Hearts Afire

by J. D Rawden

  Charlotte trembled all over. “Today I cannot bear it, mother. No one can I see. I will go upstairs.”

  Ere the words were finished, Mistress Gordon's voice was audible. She came into the room laughing, with the smell of fresh violets and the feeling of the brisk wind around her. “Dear Madam,” she cried, “I entreat you for a favor. I am going to take the air this afternoon: be so good as to let Charlotte come with me. For I must tell you that the colonel has orders for Boston, and I may see my charming friend no more after today.”

  “Charlotte, what say you? Will you go?”

  “Please, my mother.”

  “Make great haste, then.” For Lysbet was pleased with the offer, and fearful that Joris might arrive, and refuse to let his daughter accept it. She hoped that Charlotte would receive some comforting message.

  “Stay not long,” she whispered, “for your father's sake. There is no good, more trouble to give him.”

  “Well, my dear, you look like a ghost. Have you not one smile for a woman so completely in your interest? When I promised Harleigh this morning that I would be sure to get word to you, I was at my wits end to discover a way. But, when I am between the horns of a dilemma, I find it the best plan to take the bull by the horns. Hence, I have made you a visit which seems to have quite nonplussed you and your good mother.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He has said, he will meet you tonight at Midnight at the garden where Sir Edward challenged him. Do not fail Harleigh: he is risking all to see you.”

  “I will be there.”

  “La! What are you crying for, child? Poor girl! What are you crying for? Harleigh, the scamp? He is not worthy of such pure tears; and yet, believe me, he loves you to distraction.”

  MOTIONLESS under the white coverlet of her bed, Charlotte appeared to have been sleeping soundly for the past two hours. She dared not move, she dared not even sigh; and all her life was in her gaze, trying to penetrate the secret of the dusk—trying to hear whether really her parents were asleep. It was a cool summer night, and as the hour advanced the room became colder and colder; but Charlotte did not feel it.

  The moment the clock chimed a surge had leapt from her heart to her brain, diffusing itself through all her members, scalding her veins, scorching her flesh, quickening the beating of her pulses. As in the height of fever, she felt herself burning up; her tongue was dry, her head was hot; and the cool air that entered her lungs could not quench the fire in her, could not subdue the tumultuous irruption of her young blood.

  Often, to relieve herself, she had longed to cry out, to moan; but the fear of waking her parents held her silent. It was not, however, so much from the great heat throbbing at her temples that she suffered, as from her inability to know for certain whether her parents was asleep.

  Sometimes she thought of moving noisily, so that her bed should creak; then if mother were awake, she would come in, and thus Charlotte could make sure they were asleep. But the fear of thereby still further lengthening this time of waiting, kept her from letting the thought become an action. She lay as motionless as if her limbs were bound down by a thousand chains.

  She had lost all track of time, too; she had forgotten to count the last strokes of the clock— the clock that could be heard from the sitting-room adjoining. It seemed to her that she had been lying like this for years, burning with this maddening fire.

  And then the horrible thought crossed her mind—What if the hour had passed? Perhaps it had passed without her noticing it; she who had waited for it so impatiently had let it escape.

  But no. Presently, deadened by the distance and the doors closed between, she heard the clock ring out.

  The hour had come.

  Thereupon, with an infinite caution, born of infinite fear, slowly, trembling, holding her breath at every sound, pausing, starting back, going on, she sat up in bed, and at last slipped out of it.

  That vague spot of whiteness in the distance, where her parents lay, still fascinated her; she kept her head turned in its direction, while with her hands she felt for her shoes and stockings and clothes. They were all there, placed conveniently near; but every little difficulty she had to overcome in dressing, so as not to make the slightest noise, represented a world of precautions, of pauses, and of paralyzing fears.

  When at last she had got on her frock of white serge, which shone out in the darkness, “Perhaps” mother sees me,” she thought.

  But she had made ready a big heavy black shawl, and in this she now wrapped herself from head to foot, and the whiteness of her frock was hidden.

  Then, having accomplished the miracle of dressing herself, she stood still at her bedside; she had not dared to take a step as yet, sure that by doing so she would wake all.

  “A little strength—please send me a little strength,” she mumbled inwardly to self.

  Then she set forth stealthily across the room. In the middle of it, seized by a sudden audacious impulse, she called her mother’s name, in a whisper, “mother, mother” listening intensely.

  No answer. She went on, past her parent’s open door, through the sitting-room, the drawing-room, feeling her way amidst the chairs and tables. She struck her shoulder against the frame of the door between the sitting-room and the drawing room, and halted for a moment, with a beating heart.

  “Stay calm! Stay calm! “She murmured in an agony of terror.

  When she reached the dining-room, it seemed to her that she must have traversed a hundred separate chambers, a hundred entire houses, and an endless chain of chambers.

  At last she opened the front door that gave upon the porch, and ran out into the night, the cold, the blackness. She crossed the lawn, and being made frightened by the gathering of the night shadows, she turned quickly, and taking the very road up which Harleigh had come the night Sir Edward challenged him, she entered the garden by a small gate at its foot, which was intended for the gardener's use. The lilacs had not much foliage, but in the dim light her dark, slim figure was indistinguishable behind them. Longingly and anxiously she looked up and down the garden. A mist was gathering over it; and there were no souls in sight except two felines lying in the flower bed.

