by J. D Rawden
She put her hand upon his head, and he heard her murmur, under her voice, “O Harleigh!”
They both felt that their life was decided, that they had played the grand stake of their existence.
There was a long pause; Charlotte was the first to break it.
“Listen, Harleigh. Before we part ways let me make one last attempt. You have spoken to father; you have told him that you love me, and that I adore you; but he didn’t believe you.”
“It is true. He smiled incredulously.”
“My father is a man who has seen a great deal of the world, who has been loved, who has loved; but of all that nothing is left to him. He is cold and solitary. He never speaks of love, but he believes in love. He’s a miserable, arid creature.”
“Can’t you first persuade your mother? There we’d have an affectionate ally” said Harleigh, tentatively.
“My mother is worse than father,” Charlotte answered, with a slight tremor of the voice; “I should never dare to depend on her.”
“You are afraid of her?”
“Please don’t speak of her, don’t speak of her. It’s a subject which pains me.”
“We need her.”
“No, no. mother will not help; she must not be involved; it would be dreadful if she were involved. I’d a thousand times rather speak to father. I will speak with him; he will believe our love.”
“And if he shouldn’t believe?”
“He will believe me.”
“But, Charlotte, Charlotte, if he shouldn’t?”
“Then—we will elope. But I ought to make this last attempt. Love will give me strength. Afterward—I will write to you, I will tell you everything. I daren’t come here anymore. It’s too dangerous. If anyone should see me it would be the ruin of all our hopes. I’ll write to you. You’ll arrange your own affairs in the meantime—as if you were at the point of death, as if you were going to leave this country never to return. You must be ready at any instant.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Surely?”
“Surely.”
“Without a regret?”
“Without a regret.” But his voice died on his lips.
“Thank you; you love me. We shall be so happy! You will see. Happier than anyone in the world!”
“So happy!” murmured Harleigh, faithful but sad.
“And may Heaven help us,” she concluded, fervently, putting out her hand to leave him.
He took her hand, and his pressure of it was a silent vow; but it was the vow of a friend, of a brother, simple and austere.
She moved slowly away, as if tired. He remained where he was, waiting a little before returning to his carriage. Not until some ten minutes had passed, during which he heard no sound, no movement, could he feel satisfied that Charlotte had safely reached her room.
Charlotte was exhausted by the great moral crisis through which she had passed. An immense burden seemed to bow her down, to make heavy her footsteps, as she groped her way through the silent house.
When she reached the sitting-room she stopped with sudden terror. A light was burning within the room.
Charlotte stood still a long while. She could hear a sound as of the pages of a book being turned. Mother was reading.
At last Charlotte pushed open the door, and crossed the threshold.
Lysbet Morgan looked at her, smiled haughtily, and did not speak.
Charlotte fell on her knees before her, crying, “Forgive me. For pity’s sake, mother, forgive me!”
But the Lysbet Morgan remained silent, white and cold and statue like, never ceasing to smile scornfully.
Charlotte lay on the floor, weeping. And the morning dawn found her there, weeping, weeping; while her mother slept peacefully in her own bed.
The letter ran thus:
“Dearest Love,—I have had my talk with father. What a man! His mere presence seemed to freeze me; it was enough if he looked at me, with his big clear blue eyes, for speech to fail me. There is something in his silence which frightens me; and when he speaks, his sharp voice quells me by its tone as well as by the hard things he says.
“And yet this morning when he came for breakfast, I was bold enough to speak to him of my love for you. I spoke simply, briefly, without trembling, though I could see that the courtesy with which he listened was ironical. Mother was present, silent and absent-minded as usual. She shrugged her shoulders indifferently, disdainfully, and then, getting up, left the room with that light footstep of hers which scarcely seems to touch the earth.
“Father smiled without looking at me, and his smile disconcerted me horribly, putting all my thoughts into confusion. But I felt that I ought to make the attempt—I ought. I had promised it to you, my darling, and to myself. My life had become insupportable; the more so because of my mother, who knew my secret, who tortured me with her contempt—the contempt of a person who has never any wrong—who might at any moment betray me, and tell the story of that balmy night.
“Father smiled, and didn’t seem to care in the least to hear what I had to say. I had the courage to tell him that I adored you, that I wished to live and die with you, that our love would suffice for our needs, that I would never marry anyone but you ; and finally, that, humbly, earnestly, I besought him, as my father, my guardian, my wisest parent, to give his consent to our marriage.
“He had listened, with his eyes cast down, giving no sign of interest. And now at the end he simply uttered a dry little “No.”
