by J. D Rawden
“Well, be it as you wish,” Charlotte said, humbly;
“There, there,” murmured Joris Morgan with the shadow of a frown, “calm yourself; we’ll speak of this another day.”
Sister Louisa had come back into the room, and her presence cut short their talk.
While Charlotte was broken in health, disturbed in spirit, and miserable in thinking of her past, its deceits, its errors, its thousand shameful aberrations, and its lack of maidenly decorum. When she drew a mental comparison between Harleigh Daly and these two persons whom she had wished to desert for him—between Harleigh, so timid, so poor in all right feeling, so bankrupt in passion, and them, so magnanimous, so forgetful of her fault—her repentance grew apace. It was the exaggerated repentance of a noble nature, which magnifies the moral gravity of its own transgressions. She felt herself to be quite undeserving of the sympathy and affection with which they treated her. Their kindness was an act of gratuitous charity beyond her merits.
Charlotte sole desire was to show herself absolutely obedient to whatever her Father demanded, to whatever her mother advised.
She gave herself over, bound hand and foot, to these two beings whom she had so cruelly forgotten on the day of her mad adventure; in her convalescence she found a great joy in throwing herself absolutely upon their wisdom and their goodness.
The more Charlotte mended, the more she shared with Guy Barrington; she told him everything that happened; she opened to him her every fancy, her every dream; she talked with the emotion of a passionate woman. Guy Barrington came to her as often as he could, and not at length; but in each visit there would be, if not a word of love, at least some kindly phrase. He was genuinely in love with her: in his own way, of course. He was in love, as men are in love who have loved many times before. Sometimes he lost his head a little in her presence, but never more than a little. He retained his mastery of himself sufficiently to pursue his own well-proved methods of love-making. He covered his real passion with a semblance of levity which served admirably to compel Charlotte to tolerate it.
She never allowed him—especially at home, where she was alone and where she was very sad —to speak of love; but she could not forbid him to call occasionally at Semple House, nor could she help meeting him here and there in the town. Guy Barrington did not pay too open a court to her, did not affect too great an intimacy; but he was never far from her. For a whole evening he would hover near her at a party, waiting for the moment when he might seat himself beside her; he would leave when she left, and on the pretext of taking a little walk in the moonlight, would accompany her to the door of her house. He was persevering, with a gentle, continuous, untiring perseverance that nothing could overcome, neither Charlotte’s silence, nor her coldness, nor her melancholy. She often spoke to him of Harleigh, and with so much feeling in her voice that he turned pale, wounded in his pride, disappointed in his desire, yet not despairing, for it is always a hopeful sign when a woman loves, even though she loves another. Then the only difficulty (though an immense one) is to change the face of the man she loves to your own, by a sort of sentimental sleight of hand.
“How strange is love,” Guy Barrington said once to Charlotte, finding her home alone.
“Love is good, though,” said Charlotte, thoughtfully.
“Does love seem so to you?”
“Yes.”
“You know very little. You’re very naive. Love is a monster of perfidy,” Guy Barrington said softly.
“Why do you say that to me? Don’t you know that I dislike such talk?”
“If I offend you, I’ll hold my tongue. I keep my opinion, though. Someday you’ll agree with me.”
“Be quiet, Guy. You distress me.”
“It’s much better to have no illusions; then we can’t lose them, dear Charlotte”
“It is better to lose illusions, than never to have had them.”
“What a deep heart is yours! How I should like to drown in it! Let me drown myself in your heart, Charlotte.”
“It is but a dark place,” Charlotte said.
“Why not open the curtains of your heart to me?” Guy Barrington asked.
She did not answer. She sat down in an arm-chair.
“Tell me that you love me a little, Charlotte.”
“I don’t love you.”
“Dear Charlotte, dear Charlotte,” Guy Barrington murmured with his caressing voice, “How can I believe you, since you allow me in. “Tell me that you love me a little. For I have waited for that word. Dear Charlotte, sweet Charlotte, you know that I have adored you for so long a time. Charlotte, Charlotte!”
“What has happened with your feelings was bound to happen,” Charlotte said.
“Charlotte, I conjure you, tell me that you love me.”
“I don’t know. I know nothing.”
“Dear one, dear one,” Guy Barrington murmured, trembling with hope, in an immense transport of love.
He drew nearer to her and kissed her on the cheek.
A cry of pain burst from her, and she sprang up, horrified, terrified, and tried to leave the room.
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, forgive me. Don’t go away. Charlotte, Charlotte, forgive me if I have offended you. I love you so! If you go away I shall die.”
“People don’t die for such slight things” Said Charlotte.
“People die of love.”
“Yes. But one must have courage to die for love.”
“Don’t let us talk of these dismal things. My love, we mustn’t talk of things that will sadden you. Your beautiful face is troubled. Tell me that you forgive me. Do you forgive me?”
“I forgive you.”
“I don’t believe it. You don’t forgive me. You love another.”
“No, no—no other.”
“And Harleigh Daly?”
But scarcely had Guy Barrington spoken the fatal name when he saw his error. Her eyes blazed; she trembled from head to foot, in a nervous convulsion.
