Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 20

by A Double Life (v1. 1)

  “Philip Southesk is not your true name, then?”

  “No; I took it at my good old friends desire. But you shall choose which name you will bear, when you let me put a more precious ring than this on the dear little hand I came to ask you for. Will you marry Philip Southesk or Richard Marston, my Ariel?”

  If she had leaped down into the chasm the act would not have amazed him more than the demonstration which followed these playful, yet tender words. A stifled exclamation broke from her, all the color died out of her face, in her eyes grief deepened to despair, and when he approached her she shrunk from him with a gesture of repulsion that cut him to the heart.

  “What is it? Are you ill? How have I offended you? Tell me, my darling, and let me make my peace at any cost,” he cried, bewildered by the sudden and entire change that had passed over her.

  “No, no; it is impossible. You must not call me that. I must not listen to you. Go — go at once, and never come again. Oh, why did I not know this sooner?” and, covering up her face, she burst into a passion of tears.

  “How could you help knowing that I loved you when I showed it so plainly — it seemed hardly necessary to put it into words. Why do you shrink from me with such abhorrence? Explain this strange change, Ariel. I have a right to ask it,” he demanded distressfully.

  “I can explain nothing till I have seen my father. Forgive me. This is harder for me to hear than it ever can be for you,” she answered through her grief, and in her voice there was the tender- est regret, as well as the firmest resolution.

  “You do not need your father to help you. Answer whether you love me, and that is all I ask. Speak, I conjure you.” He took her hands and made her look at him. There was no room for doubt; one look assured him, for her heart spoke in her eyes before she answered, fervently as a woman, simplv as a child:

  “I love you more than I can ever tell.”

  “Then, why this grief and terror? What have I said to trouble you? Tell me that, also, and I am content.”

  He had drawn her toward him as the sweet confession left her lips, and was already smiling with the happiness it gave him; but Ariel banished both smile and joy by breaking from his hold, pale and steady as if tears had calmed and strengthened her, saying, in a tone that made his heart sink with an ominous foreboding of some unknown ill:

  “I must not answer you without my father’s permission. I have made a bitter mistake in loving you, and I must amend it if I can. Go now, and come again to-morrow; then I can speak and make all clear to you. No, do not tempt me with caresses; do not break my heart with reproaches, but obey me, and whatever comes between us, oh, remember that I shall love you while I live.”

  Vain were all his prayers and pleadings, questions and commands: some power more potent than love kept her firm through the suffering and sorrow of that hour. At last he yielded to her demand, and winning from her a promise to set his heart at rest earlv on the morrow, he tore himself away, distracted bv a thousand vague doubts and dreads.

  PART III

  A SLEEPLESS NIGHT, an hour or two of restless pacing to and fro upon the beach, then the impatient lover was away upon his fateful errand, careless of observation now, and rowing as he had never rowed before. The rosy flush of early day shone over the island, making the grim rocks beautiful, and Southesk saw in it a propitious omen; but when he reached the lighthouse a sudden fear dashed his sanguine hopes, for it was empty. The door stood open — no fire burned upon the hearth, no step sounded on the stairs, no voice answered when he called, and the dead silence daunted him.

  Rapidly searching every chamber, shouting each name, and imploring a reply, he hurried up and down like one distraught, till but a single hope remained to comfort him. Ariel might be waiting at the chasm, though she had bid him see her lather first. Bounding over the cliffs, he reached the dearest spot the earth held for him, and looking down saw only desolation. The ladder w as gone, the vines torn from the walls, the little tree lay prostrate; every green and lovely thing w'as crushed under the enormous stones that some ruthless hand had hurled upon them, and all the beauty of the rock was utterly destroyed as if a hurricane had swept over it.

  “Great heavens! who has done this?”

  “I did.”

  Stern spoke, and standing on the opposite side ol the chasm, regarded Southesk with an expression of mingled exultation, hatred, and defiance, as if the emotions which had been so long restrained had found a vent at last.

