by Laurence Alma Tadema.
Originally published in The Witching Time: Tales for the Year's End edited by Henry Norman. (D. Appleton & Co.; 1887).
So Christmas is near, and you ask me to keep it with you, little cousin. May I thank you, and stay at home? I shall keep Christmas with my folk. I know what you are saying; yes, they are dead, yet in thought I can be with them, and short is the bridge of hours that parts me from them now. I, too, have reached the winter of my life; the year and I are of an age. What though the blossoms of May bore no fruit? I had my spring; blighted and dark, summer was summer still; and the autumn leaves fell thick at the door of the bare garner. Now Christmas comes, and I must feast it; then prepare—like the year—soon to lay down my worn old life in peace, making way for a glad, new soul; perhaps a soul that shall be part of yours. Who knows, but God? Child, you are young and I am old, yet we are closely linked; the love that has come to change your life has brought you very near to me, for love knows neither youth nor age. I remember that I promised once—it was the day you first spoke to me of James—to tell you my tale; and I have a mind to do so now. I will keep Christmas with my folk.
My father was made Vicar of Longparish the year that I was born, and the year following my mother died; so father's sister, Aunt Sophia, came to us then, and tended both for many a year. My early recollections are of the simplest, for we lived a plain life among poor and toiling people, whose lives, if possible, were plainer still than ours. I never set foot on an unfamiliar road, and all the faces I ever saw had looked upon me in my cradle. I was a lonely child, and, not being troublesome, was reputed good; there is no better substitute for virtue in the world than absence of vice. My worst fault in Aunt Sophia's eyes was apparently an early fancy that I had for playing with flowers, wrapping their stalks in scraps of stuff and pretending they were little girls; for I remember that when she came upon me in the garden one day, keeping a rose-bud school, and found that the plucked blossoms were her own—that I had, moreover, tied round their waists the worsteds that should have decked my sampler—she not merely threw my flower-children straight into the river, but whipped me for the only time in my life. My taste in playmates was altogether singular: we lived by the church, and I was accustomed to seek the graves of the children who had died at my age, visiting them daily. I firmly believed that because I loved them they would ask God to make me good; and I hardly care to say how long I cherished the simple faith.
This natural capacity for self-amusement was cultivated by Aunt Sophia, whose aim in life did not go beyond the fulfillment of her household and neighborly duties; as regarded me, she satisfied her conscience by scolding me mildly on occasions, teaching me my alphabet, my catechism, and the use of the needle, and washing my face whenever I crossed her path. For the rest, I was suffered to live my selfish little life in perfect freedom. Father spoiled me, and took it for granted that I was as I should be. He was a hard-worked man, I his relaxation; and it probably never entered his head that he might have as good a hand as Aunt Sophia in my upraising. He saw in me a plaything, not a miniature woman whose small but eager spirit was beginning to peer with semi-conscious eyes into the book of life. So I grew up an untrimmed weed, useless and wayward. I had early made up my mind that if—to be good—a woman must be forever teaching Betsy, stitching or dusting, wielding a rolling-pin or a flat-iron, I should not even aspire to any high degree of moral excellence; therefore I displayed only just as much industry as was needful for the securing of my character, and consequently of my freedom. I was not happy, because my neglected mind was clogged with the doubts of years, and because I loved no fellow-creature above myself; but the cause of my discontent was as yet unknown to me, for I had not felt the emptiness of my heart.
When I was sixteen Aunt Sophia fell ill, and this event brought to light the unsuspected deficiencies of my education. She was bedridden for many weeks, during which the vicarage was in a state of anarchy; for I was totally incapable of doing anything that had to be done, save that—in spite of inexperience—I nursed my poor aunt with a tenderness that won me her deep affection. When convalescent she was able to assist me by her counsel; but she never grew strong, and died in the spring, leaving me to mourn her loss and the wasted years of our estrangement. She could, I know, never have satisfied my deeper cravings, for she was accustomed to knead her daily bread in perfect unconsciousness that life held anything more intricate than dough; yet, had she lived, the first years of my womanhood had been less difficult. Father was very kind to me, and put up so patiently with my shortcomings that my zeal grew great. My eighteenth birthday found me a good housewife, and a sober, thoughtful little woman; nor was that all, for I had meantime earned the good-will of our neighbors and—more precious still—my father's confidence and heart-whole affection. How I in my turn cherished him I can not say; sincerely, I did not think there was room in me for any other love. He would often tease me by speaking of the future, whereupon I invariably assured him that I should never marry; and, indeed, I did something toward keeping my word in refusing the hand of a certain wealthy young mill-owner, William Carter by name, to whom I afterward owed a most unreasonable grudge for having attempted to draw me from father's side. But in the summer of that year came a change.
