“When you enter the land of dreams, Alice, you come into my peculiar realm. I am the queen of that country, you know. But, of late, I have thought of resigning my throne. Theseendless reveries are really a great waste of time and strength.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes; and Mr. Kavanagh thinks so, too. We talked about it the other evening; and afterwards, upon reflection, I thought he was right.”
And the friends resolved, half in jest and half in earnest, that, from that day forth, the gate of their day-dreams should be closed. And closed it was, ere long; — for one, by the Angel of Life; for the other, by the Angel of Death!
XXIV.
The project of the new Magazine being heard of no more, and Mr. Churchill being consequently deprived of his one hundred and fifty thousand readers, he laid aside the few notes he had made for his papers on the Obscure Martyrs, and turned his thoughts again to the great Romance. A whole leisure Saturday afternoon was before him, — pure gold, without alloy. Ere beginning his task, he stepped forth into his garden to inhale the sunny air, and let his thoughts recede a little, in order to leap farther. When he returned, glowing and radiant with poetic fancies, he found, to his unspeakable dismay, an unknown damsel sitting in his arm-chair. She was rather gayly yet elegantly dressed, and wore a veil, which she raised as Mr. Churchill entered, fixing upon him the full, liquid orbs of her large eyes.
“Mr. Churchill, I suppose?” said she, rising, and stepping forward.
“The same,” replied the school-master, with dignified courtesy.
“And will you permit me,” she continued, not without a certain serene self-possession, “to introduce myself, for want of a better person to do it for me? My name is Cartwright, — Clarissa Cartwright.”
This announcement did not produce that powerful and instantaneous effect on Mr. Churchill which the speaker seemed to anticipate, or at least to hope. His eye did not brighten with any quick recognition, nor did he suddenly exclaim, —
“What! Are you Miss Cartwright, the poetess, whose delightful effusions I have seen in all the magazines?”
On the contrary, he looked rather blank and expectant, and only said, —
“I am very glad to see you; pray sit down.”
So that the young lady herself was obliged to communicate the literary intelligence above alluded to, which she did very gracefully, and then added, —
“I have come to ask a great favor of you,Mr. Churchill, which I hope you will not deny me. By the advice of some friends, I have collected my poems together,” — and here she drew forth from a paper a large, thin manuscript, bound in crimson velvet,— “and think of publishing them in a volume. Now, would you not do me the favor to look them over, and give me your candid opinion, whether they are worth publishing? I should value your advice so highly!”
This simultaneous appeal to his vanity and his gallantry from a fair young girl, standing on the verge of that broad, dangerous ocean, in which so many have perished, and looking wistfully over its flashing waters to the shores of the green Isle of Palms, — such an appeal, from such a person, it was impossible for Mr. Churchill to resist. He made, however, a faint show of resistance, — a feeble grasping after some excuse for refusal, — and then yielded. He received from Clarissa’s delicate, trembling hand the precious volume, and from her eyes a still more precious look of thanks, and then said, —
“What name do you propose to give the volume?”
“Symphonies of the Soul, and other Poems,”said the young lady; “and, if you like them, and it would not be asking too much, I should be delighted to have you write a Preface, to introduce the work to the public. The publisher says it would increase the sale very considerably.”
“Ah, the publisher! yes, but that is not very complimentary to yourself,” suggested Mr. Churchill. “I can already see your Poems rebelling against the intrusion of my Preface, and rising like so many nuns in a convent to expel the audacious foot that has dared to invade their sacred precincts.”
But it was all in vain, this pale effort at pleasantry. Objection was useless; and the soft-hearted school-master a second time yielded gracefully to his fate, and promised the Preface. The young lady took her leave with a profusion of thanks and blushes; and the dainty manuscript, with its delicate chirography and crimson cover, remained in the hands of Mr. Churchill, who gazed at it less as a Paradise of Dainty Devices than as a deed or mortgage of so many precious hours of his own scanty inheritance of time.
Afterwards, when he complained a little of this to his wife, — who, during the interview, had peeped in at the door, and, seeing how he was occupied, had immediately withdrawn, — she said that nobody was to blame but himself; that he should learn to say “No!” and not do just as every romantic little girl from the Academy wanted him to do; adding, as a final aggravation and climax of reproof, that she really believed he never would, and never meant to, begin his Romance!
XXV.
Not long afterwards, Kavanagh and Mr. Churchill took a stroll together across the fields, and down green lanes, walking all the bright, brief afternoon. From the summit of the hill, beside the old windmill, they saw the sun set; and, opposite, the full moon rise, dewy, large, and red. As they descended, they felt the heavy dampness of the air, like water, rising to meet them, — bathing with coolness first their feet, then their hands, then their faces, till they were submerged in that sea of dew. As they skirted the woodland on their homeward way, trampling the golden leaves under foot, they heard voices at a distance, singing; and then saw the lights of the camp-meeting gleaming through the trees, and, drawing nearer, distinguished a portion of the hymn: —
“Don’t you hear the Lord a-coming
To the old church-yards,
With a band of music,
With a band of music,
With a band of music,
Sounding through the air?”
These words, at once awful and ludicrous, rose on the still twilight air from a hundred voices, thrilling with emotion, and from as many beating, fluttering, struggling hearts. High above them all was heard one voice, clear and musical as a clarion.
“I know that voice,” said Mr. Churchill; “it is Elder Evans’s.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Kavanagh, — for only the impression of awe was upon him,— “he never acted in a deeper tragedy than this! How terrible it is! Let us pass on.”
They hurried away, Kavanagh trembling in every fibre. Silently they walked, the music fading into softest vibrations behind them.
“How strange is this fanaticism!” at length said Mr. Churchill, rather as a relief to his own thoughts, than for the purpose of reviving the conversation. “These people really believe that the end of the world is close at hand.”
“And to thousands,” answered Kavanagh, “this is no fiction, — no illusion of an over-heated imagination. To-day, to-morrow, every day, to thousands, the end of the world is close at hand. And why should we fear it? We walk here as it were in the crypts of life; at times, from the great cathedral above us, we can hear the organ and the chanting of the choir; we see the light stream through the open door, when some friend goes up before us; and shall we fear to mount the narrow staircase of the grave, that leads us out of this uncertain twilight into the serene mansions of the life eternal?”
They reached the wooden bridge over the river, which the moonlight converted into a river of light. Their footsteps sounded on the planks; they passed without perceiving a female figure that stood in the shadow below on the brink of the stream, watching wistfully the steady flow of the current. It was Lucy! Her bonnet and shawl were lying at her feet; and when they had passed, she waded far out into the shallow stream, laid herself gently down in its deeper waves, and floated slowly away into the moon-light, among the golden leaves that were faded and fallen like herself, — among the water-lilies,whose fragrant white blossoms had been broken off and polluted long ago. Without a struggle, without a sigh, without a sound, she floated downward, downward, and silently sa
nk into the silent river. Far off, faint, and indistinct, was heard the startling hymn, with its wild and peculiar melody, —
“O, there will be mourning, mourning, mourning, mourning, —
O, there will be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ!”
Kavanagh’s heart was full of sadness. He left Mr. Churchill at his door, and proceeded homeward. On passing his church, he could not resist the temptation to go in. He climbed to his chamber in the tower, lighted by the moon. He sat for a long time gazing from the window, and watching a distant and feeble candle, whose rays scarcely reached him across the brilliant moon-lighted air. Gentler thoughts stole over him; an invisible presence soothed him; an invisible hand was laid upon his head, and the trouble and unrest of his spirit were changed to peace.
“Answer me, thou mysterious future!” exclaimedhe; “tell me, — shall these things be according to my desires?”
And the mysterious future, interpreted by those desires, replied, —
“Soon thou shalt know all. It shall be well with thee!”
XXVI.
On the following morning, Kavanagh sat as usual in his study in the tower. No traces were left of the heaviness and sadness of the preceding night. It was a bright, warm morning; and the window, open towards the south, let in the genial sunshine. The odor of decaying leaves scented the air; far off flashed the hazy river.
Kavanagh’s heart, however, was not at rest. At times he rose from his books, and paced up and down his little study; then took up his hat as if to go out; then laid it down again, and again resumed his books. At length he arose, and, leaning on the window-sill, gazed for a long time on the scene before him. Some thought was laboring in his bosom, some doubt or fear, which alternated with hope, but thwarted any fixed resolve.
Ah, how pleasantly that fair autumnal landscape smiled upon him! The great golden elms that marked the line of the village street, and under whose shadows no beggars sat; the air of comfort and plenty, of neatness, thrift, and equality, visible everywhere; and from far-off farms the sound of flails, beating the triumphal march of Ceres through the land; — these were the sights and sounds that greeted him as he looked. Silently the yellow leaves fell upon the graves in the church-yard; and the dew glistened in the grass, which was still long and green.
Presently his attention was arrested by a dove, pursued by a little kingfisher, who constantly endeavoured to soar above it, in order to attack it at greater advantage. The flight of the birds, thus shooting through the air at arrowy speed, was beautiful. When they were opposite the tower, the dove suddenly wheeled, and darted in at the open window, while the pursuer held on his way with a long sweep, and was out of sight in a moment.
At the first glance, Kavanagh recognized the dove, which lay panting on the floor. It was the same he had seen Cecilia buy of the little man in gray. He took it in his hands. Its heartwas beating violently. About its neck was a silken band; beneath its wing, a billet, upon which was a single word, “Cecilia.” The bird, then, was on its way to Cecilia Vaughan. He hailed the omen as auspicious, and, immediately closing the window, seated himself at his table, and wrote a few hurried words, which, being carefully folded and sealed, he fastened to the band, and then hastily, as if afraid his purpose might be changed by delay, opened the window and set the bird at liberty. It sailed once or twice round the tower, apparently uncertain and bewildered, or still in fear of its pursuer. Then, instead of holding its way over the fields to Cecilia Vaughan, it darted over the roofs of the village, and alighted at the window of Alice Archer.
Having written that morning to Cecilia something urgent and confidential, she was already waiting the answer; and, not doubting that the bird had brought it, she hastily untied the silken band, and, without looking at the superscription, opened the first note that fell on the table. It was very brief; only a few lines, and not a name mentioned in it; an impulse, an ejaculation of love; every line quivering with electric fire, — every word a pulsation of the writer’s heart. It was signed “Arthur Kavanagh.”
Overwhelmed by the suddenness and violence of her emotions, Alice sat for a long time motionless, holding the open letter in her hand. Then she read it again, and then relapsed into her dream of joy and wonder. It would be difficult to say which of the two emotions was the greater, — her joy that her prayer for love should be answered, and so answered, — her wonder that Kavanagh should have selected her! In the tumult of her sensations, and hardly conscious of what she was doing, she folded the note and replaced it in its envelope. Then, for the first time, her eye fell on the superscription. It was “Cecilia Vaughan.” Alice fainted.
On recovering her senses, her first act was one of heroism. She sealed the note, attached it to the neck of the pigeon, and sent the messenger rejoicing on his journey. Then her feelings had way, and she wept long and bitterly. Then, with a desperate calmness, she reproved her own weakness and selfishness, and felt that she ought to rejoice in the happiness of her friend, and sacrifice her affection, even her life, to her. Her heart exculpated Kavanagh fromall blame. He had not deluded her; she had deluded herself. She alone was in fault; and in deep humiliation, with wounded pride and wounded love, and utter self-abasement, she bowed her head and prayed for consolation and fortitude.
One consolation she already had. The secret was her own. She had not revealed it even to Cecilia. Kavanagh did not suspect it. Public curiosity, public pity, she would not have to undergo.
She was resigned. She made the heroic sacrifice of self, leaving her sorrow to the great physician, Time, — the nurse of care, the healer of all smarts, the soother and consoler of all sorrows. And, thenceforward, she became unto Kavanagh what the moon is to the sun, for ever following, for ever separated, for ever sad!
As a traveller, about to start upon his journey, resolved and yet irresolute, watches the clouds, and notes the struggle between the sunshine and the showers, and says, “It will be fair; I will go,” — and again says, “Ah, no, not yet; the rain is not yet over,” — so at this same hour sat Cecilia Vaughan, resolved and yet irresolute, longing to depart upon the fair journey beforeher, and yet lingering on the paternal threshold, as if she wished both to stay and to go, seeing the sky was not without its clouds, nor the road without its dangers.
It was a beautiful picture, as she sat there with sweet perplexity in her face, and above it an immortal radiance streaming from her brow. She was like Guercino’s Sibyl, with the scroll of fate and the uplifted pen; and the scroll she held contained but three words, — three words that controlled the destiny of a man, and, by their soft impulsion, directed for evermore the current of his thoughts. They were, —
“Come to me!”
The magic syllables brought Kavanagh to her side. The full soul is silent. Only the rising and falling tides rush murmuring through their channels. So sat the lovers, hand in hand; but for a long time neither spake, — neither had need of speech!
XXVII.
In the afternoon, Cecilia went to communicate the news to Alice with her own lips, thinking it too important to be intrusted to the wings of the carrier-pigeon. As she entered the door, the cheerful doctor was coming out; but this was no unusual apparition, and excited no alarm. Mrs. Archer, too, according to custom, was sitting in the little parlour with her decrepit old neighbour, who seemed almost to have taken up her abode under that roof, so many hours of every day did she pass there.
With a light, elastic step, Cecilia bounded up to Alice’s room. She found her reclining in her large chair, flushed and excited. Sitting down by her side, and taking both her hands, she said, with great emotion in the tones of her voice, —
“Dearest Alice, I have brought you somenews that I am sure will make you well. For my sake, you will be no longer ill when you hear it. I am engaged to Mr. Kavanagh!”
Alice feigned no surprise at this announcement. She returned the warm pressure of Cecilia’s hand, and, looking affectionately in her face, said very calmly, —
“I knew it wou
ld be so. I knew that he loved you, and that you would love him.”
“How could I help it?” said Cecilia, her eyes beaming with dewy light; “could any one help loving him?”
“No,” answered Alice, throwing her arms around Cecilia’s neck, and laying her head upon her shoulder; “at least, no one whom he loved. But when did this happen? Tell me all about it, dearest!”
Cecilia was surprised, and perhaps a little hurt, at the quiet, almost impassive manner in which her friend received this great intelligence. She had expected exclamations of wonder and delight, and such a glow of excitement as that with which she was sure she should have hailed the announcement of Alice’s engagement. But this momentary annoyance was soon swept away by the tide of her own joyous sensations, as sheproceeded to recall to the recollection of her friend the thousand little circumstances that had marked the progress of her love and Kavanagh’s; things which she must have noticed, which she could not have forgotten; with questions interspersed at intervals, such as, “Do you recollect when?” and “I am sure you have not forgotten, have you?” and dreamy little pauses of silence, and intercalated sighs. She related to her, also, the perilous adventure of the carrier-pigeon; how it had been pursued by the cruel kingfisher; how it had taken refuge in Kavanagh’s tower, and had been the bearer of his letter, as well as her own. When she had finished, she felt her bosom wet with the tears of Alice, who was suffering martyrdom on that soft breast, so full of happiness. Tears of bitterness, — tears of blood! And Cecilia, in the exultant temper of her soul at the moment, thought them tears of joy, and pressed Alice closer to her heart, and kissed and caressed her.
“Ah, how very happy you are, Cecilia!” at length sighed the poor sufferer, in that slightly querulous tone, to which Cecilia was not unaccustomed; “how very happy you are, and how very wretched am I! You have all the joy oflife, I all its loneliness. How little you will think of me now! How little you will need me! I shall be nothing to you, — you will forget me.”
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 180
