“And I have made it so? Oh, Paul, can you never forgive me and forget my sin?”
“Never, Clotilde; it is too horrible.”
I broke from her trembling hold, and covered up mv face, for suddenlv the woman whom I once loved had grown abhorrent to me. For many minutes neither spoke or stirred; my heart seemed dead within me, and w hat went on in that stormv soul I shall never know'. Suddenly I was called, and as I turned to leave her, she seized both my hands in a despairing grasp, covered them with tender kisses, wet them with repentant tears, and clung to them in a paroxysm of love, remorse, and grief, till I was forced to go, leaving her alone with the memory of her sin.
That night I was like one in a terrible dream; every thing looked unreal, and like an automaton I plaved my part, for ahvavs before me I seemed to see that shattered body and to hear again that beloved voice confessing a black crime. Rumors of the accident had crept out, and damped the spirits of the audience, yet it was as w ell, perhaps, for it made them lenient to the short-comings of the actors, and lent another shadow' to the mimic tragedy that slowly darkened to its close. Clotilde’s unnatural composure would have been a marvel to me had I not been past surprise at any demonstration on her part. A wide gulf now lay between us, and it seemed impossible for me to cross it. The generous, tender w oman w hom I first loved, was still as beautiful and dear to me as ever, but as much lost as if death had parted us. The desperate, despairing creature I had learned to know w ithin an hour, seemed like an embodiment of the murderous spirit w hich had haunted me that day, and though by heaven’s mercy it had not conquered me, yet I now hated it with remorseful intensity. So strangely were the two images blended in my troubled mind that I could not separate them, and they exerted a mysterious influence over me. When with Clotilde she seemed all she had ever been, and I enacted the lover w ith a power I had never known before, feeling the while that it might be for the last time. When away from her the darker impression returned, and the wildest of the poet’s words were not too strong to embody my own sorrow and despair. They told me long afterwards that never had the tragedy been better played, and I could believe it, for the hapless Italian lovers never found better representatives than in us that night.
Worn out with suffering and excitement, I longed for solitude and silence with a desperate longing, and when Romeo murmured, “With a kiss I die,” I fell beside the bier, wishing that I too was done with life. Lying there, I watched Clotilde, through the little that remained, and so truly, tenderly, did she render the pathetic scene that my heart softened; all the early love returned strong, and warm as ever, and I felt that I could forgive. As she knelt to draw my dagger, I whispered, warningly,
“Be careful, dear, it is very sharp.”
“I know it,” she answered with a shudder, then cried aloud,
“Oh happy dagger! this is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.”
Again I saw the white arm raised, the flash of steel as Juliet struck the blow that was to free her, and sinking down beside her lover, seemed to breathe her life away.
“I thank God it’s over,” I ejaculated, a few minutes later, as the curtain slowly fell. Clotilde did not answer, and feeling how cold the cheek that touched my own had grown, I thought she had given way at last.
“She has fainted; lift her, Denon, and let me rise,” I cried, as Count Paris sprang up with a joke.
“Good God, she has hurt herself with that cursed dagger!” he exclaimed, as raising her he saw a red stain on the white draperies she wore.
I staggered to my feet, and laid her on the bier she had just left, but no mortal skill could heal that hurt, and Juliet’s grave-clothes were her own. Deaf to the enthusiastic clamor that demanded our re-appearance, blind to the confusion and dismay about me, I leaned over her passionately, conjuring her to give me one word of pardon and farewell. As if my voice had power to detain her, even when death called, the dark eyes, full of remorseful love, met mine again, and feebly drawing from her breast a paper, she motioned Keen to take it, murmuring in a tone that changed from solemn affirmation to the tenderest penitence,
“Lamar is innocent — I did it. This will prove it. Paul, I have tried to atone — oh, forgive me, and remember me for my love’s sake.”
I did forgive her; and she died, smiling on my breast. I did remember her through a long, lonely life, and never played again since the night of that DOUBLE TRAGEDY.