At the farther end of our valley there lived a dear woman to whom we were much attached. Miss Dell lived alone, the orphan brothers she had reared having left her to follow their own paths; and we heard one day that Arthur, her youngest and dearest, had been killed in action. So I went, the next afternoon, to bring her our sorrow. I found her on the door-step, and beside her a young man, a stranger. He stepped aside to let me pass; and Miss Dell, having kissed me, turned to him with moist eyes.
"Good-by, Captain Charvel," said she. "God bless you for your kindness to my poor boy!"
"Good-by," he replied, smiling; "but it's for a very short while, Miss Dell; I shall pass here next month, when I leave my mother."
"Thank you," she said; "then it shall not be 'good-by.'"
The young man bowed and went; but, as luck would have it, he turned to look back over the hedge; and there was I, tip-toe on the door-step like a fool, looking over the hedge at him. I blushed for this all the way home; and at supper that night, when father taxed me for my silence, I discovered that I was still thinking of the young man. However, when I saw the prosy daylight flooding my prosy little room next morning, I was rather inclined to laugh at my momentary foolishness.
About four weeks later I determined to visit Miss Dell again, and was so long over my simple toilet that if any one had seen me they must have laughed. I should even have gone in my best bonnet, had I not found my self creeping down-stairs like a thief to avoid the inquisitive eye of Betsy; whereupon I was so ashamed that I went back and laid aside my finery. Miss Dell was alone, and we sat down to tea together, I being in the worst of humors; for it was now clear to me that I had hoped to see Captain Charvel, and that I was bitterly disappointed. I remember it all well. The sun was hot, but Miss Dell had no taste for fresh air, so she let the burning rays pour through her speckless panes into the stuffy little parlor, on to the wintry carpet and multitudinous beaded chairs, the faded walls studded with pictures, and the myriad china figures, crystals, and sea-shells that swarmed on table, bracket, ledge, and sill.
Miss Dell was serving me a second cup when the bell rang, and I upset my chair, so swiftly did I run to the window.
"Miss Dell," cried I, conscious of a sudden pallor, "it's a gentleman; I think it's the one who came last month." And, before I could look indifferent, my hand was in his.
At the end of an hour Captain Charvel's features were still unknown to me, for I had not the courage to look him in the face ; but the carpet at his feet, the chair he sat on, his chain, his waistcoat, and above all his hands, are still indelible in my mind's eye; while the sound of his voice sank into me. And I stayed above an hour.
Although addressing both, Captain Charvel had at first faced me rather than Miss Dell, and I suspected—nay, I was convinced—that he tried his utmost to make me raise my eyes. In all else I was obedient: I laughed when he laughed; if he shifted his chair, I found myself turning; but higher than his collar I would not look. So he presently stood up, and, sitting opposite Miss Dell, who was working in the window, gave his whole attention to her tapestry. The consequence was that I lifted my head and looked at his handsome profile, clearly cut against the sunny pane; I looked again and again, each time more lengthily, and at last, when my heart was in my gaze, what must he do but turn suddenly with a bright smile that made my blood rush, and so fix his clear blue eyes on me that I could not set mine free, but, conquered, sat there impotent with quivering lip, till he had drawn my very soul away. Then I rose abruptly, and, bending over the mantel-shelf, let a scalding tear of shame fall into the lap of a china shepherdess. It was so long before I recovered, that I had not the courage to turn round again until Miss Dell called me to admire her work, after which I took leave and went with all imaginable awkwardness. I had not reached the gate when Captain Charvel came after me.