  In the pettiest character there are unfathomable depths; and Charlotte's, though yet undeveloped, was full of noble aspirations and singularly sensitive. As she stood there alone, watching and waiting in the dim light, she had a strange consciousness of some mysterious life ante-dating this life! And of a long-forgotten voice filling the ear-chambers of that spiritual body which was the celestial inhabitant of her natural body. “Harleigh, Harleigh,” she murmured; and she never doubted but that he heard her.

  All her senses were keenly on the alert. Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps, and the measure was that of steady, powerful strokes. She turned her face southward, and watched. Like a flash Harleigh shot out of the shadow a few feet away.

  “Charlotte!”

  It was but a whisper, but she heard it. He opened his arms, and she flew to their shelter like a bird to her mate.

  “My love, my love, my beautiful Charlotte! My true, good heart! Now, at last we can speak face to face. I have come to you—come at all risks for you.

  Covered by her black mantle, without speaking, Charlotte bent her head and broke into sobs.

  “What is it? What is wrong? “Harleigh asked, trying to see her face.

  Charlotte wept without answering.

  “Don’t cry, don’t cry. Tell me what’s troubling you,” he murmured earnestly, with a caress in his words and in his voice.

  “Nothing, nothing. I was so frightened,” she stammered.

  “Dearest, dearest, dearest!” Harleigh whispered.

  “Oh, I ‘am a wicked creature—a poor wicked thing,” said she, with a desolate gesture.

  “I love you so,” said Harleigh, simply, in a low voice.

  “Oh, say that again,” she begged, ceasing to weep.

  “I love you so, Charlotte.”

  “I adore you—
my soul, my darling.”

  “If you love me, you must be calm.”

  “I adore you, my dearest one.”

  “Promise me that you won’t cry any more, then.”

  “I adore you, I adore you, I adore you! “ Charlotte repeated, her voice heavy with emotion.

  Harleigh did not speak. It seemed as if he could find no words fit for responding to such a passion. A cold gust of wind swept over them.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “No: I feel fine” And Charlotte gave him her hand.

  Her little hand, between those of Harleigh, was indeed not cold; it was burning.

  “That is love,” said she.

  He lifted the hand gently to his lips, and kissed it lightly. And thereupon, her eyes glowed in the darkness, like human stars of passion.

  “My love is consuming me,” she went on, as if speaking to herself. “I can feel nothing else; neither cold, nor night, nor danger—nothing. I can only feel you. I want nothing but your love. I only want to live near you always—till death, and after death—always with you—always, always.”

  “Ah me! “Sighed Harleigh, under his breath.

  “What did you say?” she cried, eagerly.

  “It was a sigh, dear one; a sigh over dream.”

  “Don’t talk like that; don’t say that,” she exclaimed.

  “Why shouldn’t I say it, Charlotte? The sweet dream that we have been dreaming together—any day we may have to wake from it. They aren’t willing that we should live together.”

  “Who are—they?”

  “He who can dispose of you as he wishes, your father.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Yes; today, I asked your father for your hand one last time.”

  “What did father say?”

  “He won’t consent.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you have money, and I have none. Because you are noble, and I'm not.”

  “But I adore you, Harleigh.”

  “That matters little to your father.”

  “He’s a barbarous man.”

  “He’s a man,” said Harleigh, shortly.

  “But it’s an act of cruelty that he’s committing,” she cried, lifting her hands towards heaven.

  Harleigh did not speak.

  “What did you answer? What did you plead? Didn’t you tell him again that you love me, and that I adore you, that I shall die if we are separated? Didn’t you describe our despair to him?”

  “It was useless,” replied Harleigh, sadly.

  “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! You didn’t tell him of our love, of our happiness? You didn’t implore him, weeping? You didn’t try to move his hard old heart? But what sort of man are you; what sort of soul have you, that you let them sentence us to death like this? O Harleigh! O Harleigh! — What man have I been loving?”

  “Charlotte, Charlotte!” Harleigh said, softly.

  “Why didn’t you reason with him? Why didn’t you beg him? You’re young; you’re brave. How could father, an old man, with ice in his veins, how could he silence you?”

  “Because your father was right, Charlotte,” Harleigh answered quietly.

  “Oh, horror! Horrible sacrilege of love!” cried Charlotte, starting back.

  In her despair she had unconsciously allowed her shawl to drop from her shoulders; it had fallen to the ground, at her feet. And now she stood up before him like a white, desolate phantom, impelled by sorrow to wander the earth on a quest that can never have an end.

  But he had a desperate courage, though it forced him to break with the only woman he had ever loved.

  “Mr. Morgan was right, my dearest Charlotte. I couldn't answer him. I’m a poor young fellow, without a penny.”

  “Love is stronger than money.”

  “I am a commoner, I have no title to give you.”

  “Love is stronger than a title.”

  “Everything is against our union, Charlotte.”