Ariel. A Legend of the Lighthouse
PART I
“GOOD MORNING, Mr. Southesk. Aren’t you for the sea, to-day?”
“Good morning, Miss Lawrence. I am only waiting for my boat to be off.”
As he answered her blithe greeting, the voting man looked up from the rock w here he was lounging, and a most charming object rewarded him for the exertion of lifting his dreamy eves. Some women have the skill to make even a bathing costume graceful and picturesque; and Miss Lawrence knew that she looked well in her blue suit, with loosened hair blowing about her handsome face, glimpses of white ankles through the net-work of her bathing- sandals, and a general breeziness of aspect that became her better than the most elaborate toilet she could make. A shade of disappointment w'as visible on receiving the answer to her question, and her voice was slightly imperious, for all its sweetness, as she said, pausing beside the indolent figure that lay basking in the sunshine.
“I meant bathing, not boating, w hen I spoke of the sea. Will you not join our party and give us another exhibition of your skill in aquatic gymnastics?”
“No, thank you; the beach is too tame for me; I prefer deep water, heavy surf and a spice of danger, to give zest to my pastime.”
The languid voice was curiously at variance with the words; and Miss Lawrence almost involuntarily exclaimed —
“You are the strangest mixture of indolence and energy I ever knew! To see you now, one would find it difficult to believe the stories told of your feats by land and sea; yet I know that you deserve your soubriquet of ‘Bayard,’ as well as the other they give you of ‘Dolce far niente.’ You are as changeable as the ocean which you love so well; but we never see the moon that rules your ebb and flow.”
Ignoring the first part of her speech, Southesk replied to the last sentence with sudden animation.
“I am fond of the sea, and well I may be, for I was born on it, both my parents lie buried in it, and out of it my fate is yet to come.”
“Your fate?” echoed Miss Lawrence, full of the keenest interest, for he seldom spoke of himself, and seemed anxious to forget the past in the successful present, and the promising future. Some passing mood made him unusually frank, for he answered, as his fine eyes roved far across the glittering expanse before them —
“Yes, I once had my fortune told by a famous wizard, and it has haunted me ever since. I am not superstitious, but I cannot help attaching some importance to her prediction:
‘Watch by the sea-shore early and late,
For out of its depths will rise your fate,
Both love and life will be darkly crossed,
And a single hour see all won or lost.’
“That was the prophecy; and though I have little faith in it, yet I am irresistibly drawn towards the sea, and continually find myself watching and waiting for the fate it is to bring me.”
“May it be a happy one.”
All the imperiousness was gone from the woman’s voice, and her eyes turned as wistfully as her companion’s, to the mysterious ocean which had already brought her fate. Neither spoke for a moment. Southesk, busied with some fancy of his own, continued to scan the blue waves that rolled to meet the horizon, and Helen scanned his face with an expression which many men would have given much to have awakened, for the world said that Miss Lawrence was as proud and cold as she was beautiful. Love and longing met and mingled in the glance she fixed on that unconscious countenance; and once, with an involuntary impulse, her small hand was raised to smooth away the wind-tossed hair that streaked his forehead, as he sat with uncovered head
, smiling to himself — forgetful of her presence. She caught back her hand in time and turned away to hide the sudden color that dyed her cheeks at the momentary impulse which would have betrayed her to a less absorbed companion. Before she could break the silence, there came a call from a group gathered on the smoother beach beyond, and, glad of another chance to gain her wish, she said, in a tone that would have won compliance from any man except Southesk:
“They are waiting for us; can I not tempt vou to join the mermaids yonder, and let the boat wait till it’s cooler?”
But he shook his head with a wilful little gesture, and looked about him for his hat, as if eager to escape, vet answered smiling — “I’ve a prior engagement with the mermaid of the island, and, as a gallant man, must keep it, or expect shipwreck on mv next voyage. Are you ready, Jack?” he added, as Miss Lawrence moved away, and he strolled towards an old boatman, busy with his wherry.
“In a jiffy, sir. So you’ve seen her, have you?” said the man, pausing in his work.
“Seen whom?”