“And then took place a dreadful scene. I implored, I wept, I rebelled, I declared that my heart was free, that my person was free; and always I found that I was addressing a man of stone, hard and dry, with a will of iron, an utterly false point of view, a conventional standard based upon the opinion of the world, and a total lack of good feeling. My father denied that I loved you, denied that you loved me. His one word was No—no, no, no, from the beginning to the end of our talk. He made the most specious, extravagant, and cynical arguments to convince me that I was deceiving myself, that we were deceiving ourselves, and that it was his duty to oppose himself to our folly. Oh, how I wept! How I abased my spirit before that man, who reasoned in this cold strain! And how it hurts me now to think of the way I humiliated myself! I remember that while my love for you, dearest, was breaking out in wild utterance, I saw that he was looking admiringly at me, as in a theatre he might admire an actor who was cleverly feigning passion. He did not believe me; and two or three times my anger rose to such a point that I stooped to threaten him; I threatened to make a public scandal.
“The scandal will fall on the person who makes it,”he said severely, getting up, to cut short the conversation.
“He went away. In the drawing-room I heard him talking quietly with mother, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t left me broken-hearted.”
“My Harleigh, my darling Harleigh, my constant thought —it is then decided: we must run. We must fly. Here, like this, I should die. Anything will be better than this house; it is a prison. Anything is better than the galleys.
“I know that what I propose is very grave. According to the common judgment of mankind a young girl who elopes is everlastingly dishonored. In spite of the sanctity of marriage, suspicion never leaves her. I know that I am throwing away a great deal for a dream of love. But that is my strange and cruel destiny—the destiny which has given me a husband and taken away my youth; given me a heart eager for affection and cut me off from all affection; given me the dearest and at the same time the least loving father.”
“Who will weep for me here? No one. Whose hands will be stretched out to call me back? No one’s. What memories will I carry away with me? None. I am lonely and misunderstood; I am flying from a heart of ice and snow to the warm sunlight of love. You are the sun, you are my love. Don’t think I’ll of me. I am not like other girls. I am a poor soul, seeking a home, a family, a nest. I will be your wife, your sweetheart, your servant; I love you. A life passed in the atmosphere of your love will be an
absolution for this fault that I am committing. I know, the world will not forgive me. But I despise people who can’t understand one's sacrificing everything for love. And those who do not understand it will pity me. I shall care for nothing but your love; you will forgive me because you love me.
“So, it is decided. On the third day after you receive this letter—that is, on Friday—leave your house as if you were going for a walk, and take a carriage to the garden. I shan’t be in the garden—that might arouse suspicions; but I shall be in the street across from the garden, awaiting your arrival. Find me there—come as swiftly as you can. We will meet there, and then we will leave for the big city, and sail for the East from there. I have some money. My entire savings for the past two years. Afterward— when this money is spent—well, we will work for our living.
“Remember, remember: Friday, at noon, leave your house. At half past one come to me at the garden. Don’t forget, for mercy’s sake. If you shouldn’t arrive at the right time, what would become of me, alone, at the garden, in anguish, devoured by anxiety?
“My sweetest love, this is the last letter you will receive from me. Why, as I write these words, does a feeling of sorrow come upon me, making me bow my head? The word last is always sad, whenever it is spoken. Will you always love me, even though far from your country, even though poor, even though unhappy? You won’t accuse me of having wronged you? You will protect me and sustain me with your love? You will be kind, honest, loyal. You will be all that I care for in the world.
“This is my last letter, it is true, but soon now our wondrous future will begin—our life together. Remember, remember where I shall wait for you.
“Charlotte,”
THE BETRAYAL.
Alone in his little house, Harleigh Daly read Charlotte’s letter twice through, slowly, slowly. Then his head fell upon his breast. He felt that he was lost, ruined; that Charlotte was lost and ruined.
At that late morning hour the “Universal Store” of Lady Denham, white with stucco, rich with gold ornamentation, with softly carved marbles and old pictures, was almost empty. A few pious old women moved vaguely here and there, wrapped in black shawls; a few strained their eyes toward the latest fashions. Charlotte and her mother, were standing in the middle of the store, with their eyes bent on the latest hats from Paris. Lysbet Morgan had a worn, sunken face that must have once been delicately pretty, with that sort of prettiness which fades before fifty. Charlotte wore a dark serge frock, with a jacket in the English fashion; and her brown hair was held in place by a comb of yellow tortoise-shell. The warm pallor of her face was broken by no trace of color. Every now and then she bit her lips nervously.
Presently the young girl rose.
“I am going to outside for a moment,” Charlotte said, walking toward the door.
Lysbet Morgan did not seek to detain her. With a light step she crossed the store and made it to front door without incident.
Charlotte stole swiftly out of the store into the street, where she hailed a carriage, and bade the good-man drive to Kalchhook Hill garden. She drew down the blinds of the carriage windows, and there in the darkness she could scarcely suppress a cry of mingled joy and pain to find herself at last alone and free.
The carriage rolled on and on; it was like the movement of a dream. The only thing she could think of was this beautiful and terrible idea, that she, Charlotte, had abandoned forever her home and her family, carrying away only so much of her savings as the purse in her pocket could hold, to throw herself into the arms of Harleigh Daly. No feeling of fear held her back. Her entire past life was ended, she could never take it up again; it was over, it was over.