“Listen,” she said. “If you have a heart, if you have any pity, if you wish me to stay here with you, never name him again, never name him.”
“You are right.” But then he added, “And yet you loved him, you love him still.”
“No. I love no one anymore.”
“Why would you not accept me when I proposed for you?”
‘‘Because.”
“Why did you love him?”
“Because.”
“And now why do you love him? Why do you love him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You see, you do love him,” Guy Barrington cried in despair.
“Oh, Guy, oh, Guy!” Charlotte sobbed.
“Oh, I am a fool. Forgive me, forgive me. But I love you, and I lose my head. I love you, and I am desperate. And I need to know if you still love him. You will always love him? Is it so?”
“Till death,” Charlotte said, with a strange look and accent.
“Say it again.”
“Till death,” Charlotte repeated, with the same strange intonation.
They were silent.
Guy Barrington put his arm round her waist, and drew her slowly towards him.
Her eyes were fixed and void. She did not feel his arms about her. She did not feel his kisses. He kissed her hair, he kissed her sweet white throat, and he kissed her little rosy ear. Charlotte was absorbed in a desperate meditation, far from all human things. He kissed her face, her eyes, her lips; she did not know it. But suddenly she felt his embrace become closer, stronger; she heard his voice change, it was no longer tender and caressing, it was fervid with tumultuous passion, it uttered confused delirious words. Silently, looking at him with burning eyes, she tried to disengage herself.
“Let me go,” she said.
“Charlotte, Charlotte, I love you so—I have loved you so long!”
Let me go, let me go!”
“You are my adored one—I adore you above all things.”
“Let me go. You horrify me.”
; Guy Barrington finally let her go.
“You, are too good,” Guy Barrington murmured, absently.
“Am I—so Good?” Charlotte pleaded, with tears in her eyes.
“Everybody is good, according to you,” he said. “Then I suppose your old lover, Harleigh Daly, is good too?”
He was. He was absolutely good,” Charlotte cried, her voice softening as she spoke of Harleigh Daly.
Guy Barrington looked at her anxiously. Merely to hear her pronounce her lover’s name proved that she adored him. Guy Barrington was too expert a student of women not to interpret rightly her pallor, her emotion, and her distress. He did not know, but he could easily guess that Charlotte thought of Harleigh. He understood how heavy her long hours of solitude must be, amid the blue and green of the New York landscape, passed in constant longing for her lover’s presence. He understood perfectly that she was consumed by secret jealousy, and that he tortured her cruelly when by a word, or an insinuation he inspired her with new suspicions. He could read her heart like an open book; but he loved her all the better for the intense passion that breathed from its pages. He did not despair. Sooner or later, he was convinced, he would succeed in overcoming the obstacle in his way. He adopted the ancient method of assailing the character of the absent man.
Guy Barrington would mention her prearranged marriage to Sir Edward, or he would speak of Harleigh Daly’s desertion of his young love, he saw Charlotte’s face change; he knew the anguish that he woke in her heart, and he suffered wretchedly to realize that it was for the love of another man. His weapon was a double-edged sword that wounded her and wounded him. But what of that? He continued to wield it, believing that thus little by little he could deface the image of Harleigh Daly.
Charlotte became more and more ready to talk of her lover, and that gave Guy Barrington his opportunity for putting in his innuendos. At the same time it caused him much bitterness of spirit, and sometimes he would say, “We are three. How do you do, Harleigh? “Bowing to an imaginary presence.
Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears at such moments.
“Forgive me, forgive me,” He cried. “But when you introduce his name into our conversation, you cause me such agony that I feel I am winning my place in heaven. Go on: I am already tied to the rack; force your knife into my heart, gentle torturess.”
And she, at first timidly, but then with the impetuousness of an open and generous nature, would continue to talk of Harleigh. Where was he, what was he doing, when would he return? She would ask; and he by-and-by would interrupt her speculations to suggest that Harleigh was probably loving another, one of his old loves, whom he met every month in the city; and that he would very likely not return.
“I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it,” Charlotte protested.
“You don’t believe it? But it’s his usual habit. Why should he alter it this month?”
“He has me to think of now.”
“Oh, dear Charlotte, dear Charlotte, he thinks of you so little!”
“Not so, not so,” she murmured very low.
Charlotte was silent, oppressed and pained by his philosophy, by its bitterness, its sterile pride, its egotism and cruelty. It seemed as if he had built a sepulcher from the ruins of her life. She felt that she no longer understood either her own nature or the external world; a sense of fear and of confusion had taken the place of her old principles and aspirations. And there was a great home-sickness in her heart for love, for devotion, for tenderness, for enthusiasm; a great melancholy at the thought that she would never thrill with them again, that she would never weep again. She felt a great indefinable longing, not for the past, not for the present, not for the future, a longing that related itself to nothing. And she realized that what Guy Barrington had said was true— horribly, dreadfully, certainly true. She could be sure of nothing after this, she had lost her bearings, she was being swept round and round in a emotional whirlpool.
She was not sure whether it was better to brave out the tempest, to lose everything nobly and generously for the sake of love, or to save appearances, make for still waters, and in them enjoy a selfish tranquility.