"Miss Nobel," said he, "you have left your mittens; at least, one."
I received the relic with a violent blush, for I knew I had dropped both, and could only suppose that he had kept the other.
"Good-by," said I, and would have fled, but he held my hand.
"We shall not meet for a year," said he; "will you remember me then?"
"Of course," I stammered, "I never forget anybody."
"Very well," he replied, "I shall come back."
I looked up for an instant, but I saw nothing; and we parted.
To all outward appearance, the months that followed differed in no way from the preceding, yet, to me, the whole world bore a new aspect. I never slept but Captain Charvel was my last thought, never began a day without blessing him. My secret was not hard to keep, for at nineteen the heart is buoyant, and hope a constant guest; it was only at times that the high tide of my love rose and bore down the barriers of patience, and then it was as much as I could do not to confess all. That father and I should live our lives face to face, he ignoring, I concealing, the first object of my existence, caused me remorse and pain. But instinct told me that this surrender of my being to one I had twice met would be incomprehensible to father; and I shrank from exposing to light treatment—even at the hands of one so dear—the most vital portion of my heart.
As for Miss Dell, the windows of her mind resembled ground glass: let in what light one would, she was incapable of discerning anything. I often went to see her, and would sometimes make bold to ask if she had heard from Captain Charvel; she never had heard, and indeed I soon found that she knew nothing about him, beyond the fact that he had been her brother's best friend, and had twice visited her in accordance with a promise made to his dead comrade. Once, however, she found mention of him in an old letter of Arthur Dell's, in which he said that Charvel was more petted by the women, wherever they went, than any man in the regiment. I did not much relish this news. Another time she told me that his name was William, and although I had hitherto hated the name, I now canonized it, making myself forget that it also belonged to the irrepressible admirer whose obstinate attentions continued to vex me. It must have been about this time, by the way, that the young man took to sending me weekly nosegays; I was too fond of flowers to destroy them, yet I did not wish him to see them about when he called, so I kept them in gallipots in the attic.
One night father felt a pain in his side, and, being as nervous as most men, began to fear that his heart was diseased; which, thank Heaven, was not the case. However, he was fidgety for some time, and my future loneliness, should he be taken from me, troubled him considerably. Therefore, as we sat by the fire after supper one March evening, he said suddenly:
"Pussy, how old are you?"
"Not twenty yet, father."
"That's none too young to marry," answered he. "I should like to see you married, Pussy;" and he backed his desire by many good reasons, even speaking well of William Carter. I listened patiently, then—
"Father," said I, "I couldn't marry him," and my head sank. "I don't think I shall ever marry."
"Tut, tut," said he, "that nonsense, that's childish, that's carrying your love for me too far, my pet. You see, Pussy, fathers can't live forever. I value this love above all things, Mary, but believe me, you're mistaken. You can find room for another in your heart, my dear child; yes, and for more to follow."
Words can not express the prickings of my conscience. I just fell on my knees beside him and burst into tears.
"Father," I cried, "dear, dearest father, I do love you, but I have been very deceitful. I know there's room for two, you and another—and—he's there already, father!"
No answer. I pressed his hand, no return; and when I ventured to look at him, he was sitting as stiff as pride, with the eyes of a judge and the mouth of a martyr. Presently he rose, and walked round the table.
"I'm surprised," said he, "I'm surprised; don't speak to me."
So I sat still, and had completely dried my tears, when he came and stood behind me.
"I never could understand women," said he, dryly. "If you love him—and I'm bound to believe you—why don't you have him?"
"Why don't I have him? Why, father, he may have forgotten me, for all I know!"
Father stared and I stared, then I began to laugh, for I saw he was thinking of Will Carter; so, mustering my courage, I drew him to a chair, and told him what I could about Captain Charvel.
"My dear child," said he, when I had finished, "I'm sorry for you. You've shown yourself less prudent than I thought; but rest assured the young man's forgotten you by now, so there's an end of it."
"Yes," I sighed, "I suppose he has forgotten me! But that makes no difference."