In that sort of somnambulism which accompanies a decisive action, she was as exact and rigid in everything she had to do as an automaton. At the street by the garden she paid her driver, and mechanically bid him a good day.
She descended from the carriage when the driver tipped his hat, and followed the street toward the meeting place.
She went on, looking neither to right nor left, up the narrow, dusty lane that leads from the street to the garden’s gate. Neither hide nor hair noticed her; the solitary young woman, with the warm, pale face, and the great brown-black eyes that gazed straight forward, without interest in what they saw, the eyes of a soul consumed by an emotion. When she arrived at the meeting place, she ensconced herself on a bench near the garden, and looked out upon the path she had followed, as if waiting for somebody, or as if wishing to turn back.
And Charlotte was praying for the safe coming of Harleigh. If she could but see him, if she could but hear his voice, all her doubts, all her pains, would fly away.
“I adore him! I adore him! “She thought, and tried thus to find strength with which to combat her conscience. Her heart was filled with a single wish—to see Harleigh; he would give her strength; he was the reason for her life—he and love. She looked at her little child’s watch, the only jewel she had brought away; she had a long time still to wait before half past one.
Charlotte was strangely fatigued; she had exhausted her forces in making the journey hither; the tumult of emotion she had gone through had prostrated her. Now she felt utterly alone and abandoned —a poor, unfortunate creature bearing through this dead city a heavy burden of solitude and weariness: and when, after a long rest, she got up to stretch herself a great sigh broke from her lips.
Suddenly a feeling of some watching her swept across her body. She looked up, and saw Harleigh across the street, gazing down on her with an infinite despairing tenderness.
Charlotte, unable to speak, ran toward the open garden gate. And a smile of happiness, like a great light, shone from her eyes, and a warm color mantled her cheeks. Harleigh had never seen her so beautiful. In an ecstasy of joy, feeling all her doubts die within her, feeling all the glory of her love spring to full life again, Charlotte could not understand why there was an expression of sorrow on Harleigh’s face.
“Do you love me—a great deal?”
“A great deal” Whispered Harleigh.
“You will always care for me?”
“Always.”
It was like a sad, soft echo, but the girl did not notice that; a veil of passion dimmed her perceptions. They walked on together, she close to him, so happy that her feet scarcely touched the earth, enjoying this minute of intense love with all the force of feeling that she possessed, with all the self-surrender of which human nature is capable. They walked on through the streets of the small town, without seeing, without looking. Only again and again she said softly: “Tell me that you love me— tell me that you love me!”
Two or three times he had answered simply, “Yes,” then he was silent.
Suddenly, Charlotte, not hearing his answer, stood still, and taking his arms in her hands, looked deep into his honest eyes, and asked, “ What is the matter ? “
Her voice trembled. He lowered his eyes.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Why are you so sad?”
“I am not sad,” Harleigh answered with an effort.
“You’re telling the truth?”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Swear that you love me.”
“Do you need me to swear it?” He exclaimed with such sincerity and such pain that she was convinced, perceiving the sincerity, but not the pain.
But she was still troubled; there was still a bitterness in her joy.
“Let us go away, let us go away,” Charlotte said impatiently.
“We have time; we’ve plenty of time.”
“Let us go away! I don’t want to stay here any longer. I beg of you, let us go.”
He obeyed her passively and was silent. They entered the inn on their way to the carriage station. Charlotte was frightened; she didn’t care to talk of love to Harleigh before such witnesses, but she looked at him with fond, supplicating eyes. The two lovers were near the window, looking through the glass at the road that leads to the carriage station; and Charlotte was holding
on to Harleigh’s arm, and he, confused, nervous, asked her if she would not like to dine, taking refuge from his embarrassment in the commonplace. No; she did not wish to dine, she wasn’t hungry. Afterwards, by-and-by.” And her voice failed her as she looked at the two diners sitting close to them.
“I wish” she began, whispering into Harleigh’s ear.
“What do you wish?”
“Take me away somewhere else, where I can say something to you.”
He hesitated; she blushed; then he left the room to speak to the landlord; returning presently, “Come,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“Upstairs.”
“Why upstairs?”
“You will see.”
They went upstairs to the second floor, where the waiter who conducted them opened the door of an apartment consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room—a big bedroom, a tiny sitting-room—both having balconies that looked off over the town, and there the waiter left them alone.
Each of them was pale, silent, confused.
She looked round. The sitting-room was vulgarly furnished with a green sofa, two green easy-chairs, a center-table covered with a nut-colored jute tablecloth, and a marble console. The thought of the many strangers who had inhabited it inspired her with a sort of shame. Then she glanced into the bedroom. It was very large, with two beds at the farther end, a dressing-table, a sofa, and a wardrobe. These pieces of furniture seemed lost in the vast bare-looking chamber. It gave her a shudder merely to look into it; and yet again she blushed.
She raised her eyes to Harleighs, and she noticed anew that he was gazing at her with an expression of great sadness.
“What is the matter?” Charlotte asked.
He did not answer. He sat down and buried his face in his hands.
