they spent together, walking or
sitting on the warm dry sand of the coast, and of himself not at all.
His pain was a prisoner, and his breast its Bastile.
But Norma learned it, all the same, and learned, too, that never while
that stormy heart beat in a living breast would it beat for her. She
faced the conclusion squarely, accepted it, and took her resolution.
Norma was a proud woman, and she never flinched; the world should know
nothing of her pain, should never guess that her life held aught of
disappointment.
A letter from Blanche to Berkeley, written within the following month,
contained the result of Norma's resolution.
"You will be surprised," Blanche wrote, "to hear of Norma's sudden
marriage to Hugh Castleton, which took place three days ago, at the
house of the American Minister here in Paris. We were amazed--at least
mamma and I were--when Hugh joined us here, and, after a long interview
with Norma, informed us that he had cabled father for consent and that
the ceremony was to take place almost immediately. Hugh, as perhaps
you know, is a brother of Mrs. Vincent, Norma's intimate friend, and he
has been in love with Norma time out of mind. I do not like the
marriage, and feel troubled and sick at heart about it. It has been so
hastily arranged, and Norma isn't one bit in love with her husband, and
don't pretend to be. Hugh is patient and devoted to her, which is my
strongest hope for their happiness in the future. It seems to me so
unnatural to make a loveless marriage. I can't understand a woman's
doing it. Nesbit is going to Palestine and the East. He is miserably
changed; his hair is beginning to streak with gray at the temples
already, and the lines about his mouth are getting hard. It makes me
miserable to think about his life and his future. I can't help feeling
that he has had hard measure meted out to him all around. It is cruel
to touch happiness but never grasp it. I know what you all think about
the affair, Berkeley, but I'm so wrought up about poor Nesbit, I must
and _will_ speak. He ought not to be made to suffer so; it would be
far kinder to take a pistol and kill him at once. You don't think
about _him_ at all--and you should. I know that I'm just a silly
little thing, and that my opinions don't amount to much, but I must say
that I think you are wrong about this matter. A human soul is worth
more than a scruple, be the scruple ever so noble, and I believe the
Heavenly Father thinks so too. If you, who are strong and
large-minded, will put prejudice aside and think the matter out fairly,
you will be _obliged_ to see that Pocahontas is doing wrong. She is
killing herself, and she is killing him, and you ought not to let her
do it. You know your influence over her--I believe it is you and your
mother--the dread of disappointing you, or lowering herself in your
estimation, or something of that sort, that holds her back. Don't do
it any longer, Berkeley. Be generous and noble and large-hearted, like
God means us all to be toward each other. It is awful to be so hard.
Excess of righteousness must be sinful--almost as sinful as lack of
righteousness. There, I've said it all and shocked you, but I can't
help that. Nesbit's face haunts me so that I can't rid myself of it,
sleeping or waking. I am all the time picturing terrible
possibilities. Think of all that Nesbit has had to endure. Think of
how that selfish woman wrecked his past, and ask yourself if there is
any justice--not mercy--bare justice, in letting her wreck his future,
now that the child's death has severed the last link that bound them
together. Has _any thing_ been spared Nesbit? Has not his heart been
wrung again and again? Put yourself in his place, Berkeley, and
acknowledge that after so much tempest, he is entitled to _some_
sunshine, How _can_ Pocahontas stand it? Could _I_, if it were _you_?
Could I endure to see you suffer? Do you think that if _you_ were in
Nesbit's place I would not come to you, and put my arms round you, and
draw your head to my bosom and whisper--'Dear love, if to all this
bitterness I can bring one single drop of sweet, take it freely, fully
from my lips and from my love?'"