"How makes no difference? My dear Mary, I can't answer you; you're not serious. It's impossible that a good, sensible young woman like you can make her self believe she cares as much for a strange man she knows nothing about, as for the father she has known all her life. Do you mean to say that you would leave me for that soldier, that white-washed ne'er-do-well?"
"Of course, father," said I, in a peace-making tone, "I should never leave you altogether."
"Still, you would leave me, and for him? That's enough. My dear Mary, you surprise me. You allow yourself to openly love a man you've twice met, to take possession of him, to place him above me. I can only say that to my mind you are neither wise nor modest. No, certainly not modest. If I believed you, I should be truly grieved."
"What!" I cried. "Do you doubt my word? I tell you that Captain Charvel is not only the best and handsomest man God ever made, but that I love him with all my soul, and that unless I marry him I shall die as I am!" Whereupon I bounced out of the room.
The following day, father and I were chilly; we spoke of the weather and of our neighbors, but never an intimate word; and a longer evening I never spent, although we went to bed at nine o'clock for very dullness. So at breakfast next morning I put out his favorite jam, and decked the table with his favorite flowers, and gave the warmest return pride would allow to his bleak kiss; but when we had half done, and yet no word, my heart sank. Suddenly father pushed his cup toward me.
"Pussy," said he, breaking the silence with a cheerfulness that startled me, "that tea was nice. I'll have some more;" and he began, "All in the Downs the fleet was moored."
I did not often sing at meals, still I joined in as best I could, until my voice broke in the very middle of "sweet William." And thus our quarrel ended; nor did we mention Captain Charvel again.
One Sunday, early in June, I was waiting for father in the church-yard after service, while he spoke to a parishioner; and although accustomed to his being thus detained weekly, by the time I had watched the last loiterer go in to dinner, I was weary, and fell to pacing up and down. And chancing to look up as I approached the road, I saw a man leaning over the hedge with his eyes fixed upon me. For an instant I did not know him, then I found myself trembling; it was Captain Charvel.
"Oh," said I, "it's you."
"Yes," he replied, "and a little before my time, Miss Nobel. It is not quite a year since we parted."
I said, "Oh, isn't it? " but he must have known that this was no news to me. Although agitated past all control, I did not think to say good-day and retire; foolishly heroic, I stood before him, and looked at my feet while he looked at me. Presently he asked—
"How is Miss Dell?"
"I don't know," said I, "aren't yon staying there?"
"No," he replied, "I'm at the 'Cock and Bull.' I haven't come to see Miss Dell."
I almost think I should have fled if father had not that instant arrived. He glanced at me critically, then turned to the Captain, and they exchanged salutations with evident mutual interest.
"Father," I mumbled, "it's a friend of Miss Dell's? Cap—Captain Charvel."
"Sir," said dear father, pompously, "I'm delighted to meet you. If you are staying at Longparish, we shall hope to see you at the vicarage. Pussy, won't you ask Captain Charvel to tea?"
"Oh, yes," said I; but here followed an alarming pause, to which Captain Charvel put an end by accepting with alacrity the invitation he had not received.
They were happy days that followed. If I suffered some misery, it was only of the kind bestowed by an all-wise Providence on those who have much joy, lest they should forget Heaven. Captain Charvel came daily at father's request, and this in itself was bliss; but, as day followed day and yet he scarcely spoke to me, I grew uneasy. Father's vigilance was as great as any woman's; he never left us alone for two minutes together, and but for this I should almost have thought he did not know that—in my estimation—Captain Charvel was not as most men. He spoke of him ever as of one hitherto a stranger, and indeed went so far as to ask my pardon once for having spoiled our pleasant solitary life by his constant company, assuring me that the conversation of so intelligent a young man was beneficial to him. However, in spite of doubt and silence, I could not help feeling that Captain Charvel cared for me a little; nor could I meet his eyes without being conscious of some exchange between us; how greatly to his gain, Heaven only knew.
And three weeks passed. One afternoon, having left Captain Charvel and father together, I went to visit a sick woman down the valley; and while I sat by her bedside, reading, one of her children ran to me in great haste: some one was waiting for me down-stairs, would I come? So I slipped on my bonnet and ran out with my cape in my hand. It was Captain Charvel.