THE FIRE WITHIN.
At the season opening of the Brooklyn Theatre on December 5th night the play was “The Two Orphans.”
A first night opening at the Brooklyn Theatre is always an event for the New York public, no matter what play, old or new, is given; but when the work happens to be a favorite the excitement becomes tremendous.
The one thousand persons, male and female, who constitute high society, go about for a week beforehand, from house to house, from cafe to cafe, predicting that the play will be a success. The chief roles in “The Two Orphans.” were to be taken by Miss Kate Claxton and Mr. H. S. Murdoch, roles in which the public was to see these actors for the first time, though they were already known to everybody, either by reputation or from having been seen in other plays.
So, on December 5th, the one thousand members of high society put aside their usual occupations and arranged their time in such wise as to be ready promptly at eight o’clock, the men in their dress-suits, and the women in their rich and beautiful evening toilets. Everybody gave up something—a walk, a call, a luncheon, a nap—for the sake of getting betimes to the theatre.
By half-past seven the approaches to Brooklyn Theatre, its portico, its big and little entrances, all brilliantly lighted by gas, were swarming like an ant-hill with eager people. Some came on foot, the collars of their overcoats turned up, showing freshly shaven faces under their tall silk hats, or freshly waxed mustaches and beards newly pointed; others came in carriages; and before the central door, under the entrance, which was draped with flags, passed a constant stream of private carriages, depositing ladies muffled in dress-cloaks of red velvet or white embroidery.
By a quarter past eight the house was full.
Charlotte, dressed in white silk, and accompanied by Guy Barrington, occupied Box No. 19 of the first tier.
Guy Barrington appeared to give little heed to the play. He was pulling back his long frontal hair, and studying the ladies in the Theatre, while a slight smile played upon his lips. Presently he fixed his gaze on Charlotte. Had he felt that he was obligated? At any rate, he kept his eyes fixed upon Charlotte.
The curtain fell on the first act.
Fans fluttered, men changed their seats, people went and came, and many of the stalls were empty. The round of visits had begun. Husbands and brothers left their boxes to make place for other men beside their wives and sisters; to pay their respects to other men’s wives and sisters. There was a babble of many voices idly chatting. It began in the first and second tiers, and it rose to the galleries, the stronghold of students, workmen, and clerks.
Charlotte gazed sadly at that deserted box in front of her. All at once she heard Guy Barrington say, “Your mother and you father are with the Mistress Gordon.”
Charlotte turned round, and raised her opera-glass. They were there indeed, visiting the Mistress Gordon; Charlotte could see the pale and noble face of Joris Morgan, the glowing face of Lysbet Morgan. The Mistress Gordon was an Austrian, very clever, very witty. She wore a costume of red silk, and kept waving a fan of red feathers, as she talked vivaciously with the parents of Charlotte Morgan. She must have been saying something extremely interesting, to judge by the close attention with which they listened to her and by the smiles with which they responded.
When Charlotte put down her opera-glass, her face had become deathly pale.
“Are you feeling ill?” asked Guy Barrington.
“No, I am fine” Charlotte replied, paler than ever.
“Do you like “The Two Orphans?” Guy Barrington asked, for the sake of saying something, in the hope, perhaps, of thus forgetting her desire to see what was going on in the box of the Mistress Gordon.
“Very much. And you?”
“I like it immensely.”
“I am afraid—I am afraid that later on you may find it too exciting. You kno
w the fourth act is very terrible. Don’t you dread the impression it may make upon you?”
“It won’t matter, Guy” Charlotte said, with a faint smile.
“Perhaps you would like to go home before the fourth act begins. If you feel nervous about it?”
“I am not nervous,” Charlotte murmured, as if speaking to herself. “Or, if I am, I’d rather suffer this way than otherwise.”
“We were wrong to come,” said Guy, shaking his head.
“No, no, Guy. Let us stay. I am all right; I am enjoying it. Don’t take me home yet.”
The house had become silent again, in anticipation of the second act. Here and there someone who had delayed too long in a box where he was visiting, would say good-bye quietly, and return to his place. A few such visitors, better acquainted with their hosts, remained seated, determined not to move. Among the latter were, of course, the lovers of the ladies, the intimate friends of the husbands.
And now the divine voice of Kate Claxton surged up and filled the Theatre, and Charlotte was conscious of nothing else—of nothing but the pale lighted stage and the face of Kate Claxton shining through it, like a star through the mist. How much time passed? She did not know. Twice Guy Barrington spoke to her; she neither heard nor answered.
When the curtain fell again, and Charlotte issued from her trance, Guy Barrington said, “There is Harleigh Daly.”
“Ah!” cried Charlotte, unable to control her feelings.
But Charlotte had self-constraint enough not to ask “where?” Falling suddenly from a heaven of rapture to the hard reality of her life, where traces of her old folly still lingered; hating her past, and wishing to obliterate it from her memory, as the motives for it were already obliterated from her heart, she did not ask where he was. She covered her face with her fan, and two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.
Guy Barrington looked at her, desiring to speak, but fearing lest thereby he might only make matters worse.
“We should not have come here, Charlotte,” Guy Barrington said.