  “Love is stronger than everything; stronger even than death.”

  After this there befell a silence. But he felt that he must go to the bottom of the subject. He saw his duty, and overcame his pain.

  “Think a little, Charlotte. Our souls were made for each other; but our persons are placed in such different circumstances, separated by so many things, such great distances, that not even a miracle could unite them. You accuse me of being a traitor to our love, which is our strength; but is it unworthy of us to conquer ourselves in such a pass? Charlotte, Charlotte, it is I who lose everything; and yet I advise you to forget this youthful fancy. You are young; you are beautiful; you are rich; you are noble, and you love me; yet it is my duty to say to you, forget me— forget me. Consider how great the sacrifice is, and see if it is not our duty, as two good people, to make it courageously. Charlotte, you will be loved again, better still, by a better man. You deserve the purest and the noblest love. You won’t be unhappy long. Life is still sweet for you. You weep, yes; you suffer; because you love me, because you are a dear, loving woman. But afterward, afterward you will find your path broad and flowery. It is I who will have nothing left; the light of my life will go out, the fire in my heart. But what does it matter? You will forget me, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte, motionless, listened to him, uttering no word.

  “Speak” Harleigh said, anxiously.

  “I can’t forget you,” she answered.

  “Try—make the effort. Let us try not to see each other.”

  “No, no; it’s useless” she said, her voice dying on her lips.

  “What do you wish us to do?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  A great impulse of pity, greater than his own sorrow, assailed him. He took her hands; they were cold now.

  “What is the matter with you? Are you ill?”

  She did not answer. She leant her head on his shoulder, and he caressed her rich brown hair.

  “Charlotte, what is it?” Harleigh whispered, thrilled by a wild emotion.

  “You don’t love me.”

  “How can you doubt it?”

  “If you loved me,” she began, sobbing, “you would not propose our separation. If you loved me you would not think such a separation possible. If you loved me it would be like death to you to forget and be forgotten. Harleigh, you don’t love me.”

  “Charlotte, Charlotte I do love you.”

  “Judge by me,” she went on, softly. “I’m a poor, weak woman; yet I resist, I struggle. And we would conquer, we would conquer, if you loved me.”

  She turned away from him, to run off. But he detained her.

  “What do you want to do?” Harleigh whispered.

  “If I can't live with you, I must die,” she said, quietly, with her eyes closed, as if she were thus awaiting death.

  “Don’t speak of dying, Charlotte. Don’t make my regret worse than it is. It’s I who have spoiled your life.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s I who have put bitterness into your sweet youth.”

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “It’s I who have stirred you up to rebel against Mr. Morgan, against your mother, against the wish of all that love you.”

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “It is I who have called you from your sleep, who have exposed you to a thousand dangers. Think, if you were discovered here you would be lost.”

  “It doesn't matter. Take me away.”

  And Harleigh, in spite of the darkness, could see her fond eyes glowing.

  “If you would only take me away,” she sighed.

  “But where?”

  “Anywhere—to any country. You will be my country.”

  “Elope? A noble young girl—elope like an adventuress?”

  “Love will secure my pardon.”

  “I will pardon you; no others will.”

  “You will be my family, my all. Take me away.”

  “Charlotte, Charlotte, where should we find refuge? Without m
eans, without friends, having committed a great fault, our life would be most unhappy.”

  “No, no, no! Take me away. We’ll have a little time of poverty, after which I shall get possession of my fortune. Take me away.”

  “And I shall be accused of having made a good speculation. No, no, Charlotte, it's impossible. I couldn’t bear such a shame.”

  She started away from him, pushing him back with a movement of horror.

  “What?” she cried. “What?” You would be ashamed? It’s your shame that preoccupies you? And mine? Honored, esteemed, loved, I care nothing for this honor, this love, and am willing to lose all, the respect of people, the affection of my relations—and you think of yourself! I could have chosen any one of a multitude of young men of my own rank, my own set, and I have chosen you because you were good and honest and clever. And you are ashamed of what bad people and stupid people may say of you! I—I brave everything. I lie, I deceive. I leave my bed at the dead of night, steal out during my parent’s sleep— out of my room, out of my house, like a guilty servant, so that they might call me the lowest of the low. I do all this to come to you; and you are thinking of speculations, of what the world will say about you. Oh, how strong you are, you men! How well you know your way; how straight you march, never listening to the voices that call to you, never feeling the hands that try to stop you— nothing, nothing, nothing! You are men, and have your honor to look after, your dignity to preserve, and your delicate reputation to safeguard. You are right, you are reasonable. And so we are fools; we are mad, who step out of the path of honor and dignity for the love of you—we poor silly creatures of our hearts! “

  Harleigh had not attempted to protest against this outburst of violent language; but every word of it, hot with wrath, vibrant with sorrowful anger, stirred him to the quick, held him silenced, frightened, shaken by her voice, by the tumult of her passion. Now the fire which he had rashly kindled burnt up the whole beautiful, simple, stable edifice of his planning, and all he could see left of it was a smoking ruin. He loved her— she loved him; and though he knew it was wild and unreasonable. “Forgive me,” he said; “let us go away.”