“The mermaid at the island.”
“No; I only fabricated that excuse to rid myself of the amiable young ladies w ho bore me to death. You look as if you had a yarn to spin; so spin away while you work, for 1 want to be oft.”
“Well, sir, I jest thought vou’d like to know that there is a mar- maid down there, as you’re fond of odd and pretty things. No one has seen her but me, or I should a heard of it, and I've told no one but ray wife, being afraid of Rough Ralph, as we call the light house-keeper. He don’t like folks cornin’ round his place; and if I said a word about the marmaid, every one would go swarmin’ to the island to hunt up the pretty creeter, and drive Ralph into a rage.”
“Never mind Ralph; tell me how and where you saw the mermaid; asleep in your boat, I fancy.”
“No, sir; wide awake and sober. I had a notion one dav to row round the island, and take a look at the chasm, as they call a great split in the rock that stands up most as high as the lighthouse. It goes from top to bottom of the Gull’s Perch, and the sea flows through it, foamin’ and ragin’ like mad, when the tide rises. The waves have worn holes in the rocks on both sides of the chasm, and in one of these basins I see the marmaid, as plain as I see vou.”
“What was she doing, Jack?”
“Singin’ and combin’ her hair; so I knew she was gennywine.”
“Her hair was green or blue, of course,” said Southesk, with such visible incredulity that old Jack was nettled and answered gruffly.
“It was darker and curlier than the lady’s that’s jest gone; so was her face handsomer, her voice sw eeter, and her arms whiter; believe it or not as you please.”
“How about the fins and scales, Jack?”
“Not a sign of ’em, sir. She w7as half in the w ater, and had on some sort of white gown, so I couldn’t see w hether there w'ere feet or a tail. But I’ll sw7ear I saw7 her; and I’ve got her comb to prove it.”
“Her comb! let me see it, and I shall find it easier to believe the story,” said the young man, with a lazy sort of curiosity.
Old Jack produced a dainty little comb, apparently made of a pearly shell, cut and carved w ith much skill, and bearing tw7o letters on its back.
“Faith! it is a pretty thing, and none but a mermaid could have owned it. How did you get it?” asked Southesk, carefully examining the delicate lines and letters, and washing that the tale could be true, tor the vision of the fair-faced mermaiden pleased his romantic fancy.
“It was this way, sir,” replied Jack. “I was so took aback that I sung out before I’d had a good look at her. She see me, give a little screech, and dived out of sight. I waited to see her come up, but she didn’t; so I rowed as nigh as I dared, and got the comb she’d dropped; then I went home and told mv wife. She advised me to hold my tongue and not go agin, as I wanted to; so I give it up; but I’m dreadful eager to have another look at the little thing, and I guess you’d find it worth w hile to try for a sight of her.”
“I can see women bathing without that long row, and don’t believe Ralph’s daughter would care to be disturbed again.”
“He ain’t got any, sir — neither w ife nor child; and no one on the island but him and his mate — a gruff chap that never comes ashore, and don’t care for nothin’ but keepin’ the lantern tidy.” Southesk stood a moment measuring the distance between the main land and the island, with his eye, for Jack’s last speech gave an air of mvsterv to what before had seemed a very simple matter.
“You say Ralph is not fond of having visitors, and rarely leaves the lighthouse; what else do you know about him?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir, only he’s a sober, brave, faithful man that does his duty well, and seems to like that bleak, lonesome lighthouse more than most folks would. He’s seen better days, I guess, for there’s something of the gentleman about him in spite of his rough wavs. Now she’s ready, sir, and you’re just in time to find the little marmaid doin’ up her hair.”
“I want to visit the light-house, and am fond of adventures, so I think I’ll follow' your advice. What will you take for this comb, Jack?” asked Southesk, as the old man left his work, and the wherry danced invitingly upon the water.
“Nothing from you, sir; you’re welcome to it, for my wife’s fretted ever since I had it, and I’m glad to be rid of it. It ain't every one I give it to, or tell about what I saw; but you’ve done me more’n one good turn, and I’m eager to give you a bit of pleasure to pay for ’em. On the further side of the island you’ll find the chasm. It’s a dangerous place, but you’re a reg’lar fish; so I’ll risk you. Good luck, and let me know how you get on.”
“What do you suppose the letters stand for?” asked Southesk, as he put the comb in his pocket, and trimmed his boat.
“Why, A. M. stands for a Mermaid; don’t it?” answered Jack, soberly.
“I’ll find another meaning for them before I come back. Keep your secret, and I’ll do the same, for I want the mermaid all to myself.”
With a laugh the young man skimmed away, deaf to the voices of the fashionable syrens, who vainly endeavored to detain him, and blind to the wistful glances following the energetic figure that bent to the oars with a strength and skill which soon left the beach and its gay groups far behind.
The light-house was built on the tallest cliff of the island, and the only safe landing place appeared to be at the foot of the rock, whence a precipitous path and an iron ladder led to the main entrance of the tower. Barren and forbidding it looked, even in the glow of the summer sun, and remembering Ralph’s dislike of visitors, Southesk resolved to explore the chasm alone, and ask leave of no one. Rowing along the craggy shore he came to the enormous rift that cleft the rocks from top to bottom. Bold and skillful as he was he dared not venture very near, for the tide was coming in, and each advancing billow threatened to sweep the boat into the chasm, where angry waves chafed and foamed, filling the dark hollow with a cloud of spray and reverberating echoes that made a mellow din.
Intent on watching the splendid spectacle he forgot to look for the mermaid, till something white flashed by, and turning with a start he saw a human face rise from the sea, follow ed by a pair of w hite arms, that beckoned as the lips smiled and the bright eyes w atched him w hile he sat motionless, till, with a sound of musical laughter, the phantom vanished.
Uttering an exclamation, he was about to follow, when a violent shock made him reel in his seat, and a glance showed him the peril he was in, for the boat had drifted between two rocks; the next wave would shatter it.
The instinct of self-preservation being stronger than curiosity, he pulled for his life and escaped just in time.
Steering into calmer w ater he took an observation, and decided to land if possible, and search the chasm where the watery sprite or bathing-girl had seemed to take refuge. It was some time, however, before he found any safe harbor, and with much difficulty he at last gained the shore, breathless, wet and weary.
Gui
ded by the noise of the waves he came at length to the brink of the precipice and looked down. There were ledges and crannies enough to afford foothold for a fearless climber, and full of the pleasurable excitement of danger and adventures, Southesk swung himself down with a steady head, strong hand and agile foot. Not many steps were taken when he paused suddenly, for the sound of a voice arrested him. Fitfully it rose and fell through the dash of advancing and retreating billows, but he heard it distinctly, and with redoubled eagerness looked and listened.
Half-way down the chasm lav a mass of rock, firmly wedged between the two sides by some convulsion of nature which had hurled it there. Years had evidently passed since it fell, for a tree had taken root and shot up, fed by a little patch of earth, and sheltered from wind and storm in that secluded spot. W ild vines, led by their instinct for the light, climbed along either wall and draped the cliff with green. Some careful hand had been at w ork, how ever, for a few hardy plants blossomed in the almost sunless nook; every niche held a delicate fern, every tiny basin was full of some rare old weed, and here and there a suspended shell contained a tuft of greenish moss, or a bird’s eggs, or some curious treasure gathered from the deep. The sombre verdure of the little pine concealed a part of this airv nest, but from the hidden nook the sweet voice rose singing a song well suited to the scene —
“Oh, come unto the yellow sands.”
Feeling as if he had stepped into a fairy tale, the young man paused with suspended breath till the last soft note and its softer echo had died awav, then he noiselessly crept on. Soon his quick eye discovered a rope ladder, half hidden by the vines and evidently used as a path to the marine bower below. Availing himself of it he descended a few steps, but not far, for a strong gust blew up the rift, and swaying aside the leafy screen disclosed the object of his search. No mermaid but a young girl, sitting and singing like a bird in her green nest.
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