  “But why destroy what Ariel loved?” demanded the young man, involuntarily retreating a step from the fierce figure that confronted him.

  “Because she has done with it, and no other shall enjoy what she has lost.”

  “Done with it,” echoed Southesk, forgetting everything but the fear that oppressed him. “What do you mean? Where is she? For God’s sake end this horrible suspense.”

  “She is gone, never to return,” and as he answered Stern smiled a smile of bitter satisfaction in the blow he was dealing the man he hated.

  “Where is March?”

  “Gone with her.”

  “Where are they gone?”

  “I will never tell you.”

  “When did they go, and why? Oh! answer me!”

  “At dawn, and to shun you.”

  “But why let me come for weeks and then fly me as if I brought a curse with me?”

  “Because you are what you are.”

  Questions and answers had been too rapidly exchanged to leave time for anything but intense amazement and anxiety. Stern’s last words arrested Southesk’s impetuous inquiries and he stood a moment trying to comprehend that enigmatical reply. Suddenly he found a clue, for in recalling his last interview with Ariel, he remembered that for the first time he had told her his father’s name. The mystery was there — that intelligence, and not the avowal of his love, was the cause of her strange agitation, and some unknown act of the father’s was now darkening the son’s life. These thoughts flashed through his mind in the drawing of a breath, and with them came the recollection of Ariel’s promise to answer him.

  Lifting the head that had sunk upon his breast, as if this stroke fell heavily, he stretched his hands imploringly to Stern, exclaiming:

  “Did she leave no explanation for me, no word of comfort, no farewell? Oh! be generous, and pity me; give me her message and 1 will go away, never to disturb you any more.”

  “She bade me tell you that she obeyed her father, but her heart was yours forever, and she left you this.”

  With a strong effort at self-control, Stern gave the message, and slowly drew from his breast a little parcel, which he flung across the chasm. It fell at Southesks feet, and tearing it open a long, dark lock of hair coiled about his fingers with a soft caressing touch, reminding him so tenderly of his lost love, that for a moment he forgot his manhood, and covering up his face, cried in a broken voice:

  “Oh! Ariel, come back to me — come back to me!”

  “She will never come back to you; so cast yourself down among the ruins yonder, and lament the ending of your love dream, like a romantic boy, as you are.”

  The taunting speech, and the scornful laugh that followed it calmed Southesk better than the gentlest pity. Dashing away the drops he turned on Stern with a look that showed it was fortunate the chasm parted the tw o men, and answered in a tone of indomitable resolve:

  “No, I shall not lament, but find and claim her as my own, even if I search the world till I am grev, and a thousand obstacles be between us. I leave the ruins and the tears to you, for I am rich in hope and Ariel’s love.”

  Then thev parted, Southesk full of the energy of youth, and a lover’s faith in friendly fortune, sprang down the clitts, and shot away across the glittering bay on his long search, but Stern, w ith despair for his sole companion, flung himself on the hard bosom of the rocks, struggling to accept the double desolation which came upon his life.

  “An earlv row and an earlv ride without a moments rest between. Why, Mr. Southesk, we shall n
ot dare to call you dolce far niente any more,” began Miss Lawrence, as she came rustling out upon the wide piazza, fresh from her morning toilette, to find Southesk preparing to mount his fleetest horse; but as he turned to bow silently the smile vanished from her lips, and a keen anxiety banished the gracious sweetness from her face.

  “Good heavens, what has happened?” she cried, forgetting her self-betrayal in alarm at the haggard countenance she saw.

  “I have lost a very precious treasure, and I am going to find it. Adieu;” and he was gone without another word.