"Is anything the matter?" cried I, when we got into the road; "father isn't ill, is he? What does he want me for?"
The Captain smiled.
"I don't know," said he, "I daresay your father does want you, but I'm not aware of the fact. It is I that want you."
I turned giddy, and my fingers shook so that I could not fasten my cape; seeing which, Captain Charvel stood still and hooked it for me. I was wretched, for he took ever so much longer about it than need have been, and he must have felt how I trembled.
"Miss Nobel," said he, on the road, "I'm afraid you don't like me."
"Yes, I do," was my reply, "I always like people."
"You must be very happy, then. I like but few."
"Isn't that rather selfish?" I ventured to remark.
"Of course it is, but I can't help being selfish; I've been lonely nearly all my life."
"Oh," said I,feeling that I must say something quickly, "I did not know that men minded being lonely."
He slackened speed a little.
"Have you never felt," said he, "that your life was incomplete?"
"Yes," I whispered, "often."
"Well, so have I. Remember, Miss Nobel, that men and women are each but one half of a perfect whole, needing the other for their own completeness. A single life is but a fragment."
"Oh, I don't see that," I answered, hurriedly, "I think I could live alone quite well. I should very much like to live alone and be a school-mistress."
"No," said Captain Charvel, "you would not."
"You don't know," I replied; "it would only need a little courage, ambition, and self-reliance."
"Well and good; but you forget that a woman's courage, ambition, and reliance usually end in being transplanted. Woman's virtues seldom blossom in their own soil, and the man who has her heart has all; for him she is brave, for him aspiring, and her trust is placed in him."
"Perhaps," said I; but I knew he was right, and wondered where he had learned this truth. Presently I noticed that we were going out of our way.
"Don't you think," I timidly suggested, "that we had best keep to the road? It's getting late."
"It won't be dark for another hour," said Captain Charvel positively; "you're not afraid, are you? With me?"
"No," I replied, "I'm not afraid," which was not strictly truthful, considering how I feared him, "but father, he mayn't like my being out so late."
"Very well," said he, "I'm sorry you don't like being with me; we'll go back." Which we did, to my inconceivable disappointment. I walked as slowly as possible, hoping he might repent; and at last (I really could not help it) I said—
"Captain Charvel! Perhaps father wouldn't mind."
He turned on his heel that instant.
"Of course he won't mind," said he. "Your father would trust you anywhere with me. Your father likes me very much, Miss Nobel; he would be very hard hearted if he didn't, don't you think?"
I tried to laugh because I thought I must; then I said: "I don't-see why."
"You don't see why? I think I've done my best to make him like me." And I began to feel sorry we had coma the long way, after all. It must have been soon after this that I stepped into a ditch and twisted my ankle; slightly, to be sure, yet enough to make me limp.
"I think you'd better take my arm," said Captain Charvel. I had not the strength to refuse, but 1 gave him the veriest tips of my fingers.
"Why, this won't support you," laughed he; laying hold of my hand, he drew it well through his arm, and kept it there with firm but gentle pressure.
I was so much alarmed that I just pretended not to notice what he did, but at every step I felt my face glow redder, and it seemed an eternity that passed. Suddenly he let me go, and I stumbled with a strange sense of loss; but in an instant his arm was round my waist.
There was no ignoring this; if Captain Charvel had been William Carter I could not have struggled more frantically for freedom, and the consequence was that he folded me in both his arms and held me to him, quenching me utterly, so that when he presently bade me lift my head I had not the power to disobey. And if any part of my immortal spirit were not his already, I think he took it from me at that moment.
We did not say much going home; but when we reached the field behind the vicarage I asked him to leave me, that I might tell father alone; and, after much protest, he consented, having first extorted from me an avowal that I loved him—which I told him was wasting breath, since I had loved him long before he ever cared for me. Of course, being a man, he denied this.
"You are an angel," said he, "but you must not speak so. If I had not loved you in the beginning, you would never have thought of me again."
I did not tell him that it was just the other way round; I only said that he was very conceited even to think of such things, and we parted as gayly as possible.
Our wedding-day was fixed for the first of September, and the weeks that intervened sped fast. Miss Dell came to stay at the vicarage on purpose to help me with my clothes. Indeed, I should never have got on alone, for although I kept my thimble on all day, it did not follow that Captain Charvel allowed me to use it. I took him to see all the people I knew. I was sinfully proud of him, and thought that every woman in the parish must grow green with jealousy when she set eyes on his beautiful face. It came to my ears one day that many laughed at me, and said one would think from my behavior that Captain Charvel had walked out of heaven. But I was not cross; I only thought them rather wicked. I must confess, however, that I was not quite happy; I grudged him every moment of absence; he could not keep away an hour at a stretch but I was in a fever of apprehension; and one day I unfortunately saw him talking to the barmaid of the "Hare and Hounds," a remarkably pretty girl, on whom he was bestowing rather more attention than I found needful. That very afternoon he chanced to ask if there were anything about him that displeased me, vowing that he would instantly reform; and what must I do but beg him not to smile at the barmaid again.
"Mary!" he exclaimed with such solemnity that I flinched, "you're not going to tell me that you're jealous?"
"Of course not," said I, "I'm not at all jealous, William, but I—I can't help wanting all your smiles for the present. I dare say I shall be less fussy when we're married. And oh," I added, hiding my face, "I'm in such mortal fear sometimes lest you should not love me after all, or grow tired of me."
He did not answer, and presently I said, without looking up:
"Did you ever love another, William? I don't expect you to tell me if you'd rather not, but—I wonder."
"My dear Mary," he replied, almost sternly, "what a child you are. Of course, if I had ever loved another as I love you, you could not be Mrs. Charvel. But you surely don't suppose that a man can live twenty five years without seeing a woman that pleases him?"
"No," said I, mournfully; "I suppose not. I'm not jealous, William."
"But you are," retorted he, "and this is terrible. A woman must be all trust and belief. A jealous woman—"
"But, William, I'm not jealous! Only don't you think you might feel funny if you saw me stand five minutes—it was quite five minutes—talking to—to the hostler? And smiling, too, like I smile at you? Perhaps you wouldn't, but I like to think you would."
"That's different," he replied; "a man must be jealous, a woman may not."
"Oh," cried I, "that's unfair. We poor women, how you treat us!"
"Silly Mary!" said he then; "it is because you are better than we that we expect you to conform to a higher standard. Always yield, always believe; that is how wives keep their husbands. But," added he, smiling suddenly, "you're not going to be a jealous wife! Come what may, you would always forgive me, and that's why I love you. Don't try to say No—you would."
"We'll see," said I, "or rather, we won't, please God. But oh, you are conceited, Captain Charvel!"
I remember that I asked him, later, if he would forgive me, were there need; and he answered:
"No, by Heaven!" But it was half in jest.
The weeks passed rapidly. Toward the end of August Captain Charvel left Longparish to visit his mother, intending to return on the eve of our marriage. I thought I should be miserable without him, and so I was, in a way. Yet I enjoyed the last quiet days with father in my dear home. The thirty-first of August found all ready, and my wedding-dress spread under a sheet on the spare-room bed. Father and I meant to take a last walk together in the afternoon, but he was called away; so I went out alone into the fields, pondering over the past, and filled with a fluttering joy that nothing could quell. I dared not go far, lest Captain Charvel should arrive in my absence.
I was resting on a stile, my eyes fixed on the church and my thoughts on the future, when, hearing footsteps behind me, I turned and saw a woman cross the meadow. She was apparently a little older than I, young and fair, buxom and neat; her shoes were white with dust, and she had probably come from far, but her lilac print dress was scrupulously clean; a large straw hat was hanging down her back; in one hand she carried a bundle, in the other a green umbrella. I can see her still. "What struck me most was the stolid determination of her walk. She looked weary but unconquerable, and her honest face bore a smile of radiant joy.
"Miss," said she as she approached, "is that Longparish Church?"
"Yes," I replied. "But you are out breath; there is room for two on the stile."
The girl sat down, and, drawing a white handkerchief from the bundle, wiped her rosy cheeks.
"I'm hot," said she, "I've come a good bit of a way."
"Where from?" asked I.
"From Stonyhead."
"From the sea?" I cried; "not to-day?"
"Bless you, no!" laughed the girl. "It's three days since I started."
"Oh, how dreadful," said I. "I hope you've had plenty to eat?"
She shook her head and smiled to herself.
"Thank you. It's not in want of food that I am; it's my heart that is hungry for the sight of a face."
There was something inexpressibly tender in the tone of the girl's voice that went to my heart. I begged her to come home with me and rest.
"I'm not tired, Miss," she replied. "You're very good to me. But my sweetheart lives here, and I've come to fetch him."
"Oh," cried I then, beaming with sympathy, "I'm waiting for my sweetheart! I'm going to be married to-morrow, and you must come to the wedding."
The girl looked solemn.
"It is not I," she said, "that know when mine will be."
In the face of my own happiness I could not bear to see another mournful, so I gently touched her brown hand.
"Aren't you happy?" asked I; "aren't you sure of him? I dare say it's no use asking, but I should like to help you if I could. I want every one in Longparish to be happy to-morrow."
Tears started to her eyes, and I was silent awhile, regretting my words; then I said gently:
"How long is it since you saw him?"
This sympathy seemed to melt the girl; she dropped her bundle and drew nearer.
"Miss," she said, "you are very kind! And since you know what it is to love a man, and since you wish to hear, shall I tell you?"
It was not a long tale. Her name was Susan Wood, and her father had been a coast-guard at Stonyhead. There was a rich family on the cliff, a lonely boy that stole down when he dared, to play with Susan. They were nearly of an age, but she was sturdier than he; and once—they were children then—she wrestled with the waves for his dear life. The boy told his father, who gave the girl a guinea and forbade all future intercourse between them; but still they met almost daily, the lad escaping from his tutor at every opportunity to visit his playmate by the sea, his preserver, the only young creature that brightened his austere young life. And, as year followed year, their love grew to passion. They were no longer children; and the father, seeing a figure scale the wall one night, hastened to the cliff and beheld his son in the arms of the coast-guard's daughter. So the youth was banished. "Susan," cried he at parting, "come what may you are my wife. Always trust, through silence and through ill-report. It may be for years, but keep faith; I am yours only."
He sent her gold and gifts from foreign lands, and letters full of deep affection. When they ceased, the coast-guard thought him dead, but the girl still hoped. His family had left Stonyhead. It was a servant of his mother's, returning home for a while, who told Susan her lover was alive; she had seen letters addressed to him at Longparish.
"We were both silent at the close of the tale, then I said—
"Susan, you have been beautifully faithful. I hope he is worthy of you."
The girl laughed.
"He worthy! I worthy, you mean. I'm a common girl, but he loves me, and I'd work my fingers to the marrow for him. Oh, I can not doubt! I have his word."
I doubted; yet I can say with truth that I was wholly free from presentiment. She spoke of "him," and I understood and respected that dislike to uttering a lover's name; I was besides—and this must be confessed—too full of my own thoughts for sympathy to descend to inquisitiveness. I rose and kissed the girl.
"Bless you, Susan," said I, "I Lope you will be happy. We must be friends." And I asked her once more to take tea with me.
She would not, she must seek him.
"Then I must leave you," said I; "or if you'll come across we can go together. But we must make haste; see! 'tis six o'clock, and Captain Charvel—that's my sweetheart, Susan—may have come."
I was looking toward home; but, hearing no word, turned to my new friend. She was standing just behind me, upright with hanging arms, her gray eyes staring, her flesh colorless. And then I knew.
Speechless we stood before each other, gazing with horror at the wreck of our lives. Her lips quivered.
"The name," she muttered, "the name." And suddenly she seized me by the shoulders. "The name!" she cried; "speak!"
But I uttered no sound, and she let me go. I fell against the hedge; the girl was at my feet.
"Miss," she breathed, "it is not Charvel, not William Charvel, not my Will that I saved from the sea? Say no! I'm a poor girl, his love is all I have. I came to fetch him home."
But still I could not speak. My face was hidden in my hands. I only heard the groaning of the girl, and presently a heavy, fearful thud;—again—again. I looked, and saw her kneeling by the stile, striking her head against the wood.
"What are you doing?" called I; her teeth were clenched, and there was blood upon her face.
"I am killing myself," she said. "God! Christ! Holy angels! I want to die! Kill me, O Lord God! Kill your servant!"
I seized her and kept her down.
"Susan!" I cried, "he is not worth this, he is a devil! We must hold our hearts and live."
But she broke from me with an awful cry, and leaped across the grass to where the river ran.
I know not how long I stayed beside the hedge; it was Miss Dell that roused me, calling my name across the meadow. The sun had set. I crept toward her; for all my deadness I could see the horror in her face, ill masked beneath her smiles.
"Dear," said she, with unwonted tenderness, "come home by the road, Mary, not through the garden, not to-night."
We were already at the wicket; I pushed it open, unclasping her reluctant hands. I can still hear her cry. "Mary! Mary! Oh, for God's sake stop her! To-morrow is her wedding-day."
Father, and some men I knew, were standing by the river; and on the bank lay Susan, dead, her print dress clinging to her buxom form. They would have drawn me to the house, but I crouched down and peered into the dead girl's face; white and wet, staring without sight, gaping without breath, contorted without anguish. And suddenly I heard the garden gate swing, footsteps swift and gay upon the path. It was he. I rose and went toward him; folding my arms behind me as if to shun his outstretched hands, I looked boldly, lovelessly, into his smiling eyes. They were all there--father, and Miss Dell, and the men.
"Captain Charvel," said I, aloud, that all might hear, "there is bad news for you. Your wife is dead."
His smile faded, but he only looked at me as one without understanding, and the silence remained unbroken, save for the murmuring of those around.
"If not your wife," said I then, "the woman who should have borne that name." And I pointed to where she lay.
He started almost imperceptibly, and his head fell low; it was dark, but my keen glance saw all; the twitching lip, the glazed, bewildered eye. Suddenly he drew himself up to his full height; standing before me he scanned me well from head to foot, I meeting with cold defiance the high disdainful sorrow of his gaze. Then, turning to the rest--
"Take up the girl," said he, "and bring her to the church."
They obeyed, as if helplessly, and, raising poor Susan in their arms, bore her solemnly across the lawn, between the graves, along the winding path. And Captain Charvel followed.
Father stood motionless; Miss Dell, poor soul, had sunk on to the ground and wept; it seemed that I alone saw all unmoved.
"Come," said I, "let us go too."
My words roused father; he started forward, and hand in hand we followed hastily, reaching the church just as they prepared to enter.
"Stay!" cried he, sternly, "this must not be. There shall be no defiling of God's house."
Captain Charvel turned round proudly.
"Then lay her here," said he, "for the Spirit of the Father is unconfinable, and the whole earth his altar."
There came a pause; kneeling, he clasped the dead girl's hand, and many knelt with him. Not I; the silent heart in Susan's breast was not more cold than mine.
"I charge you," cried he then, "as many as are here present, in the name of God, to witness this my oath. I swear that from this hour this woman is my wife; nor will I touch another, either in friendship or in love, between this day and the day of my death. Lord! save her! Among the angels let her soul find rest!"
He raised her stiffening fingers to his lips, then rose.
There was no sound but his heavy footfall; slowly he faded into the closing night; and then my dead heart quickened suddenly.
Half blind, half mad, I staggered through the darkness.
"Come back!" I cried. "Come back! you are forgiven."
But he neither turned nor spoke; and when they came to lift me from the ground they thought I never should awaken more.
Such was not the will of Heaven. I lived, and was strong.
"We left Longparish, never to return, and I buried the past in my barren heart, below the reach of words.
I was still young when father left me; and the years rolled on. One day there came a letter telling me that I was possessed of a fortune. I was a gray-haired woman; but the tears I had shed at twenty for him I loved, were not more bitter than those I shed now. Colonel Charvel fell at Cawnpore.