THE STRANGER ON THE SANDS.
The tide was coming in, the sun setting over the sea; the crimson and
golden light seemed to be reflected in each drop of water until the
waves were one mass of heaving roseate gold; a sweet western wind laden
with rich, aromatic odors from the pine woods seemed to kiss the waves
as they touched the shore and broke into sheets of beautiful white foam.
It was such a sunset and such a sea--such a calm and holy stillness. The
golden waters stretched out as far and wide as the eye could reach. The
yellow sands were clear and smooth; the cliffs that bounded the coast
were steep and covered with luxuriant green foliage. Pauline Darrell had
gone to the beach, leaving Miss Hastings, who already felt much better,
to the enjoyment of an hour's solitude.
There was a small niche in one of the rocks, and the young girl sat down
in it, with the broad, beautiful expanse of water spread out before her,
and the shining waves breaking at her feet. She had brought a book with
her, but she read little; the story did not please her. The hero of it
was too perfect. With her eyes fixed on the golden, heaving expanse of
water, she was thinking of the difference between men in books and men
in real life. In books they were all either brave or vicious--either
very noble or very base.
She passed in review all the men she had ever known, beginning with her
kind-hearted, genial father, the clever humorist artist, who could
define a man's character in an epigram so skillfully. He was no hero of
romance; he liked his cigar, his "glass," and his jest. She thought of
all his rugged, picturesque artist-comrades, blunt of speech, honest of
heart, open-handed, generous, self-sacrificing men, who never envied a
comrade's prosperity, nor did even their greatest enemy an evil turn;
yet they were not heroes of romance. She thought of Sir Oswald--the
stately gentleman of the old school, who had held his name and race so
dear, yet had made so fatal an error in his marriage and will. She
thought of the captain, handsome and polished in manner, and her face
grew pale as she remembered him. She thought of Lord Aynsley, for whom
she had a friendly liking, not unmixed with wonder that he could so
deeply love the fair, soft-voiced, inane Lady Darrell.
Then she began to reflect how strange it was that she had lived until
now, yet had never seen a man whom she could love. Her beautiful lips
curled in scorn as she thought of it.
"If ever I love any one at all," she said to herself, "it must be some
one whom I feel to be my master. I could not love a man who was weak in
body, soul, heart, or mind. I must feel that he is my master; that my
soul yields to his; that I can look up to him as the real guiding star
of my life, as the guide of my actions. If ever I meet such a man, and
vow to love him, what will my love do for me? I do not think I could
fall in love with a book-hero either; they are too coldly perfect. I
should like a hero with some human faults, with a touch of pride capable
of being roused into passion."
Suddenly, as the thought shaped itself in her mind, she saw a tall
figure crossing the sands--the figure of a man, walking quickly.
He stopped at some little distance from the cliff, and then threw
himself on the sand. His eyes were fixed on the restless, beautiful sea;
and she, attracted by his striking masculine beauty, the statuesque
attitude, the grand, free grace of the strong limbs, the royal carriage
of the kingly head, watched him. In the Louvre she had seen some
marvelous statues, and he reminded her of them. There was one of
Antinous, with a grand, noble face, a royal head covered with clusters
of hair, and the stranger reminded her of it.
She looked at him in wonder. She had seen picturesque-looking
men--dandies, fops--but this was the first time she had ever seen a
noble and magnificent-looking man.
"If his soul is like his face," she thought to herself, "he is a hero."
She watched him quite unconsciously, admiration gradually entering her
heart.
"I should like to hear him speak," she thought. "I know just what kind
of voice ought to go with that face."
It was a dreamy spot, a dreamy hour, and he was all unconscious of her
presence. The face she was watching was like some grand, harmonious poem
to her; and as she so watched there came to her the memory of the story
of Lancelot and Elaine. The restless golden waters, the yellow sands,
the cliffs, all faded from her view, and she, with her vivid
imagination, saw before her the castle court where Elaine first saw him,
lifted her eyes and read his lineaments, and then loved him with a love
that was her doom. The face on which she gazed was marked by no great
and guilty love--it was the face of Lancelot before his fall, when he
shone noblest, purest, and grandest of all King Arthur's knights.
"It was for his face Elaine loved him," thought the girl--"grand and
noble as is the face on which the sun shines now."
Then she went through the whole of that marvelous story; she thought of
the purity, the delicate grace, the fair loveliness of Elaine, as
contrasted with the passionate love which, flung back upon itself, led
her to prefer death to life--of that strange, keen, passionate love that
so suddenly changed the whole world for the maid of Astolat.
"And I would rather be like her," said the girl to herself; "I would
rather die loving the highest and the best than live loving one less
worthy."
It had seized her imagination, this beautiful story of a deathless love.
"I too could have done as Elaine did," she thought; "for love cannot
come to me wearing the guise it wears to others. I could read the true
nobility of a man's soul in his face; I could love him, asking no love
in return. I could die so loving him, and believing him greatest and
best."
Then, as she mused, the sunlight deepened on the sea, the rose became
purple, the waters one beaming mass of bright color, and he who had so
unconsciously aroused her sleeping soul to life rose and walked away
over the sands. She watched him as he passed out of sight.
"I may never see him again," she thought; "but I shall remember his face
until I die."
A great calm seemed to fall over her; the very depths of her heart had
been stirred. She had been wondering so short a time before if she
should ever meet any one at all approaching the ideal standard of
excellence she had set up in her mind. It seemed like an answer to her
thoughts when he crossed the sands.
"I may never see him again," she said; "but I shall always remember that
I have met one whom I could have loved."
She sat there until the sun had set over the waters and the moon had
risen; and all the time she saw before her but one image--the face that
had charmed her as nothing in life had ever done before. Then, startled
to find that it had grown so late, she rose and crossed the sands. Once
she turned to look at the sea, and a curious thought came to her that
there, by the side of the restless, shining waters, she had met her
fate. Then she tried to laugh at the notion.
"To waste one's whole heart in loving a face," she thought, "would be
absurd. Yet the sweetest of all heroines--Elaine--did so."
A great calm, one that lulled her brooding discontent, that stilled her
angry despair, that seemed to raise her above the earth, that refined
and beautified every thought, was upon her. She reached home, and Miss
Hastings, looking at the beautiful face on which she had never seen so
sweet an expression, so tender a light before, wondered what had come
over her. So, too, like Elaine--
All night his face before her lived,
and the face was
Dark, splendid, sparkling in the silence, full
Of noble things.
All unconsciously, all unknowingly, the love had come to her that was to
work wonders--the love that was to be her redemption.