Cord and Creese
Page 26
CHAPTER XXVI.
CLASPED HANDS.
Their singing went on.
They used to meet once a week and sing in the church at the organ.Despard always went up to the Grange and accompanied her to the church.Yet he scarcely ever went at any other time. A stronger connection anda deeper familiarity arose between them, which yet was accompanied by aprofound reverence on Despard's part, that never diminished, but as thefamiliarity increased only grew more tender and more devoted.
There were many things about their music which he had to say to her. Itconstituted a common bond between them on which they could talk, and towhich they could always revert. It formed a medium for the communion ofsoul--a lofty, spiritual intercourse, where they seemed to blend, evenas their voices blended, in a purer realm, free from the trouble ofearth.
Amidst it all Despard had so much to tell her about the nature of theEastern music that he wrote out a long letter, which he gave her theyparted after an unusually lengthy practice. Part of it was on thesubject of music, and the rest of a different character.
The next time that they met she gave him a note in response.
"DEAR MR. DESPARD--Why am I not a seraph endowed with musical powersbeyond mortal reach? You tell me many things, and never seem toimagine that they are all beyond me. You never seem to think that I amhopelessly commonplace. You are kind in doing what you do, but where isthe good where one is so stupid as I am?
"I suppose you have given up visiting the Grange forever. I don't callyour coming to take me to the church _visits_. I suppose I may as wellgive you up. It is as difficult to get you here as if you were the GrandLama of Thibet.
"Amidst all my stupidities I have two or three ideas which may be usefulin our music, if I can only put them in practice. Bear with me, and dealgently with
"Yours, despondingly,
"T. T."
To this Despard replied in a note which he gave her at their nextmeeting, calling her "Dear Seraph," and signing himself "Grand Lama."After this they always called each other by these names. Grand Lama wasan odd name, but it became the sweetest of sounds to Despard sinceit was uttered by her lips--the sweetest, the most musical, and thetenderest. As to himself he knew not what to call this dear companion ofhis youth, but the name Seraph came into use, and grew to be associatedwith her, until at last he never called her any thing else.
Yet after this he used to go to the Grange more frequently. He couldnot stay away. His steps wandered there irresistibly. An uncontrollableimpulse forced him there. She was always alone awaiting him, generallywith a sweet confusion of face and a tenderness of greeting which madehim feel ready to fall on his knees before her. How else could he feel?Was she not always in his thoughts? Were not all his sleeping hours onelong dream of her? Were not all his waiting thoughts filled with herradiant presence?
"How is it under our control To love or not to love?"
Did he know what it was that he felt for her? He never thought. Enoughthat he felt. And that feeling was one long agony of intense longing andyearning after her. Had not all his life been filled by that one brightimage?
Youth gave it to him. After-years could not efface it. The impress ofher face was upon his heart. Her voice was always in his ears. Everyword that she had ever spoken to him was treasured up in his memory andheart with an avarice of love which prevented any one word from evenbeing forgotten.
At church and at home, during service and out of it, in the street orin the study, he saw only one face, and heard only one voice. Amidst thebustle of committee meetings he was conscious of her image--a sweet facesmiling on him, a tender voice saying "Lama." Was there ever so musicaland so dear a word as "Lama?" For him, never.
The hunger of his longing grew stronger every day. That strong, proud,self-secluded nature of his was most intense in all its feelings, anddwelt with concentrated passion upon this one object of its idolatry. Hehad never had any other object but this one.
A happy boyhood passed in the society of this sweet playmate, then ayoung girl of his own age; a happy boyhood here in Holby, where they hadalways been inseparable, wandering hand in hand along the shore or overthe hills; a happy boyhood where she was the one and only companionwhom he knew or cared for--this was the sole legacy of his early life.Leaving Holby he had left her, but had never forgotten her. He hadcarried with him the tender memory of this bright being, and cherishedhis undying fondness, not knowing what that fondness meant. He hadreturned to find her married, and severed from him forever, at least inthis life. When he found that he had lost her he began to understandhow dear she was. All life stood before him aimless, pointless, andmeaningless without her. He came back, but the old intercourse could notbe renewed; she could not be his, and he could only live, and love, andendure. Perhaps it would have been wiser if he had at once left Holbyand sought out some other abode. But the discovery of his love wasgradual; it came through suffering and anguish; and when he knew thathis love was so intense it was then impossible to leave. To be near her,to breathe the same air, to see her face occasionally, to nurse his oldmemories, to hoard up new remembrances of her words and looks--thesenow became the chief occupation of his hours of solitude, and the onlyhappiness left him in his life.
One day he went up with a stronger sense of desolation in his heart thanusual, going up to see her in order to get consolation from the sight ofher face and the sound of her voice. Their former levity had given placeto a seriousness of manner which was very different. A deep, intense joyshone in the eyes of each at meeting, but that quick repartee and lightbadinage which they had used of old had been dropped.
Music was the one thing of which they could speak without fear. Despardcould talk of his Byzantine poets, and the chants of the Eastern Church,without being in danger of reawakening painful memories. The piano stoodclose by, and always afforded a convenient mode of distracting attentionwhen it became too absorbed in one another.
For Mrs. Thornton did not repel him; she did not resent his longing; shedid not seem forgetful of what he so well remembered. How was it withher who had given her hand to another?
"What she felt the while Dare he think?"
Yet there were times when he thought it possible that she might feel ashe did. The thought brought joy, but it also brought fear. For, if thestruggle against this feeling needed all the strength of his nature,what must it cost her? If she had such a struggle as he, how could sheendure it? Then, as he considered this, he thought to himself that hewould rather she would not love him than love him at such a cost. He waswilling to sacrifice his own heart. He wished only to adore her, and wascontent that she should receive, and permit, and accept his adoration,herself unmoved--a passionless divinity.
In their intercourse it was strange how frequently there were longpauses of perfect silence, during which neither spoke a word. Sometimeseach sat looking at the floor; sometimes they looked at one another, asthough they could read each other's thoughts, and by the mere gaze oftheir earnest eyes could hold ample spiritual communion.
On one such occasion they stood by the window looking out upon the lawn,but seeing nothing in that abstracted gaze. Despard stood facing her,close to her. Her hand was hanging by her side. He stooped and took thatlittle slender hand in his. As he did so he trembled from head to foot.As he did so a faint flush passed over her face. Her head fell forward.Despard held her hand and she did not withdraw it. Despard drew herslightly toward him. She looked up into his face with large, eloquenteyes, sad beyond all description, yet speaking things which thrilled hissoul. He looked down upon her with eyes that told her all that was inhis heart. She turned her head away.
Despard clung to her hand as though that hand were his life, his hope,his joy--as though that alone could save him from some abyss of despairinto which he was falling. His lips moved. In vain. No audible soundbroke that intense stillness in which the beating and throbbing of thosetwo forlorn hearts could be heard. His lips moved, but all sound diedaway upon them.
At last a stronger e
ffort broke the silence.
"Teresa!"
It was a strange tone, a tone of longing unutterable, a tone like thatwhich a dying man might use in calling before him one most dear. And allthe pent-up feeling of years rushed forth in concentrated energy, andwas borne to her ears in the sound of that one word. She looked up withthe same glance as before.
"Little playmate," said he, in a tone of infinite sweetness, "have youever forgotten the old days? Do you remember when you and I last stoodhand in hand?"
His voice sounded like the utterance of tears, as though, if he couldhave wept, he would then have wept as no man wept before, but his eyeswere dry through his manhood, and all that tears can express were shownforth in his tone.
As he began to speak her head fell again. As he ended she looked up asbefore. Her lips moved. She whispered but one word:
"Courtenay!"
She burst into a flood of tears and sank into a chair. And Despardstood, not daring even to soothe her, for fear lest in that vehementconvulsion of his soul all his self-command should give way utterly.
At length Mrs. Thornton rose. "Lama," said she, at last, in a low, sadvoice, "let us go to the piano."
"Will you sing the _Ave Maria_" he asked, mournfully.
"I dare not," said she, hastily. "No, anything but that. I will singRossini's _Cujus Animam_."
Then followed those words which tell in lofty strains of a broken heart:
Cujus animam gementem Contristatam et flebentem Pertransivit gladius!