  Miss Lawrence was alone, for the gong had emptied halls and promenades of all but herself, and she had lingered to caress the handsome horse till its master came. Her eye followed the reckless rider until he vanished, and as it came back to the spot where she had caught that one glimpse of his altered face, it fell upon a little case of curiously-carved and scented Indian wood. She took it up, wondering that she had not seen it fall from his pocket as he mounted, for she knew it to be his, and opening it, found the key to his variable moods and frequent absences of late. The string of shells appeared first, and, examining it with a woman’s scrutiny, she found letters carved on the inside of each. I'en rosy shells — ten delicate letters, making the name Ariel March. A folded paper came next, evidently a design for a miniature to form a locket for the pretty chain, for in the small oval, drawn with all a lover’s skill, was a young girl’s face, and underneath, in Southesk’s hand, as if written for his eye alone, the words, “My Ariel.” A long, dark lock of hair, and a little knot of dead flowers were all the case held beside.

  “This is the mermaid old Jack told me of, this is the muse Southesk has been wooing, and this is the lost treasure he has gone to find.”

  As she spoke low to herself, Helen made a passionate gesture as if she would tear and trample on the relics of this secret love, but some hope or purpose checked her, and concealing the case, she turned to hide her trouble in solitude, thinking as she went:

  “He will return for this, till then I must wait.”

  But Southesk did not return, for the lesser loss was forgotten in the greater, and he was wandering over land and sea, intent upon a fruitless quest. Summer passed, and Helen returned to town still hoping and waiting with a woman’s patience for some tidings of the absentee.

  Rumor gossiped much about the young poet — the eccentricities of genius — and prophesied an immortal work as the fruit of such varied and incessant travel.

  But Helen knew the secret of his restlessness, and while she pitied his perpetual disappointment she rejoiced over it, sustaining herself with the belief that a time would come when he would weary of this vain search, and let her comfort him. It did come; for, late in the season, when winter gaieties were nearlv over, Southesk returned to his old haunts, so changed that curiosity went hand in hand with sympathy.

  He gave no reason for it but past illness; yet it was plain to see the maladv of his mind. Listless, taciturn, and cold, with no trace of his former energv except a curiously vigilant expression of the eye and a stern folding of the lips, as if he was perpetuallv looking for something and perpetuallv meeting with disappointment. This was the change which had befallen the once gav and debonair Philip Southesk.

  Helen Lawrence was among the first to hear of his return, and to welcome him, for, much to her surprise, he came to see her on the second dav, draw n by the tender recollections of a past w ith which she was associated.

  Full of the deepest joy at beholding him again, and the gentlest pity for his dejection, Helen had never been more charming than during that interview.

  Eager to assure herself of the failure w hich his lace betrayed, she soon inquired, with an air and accent of the friendliest interest:

  “Was your search successful, Mr. Southesk? You left so suddenly, and have been so long aw ay I hoped the treasure had been found, and that you had been busy putting that happy summer into song for us.”

  The color rose to Southesk’s forehead, and lading lelt him paler than before, as he answered with a vain attempt at calmness.

  “I shall never find the thing I lost, and never put that summer into song, for it was the saddest of my life;” then, as il anxious to change the direction of her thoughts, he said abruptly, “I am on another quest now, looking for a little case w hich I think I dropped the day I left you, but whether at the hotel or on the road I cannot tell. Did you hear anything of such a trifle being found?”

  “No. Was it of much value to you?”

  “Of infinite value now, for it contains the relics of a dear friend lately lost.”

  Helen had meant to keep what she had found, but his last words changed her purpose, for a thrill of hope shot through her heart, and, turning to a cabinet behind her, she put the case into his hand, saying in her softest tone:

  “I heard nothing of it because I found it, believed it to be yours, and kept it sacred until you came to claim it, for I did not know where to find you.”

  Then, with a woman’s tact, she left him to examine his recovered treasure, and, gliding to an inner room, she busied herself among her flowers till he rejoined her.

  Sooner than she had dared to hope he came, with signs of past emotion on his face, but much of his old impetuosity of manner, as he pressed her hand, saying warmly:

  “How can I thank you for this? Let me atone for mv past insincerity by confessing the cause of it; you have found a part of my secret, let me add the rest. I need a confidant, will you be mine?”

  “Gladly, if it will help or comfort you.”

  So, sitting side by side under the passion flowers, he told his story, and she listened with an interest that insensibly drew him on to further confidences than he had intended.

  When he had described the parting, briefly vet very eloquently, for voice, eye, and gesture lent their magic, he added, in an altered tone, and with an expression of pathetic patience:

  “There is no need to tell you how I searched for them, how often I thought myself upon their track, how often they eluded me, and how each disappointment strengthened my purpose to look till I succeeded, though I gave years to the task. A month ago I received this, and knew that my long search was ended.”

  He put a worn letter into her hand, and with a beating heart Helen read:

  “Ariel is dead. Let her rest in peaee, and do not pursue me any longer, unless you would drive me into my grave as vou have driven her.

  RALPH MARCH.”

  A little paper, more worn and stained than the other, dropped from the letter as Helen unfolded it, and seeing a woman’s writing, she asked no permission, but read it eagerly, while Southesk sat with hidden face, unaware that he had given her that sacred farewell.

  “Good-by, good-by,” it said, in hastily-written letters, blurred by tears that had fallen long ago. “I have obeyed my father to the last, but my heart is yours for ever. Believe this, and pray, as I do, that vou may meet again your Ariel.”

  A long silence followed, for the simple little note had touched I Ielen deeply, and while she could not but rejoice in the hope which this discovery gave her, she was too womanly a woman not to pity the poor child who had loved and lost the heart she coveted. As she gently laid the letter back in Southesk’s hand, she asked, turning her full eves on his,

  “Are you sure that this is true?”

  “1 cannot doubt it, for I recognise the writing of both, and I know that neither would lend themselves to a fraud like this. No; I must accept the hard truth, and bear it as I can. My own heart confirms it, for every hope dies when I try to revive it, and the sad belief remains unshaken” was the spiritless reply.

  Helen turned her face away, to hide the passionate joy that glowed in it; then, veiling her emotion with the tenderest sympathy, she gave herself up to the sweet task of comforting the bereaved lover. So well did she perform her part, so soothing did he find her friendly society, that he came often and lingered long, for with her, and her alone, he could talk of Ariel. She never checked him, but
listened to the distasteful theme with unwearied patience, till, by insensible degrees and unperceived allurements, she weaned him from these mournful reminiscences, and woke a healthier interest in the present. With feminine skill she concealed her steadily- increasing love under an affectionate friendliness, which seemed a mute assurance that she cherished no hopes for herself, but knew that his heart was still Ariel’s. This gave him confidence in her, while the new and gentle womanliness which now replaced her former pride, made her more attractive and more dangerous. Of course, the gossips gave them to one another, and Southesk felt aggrieved, fearing that he must relinquish the chief comfort of his solitary life. But Helen showed such supreme indifference to the clack of idle tongues, and met him with such unchanged composure, that he was reassured, and by remaining lost another point in this game of hearts.

  With the summer came an unconquerable longing to revisit the island. Helen detected this wish before he uttered it, and, feeling that it would be vain to oppose it, quietly made her preparations for the sea-side, though otherwise she would have shunned it, fearing the old charm would revive and undo her work. Such visible satisfaction appeared in Southesks face when she bade him good- by for a time, that she departed, sure that he would follow her to that summer haunt as to no other. He did follow, and resolving to have the trial over at once, during their first stroll upon the beach Helen said, in the tone of tranquil regard which she always used with him:

  “I know you are longing to see your enchanted island again, yet, perhaps, dread to go alone. If it is so, let me go with you, for, much as I desire to see it, I shall never dare to trespass a second time.”

  Her voice trembled a little as she spoke — the first sign of emotion she had betrayed for a long time. Remembering that he had deceived her once, and recalling all he owed her since, Southesk felt that she had been very generous, very kind, and gratitude warmed his manner as he answered, turning toward the boats, which he had been eyeing wistfully: