CHAPTER VI
"_But more than loss about me clings._"
Jean Ingelow
"No! no, I am mad to think it! I must have been dreaming! what couldthere have been in that talk to have such an effect as I have conjuredup? She pitied Franklin! yes, she pities every one whom she thinkssuffering or wronged. Dear little tender heart! of course it was theroom,--didn't she say she was ill? it must have been awful; the heat andthe closeness got into my head,--that's it. Bad air is as bad as whiskeyon a man's brain. What a fool I made of myself! not even answering herquestions. What did she think of me? Well."
Surrey in despair pushed away the book over which he had been bendingall the afternoon, seeing for every word Francesca, and on every page animage of her face. "I'll smoke myself into some sort of decent quiet,before I go up town, at least"; and taking his huge meerschaum,settling himself sedately, began his quieting operation with appallingenergy. The soft rings, gray and delicate, taking curious and airyshapes, floated out and filled the room; but they were not soothingshapes, nor ministering spirits of comfort. They seemed filmy garments,and from their midst faces beautiful, yet faint and dim, looked at him,all of them like unto her face; but when he dropped his pipe and bentforward, the wreaths of smoke fell into lines that made the faces appearsad and bathed in tears, and the images faded from his sight.
As the last one, with its visionary arms outstretched towards him,receded from him, and disappeared, he thought, "That is Francesca'sspirit, bidding me an eternal adieu"--and, with the foolish thought, inspite of its foolishness, he shivered and stretched out his arms inreturn.
"Of a verity," he then cried, "if nature failed to make me an idiot, Iam doing my best to consummate that end, and become one of free choice.What folly possesses me? I will dissipate it at once,--I will see her inbodily shape,--that will put an end to such fancies,"--starting up, andbeginning to pull on his gloves.
"No! no, that will not do,"--pulling them off again. "She will think Iam an uneasy ghost that pursues her. I must wait till this evening, butah, what an age till evening!"
Fortunately, all ages, even lovers' ages, have an end. The evening came;he was at the Fifth Avenue,--his card sent up,--his feet impatientlytravelling to and fro upon the parlor carpet,--his heart beating withhappiness and expectancy. A shadow darkened the door; he flew to meetthe substance,--not a sweet face and graceful form, but a servant, bigand commonplace, bringing him his own card and the announcement, "Theladies is both out, sir."
"Impossible! take it up again."
He said "impossible" because Francesca had that morning told him shewould be at home in the evening.
"All right, sir; but it's no use, for there's nobody there, I know"; andhe vanished for a second attempt, unsuccessful as the first. Surrey wentto the office, still determinedly incredulous.
"Are Mrs. Lancaster and Miss Ercildoune not in?"
"No, sir; both out. Keys here,"--showing them. "Left for one of thefive-o'clock trains; rooms not given up; said they would be back in afew days."
"From what depot did they leave?"
"Don't know, sir. They didn't go in the coach; had a carriage, or Icould tell you."
"But they left a note, perhaps,--or some message?"
"Nothing at all, sir; not a word, nor a scrap. Can I serve you in anyway further?"
"Thanks! not at all. Good evening."
"Good evening, sir."
That was all. What did it mean?--to vanish without a sign! an engagementfor the evening, and not a line left in explanation or excuse! It wasnot like her. There must be something wrong, some mystery. He tormentedhimself with a thousand fancies and fears over what, he confessed, wasprobably a mere accident; wisely determined to do so no longer,--butdid, spite of such excellent resolutions and intent.
This took place on the evening of Saturday, the 13th of April, 1861. Theevents of the next few days doubtless augmented his anxiety andunhappiness. Sunday followed,--a day filled not with a Sabbath calm, butwith the stillness felt in nature before some awful convulsion; thesilence preceding earthquake, volcano, or blasting storm; a quiet brokenfrom Maine to the Pacific slope when the next day shone, and men rousedthemselves from the sleep of a night to the duty of a day, from thesleep of generations, fast merging into death, at the trumpet-call toarms,--a cry which sounded through every State and every household inthe land, which, more powerful than the old songs of Percy and Douglas,"brought children from their play, and old men from theirchimney-corners," to emulate humanity in its strength and prime, andcontest with it the opportunity to fight and die in a deathless cause.
A cry which said, "There are wrongs to be redressed already long enoughendured,--wrongs against the flag of the nation, against the integrityof the Union, against the life of the republic; wrongs against the causeof order, of law, of good government, against right, and justice, andliberty, against humanity and the world; not merely in the present, butin the great future, its countless ages and its generations yet unborn."
To this cry there sounded one universal response, as men dropped theirwork at loom, or forge, or wheel, in counting-room, bank, and merchant'sstore, in pulpit, office, or platform, and with one accord rushed toarms, to save these rights so frightfully and arrogantly assailed.
One voice that went to swell this chorus was Surrey's; one hand quick tograsp rifle and cartridge-box, one soul eager to fling its body into thebreach at this majestic call, was his. He felt to the full all thedivine frenzy and passion of those first days of the war, daysunequalled in the history of nations and of the world. All the elegantdilettanteism, the delicious idleness, the luxurious ease, fell away,and were as though they had never been. All the airy dreams of a renewedchivalrous age, of courage, of heroism, of sublime daring andself-sacrifice, took substance and shape, and were for him no longervisions of the night, but realities of the day.
Still, while flags waved, drums beat, and cannon thundered; whilefriends said, "Go!" the world stood ready to cheer him on, and fame andhonor and greater things than these beckoned him to come; while he feltthe whirl and excitement of it all,--his heart cried ceaselessly, "Onlylet me see her--once--if but for a moment, before I go!" It was solittle he asked of fate, yet too much to be granted.
In vain he went every day, and many times a day, in the brief space lefthim, to her hotel. In vain he once more questioned clerk and servants;in vain haunted the house of his aunt, with the dim hope that Claramight hear from her, or that in some undefined way he might learn ofher whereabouts, and so accomplish his desire.
But the days passed, too slowly for the ardent young patriot, all toorapidly for the unhappy lover. Friday came. Early in the day multitudesof people began to collect in the street, growing in numbers andenthusiasm as the hours wore on, till, in the afternoon, the splendidthoroughfare of New York from Fourth Street down to the CortlandtFerry--a stretch of miles--was a solid mass of humanity; thousands andtens of thousands, doubled, quadrupled, and multiplied again.
Through the morning this crowd in squads and companies traversed thestreets, collected on the corners, congregating chiefly about the armoryof their pet regiment, the Seventh, on Lafayette Square,--one great massgazing unweariedly at its windows and walls, then moving on to bereplaced by another of the like kind, which, having gone through thesame performance, gave way in turn to yet others, eager to take itsplace.
So the fever burned; the excitement continued and augmented till,towards three o'clock in the afternoon, the mighty throng stood still,and waited. It was no ordinary multitude; the wealth, refinement,fashion, the greatness and goodness of a vast city were there, pressedclose against its coarser and darker and homelier elements. Men andwomen stood alike in the crowd, dainty patrician and toil-stainedlaborer, all thrilled by a common emotion, all vivified--if in unequaldegree--by the same sublime enthusiasm. Overhead, from every window anddoorway and housetop, in every space and spot that could sustain one, onropes, on staffs, in human hands, waved, and curled, and floated, flagsthat were in multit
ude like the swells of the sea; silk, and bunting,and painted calico, from the great banner spreading its folds with anindescribable majesty, to the tiny toy shaken in a baby hand. Under allthis glad and gay and splendid show, the faces seemed, perhaps bycontrast, not sad, but grave; not sorrowful, but intense, and luminouslysolemn.
Gradually the men of the Seventh marched out of their armory. Hands hadbeen wrung, adieus said, last fond embraces and farewells given. Theregiment formed in the open square, the crowd about it so dense as toseem stifling, the windows of its building rilled with the sweetest andfinest and fairest of faces,--the mothers, wives, and sweethearts ofthese young splendid fellows just ready to march away.
Surrey from his station gazed and gazed at the window where stood hismother, so well beloved, his relations and friends, many of them nearand dear to him,--some of them with clear, bright eyes that turned fromthe forms of brothers in the ranks to seek his, and linger upon itwistfully and tenderly; yet looking at all these, even his mother, helooked beyond, as though in the empty space a face would appear, eyeswould meet his, arms be stretched towards him, lips whisper a fondadieu, as he, breaking from the ranks, would take her to his embrace,and speak, at the same time, his love and farewell. A fruitlesslonging.
Four o'clock struck over the great city, and the line moved out of thesquare, through Fourth Street, to Broadway. Then began a march, whichwhoso witnessed, though but a little child, will remember to his dyingday, the story of which he will repeat to his children, and hischildren's children, and, these dead, it will be read by eyes that shallshine centuries hence, as one of the most memorable scenes in the greatstruggle for freedom.
Hands were stretched forth to touch the cloth of their uniforms, andkissed when they were drawn back. Mothers held up their little childrento gain inspiration for a lifetime. A roar of voices, continuous,unbroken, rent the skies; while, through the deafening cheers, men andwomen, with eyes blinded by tears, repeated, a million times, "Godbless--God bless and keep them!" And so, down the magnificent avenue,through the countless, shouting multitude, through the whirlwind ofenthusiasm and adoration, under the glorious sweep of flags, the grandregiment moved from the beginning of its march to its close,--till itwas swept away towards the capital, around which were soon to roll suchbloody waves of death.
Meanwhile, where was Miss Ercildoune? Surrey had thought her behaviorstrange the last morning they spent together. How much stranger, howunaccountable, indeed, would it have seemed to him, could he have seenher through the afternoon following!
"What is wrong with you? are you ill, Francesca?" her aunt had inquiredas she came in, pulling off her hat with the air of one stifling, andthrowing herself into a chair.
"Ill! O no!"--with a quick laugh,--"what could have made you think so? Iam quite well, thank you; but I will go to my room for a little whileand rest. I think I am tired."
"Do, dear, for I want you to take a trip up the Hudson this afternoon. Ihave to see some English people who are living at a little village ascore of miles out of town, and then I must go on to Albany before Itake you home. It will be pleasant at Tanglewood over theSabbath,--unless you have some engagements to keep you here?"
"O Aunt Alice, how glad I am! I was going home this afternoon withoutyou. I thought you would come when you were ready; but this will do justas well,--anything to get out of town."
"Anything to get out of town? why, Francesca, is it so hateful to you?'Going home! and this do almost as well!'--what does the child mean? isshe the least little bit mad? I'm afraid so. She evidently needs somefresh country air, and rest from excitement. Go, dear, and take yournap, and refresh yourself before five o'clock; that is the time weleave."
As the door closed between them, she shook her head dubiously. '"Goinghome this afternoon!' what does that signify? Has she been quarrellingwith that young lover of hers, or refusing him? I should not care to askany questions till she herself speaks; but I fear me something iswrong."
She would not have feared, but been certain, could she have looked thenand there into the next room. She would have seen that the trouble wassomething deeper than she dreamed. Francesca was sitting, her handssupporting an aching head, her large eyes fixed mournfully and immovablyupon something which she seemed to contemplate with a relentlessearnestness, as though forcing herself to a distressing task. What wasthis something? An image, a shadow in the air, which she had not evokedfrom the empty atmosphere, but from the depths of her own nature andsoul,--the life and fate of a young girl. Herself! what cause, then, formournful scrutiny? She, so young, so brilliant, so beautiful, upon whomfate had so kindly smiled, admired by many, tenderly and passionatelyloved by at least one heart,--surely it was a delightful picture tocontemplate,--this life and its future; a picture to bring smiles to thelips, rather than tears to the eyes.
Though, in fact, there were none dimming hers,--hot, dry eyes, full offever and pain. What visions passed before them? what shadows of thelife she inspected darkened them? what sunshine now and then fell uponit, reflecting itself in them, as she leaned forward to scan thesebright spots, holding them in her gaze after other and gloomier ones hadtaken their places, as one leans forth from window or doorway to behold,long as possible, the vanishing form of some dear friend.
Looking at these, she cried out, "Fool! to have been so happy, and notto have known what the happiness meant, and that it was not forme,--never for me! to have walked to the verge of an abyss,--to haveplunged in, thinking the path led to heaven. Heaven for me! ah,--Iforgot,--I forgot. I let an unconscious bliss seize me, possess me,exclude memory and thought,--lived in it as though it would endureforever."
She got up and moved restlessly to and fro across the room, butpresently came back to the seat she had abandoned, and to the inspectionwhich, while it tortured her, she yet evidently compelled herself topursue.
"Come," she then said, "let us ask ourself some questions, constituteourself confessor and penitent, and see what the result will prove."
"Did you think fate would be more merciful to you than to others?"
"No, I thought nothing about fate."
"Did you suppose that he loved you sufficiently to destroy 'aninvincible barrier?'"
"I did not think of his love. I remembered no barrier. I only knew I wasin heaven, and cared for naught beyond."
"Do you see the barrier now?"
"I do--I do."
"Did _he_ help you to behold it; to discover, or to remember it? did he,or did he not?"
"He did. Too true,--he did."
"Does he love you?"
"I--how should I know? his looks, his acts--I never thought--O Willie,Willie!"--her voice going out in a little gasping sob.
"Come,--none of that. No sentiment,--face the facts. Think over all thatwas said, every word. Have you done so?"
"I have,--every word."
"Well?"
"Ah, stop torturing me. Do not ask me any more questions. I am goingaway,--flying like a coward. I will not tempt further suffering. Andyet--once more--only once? could that do harm? Ah, God, my God, bemerciful!" she cried, clasping her hands and lifting them above herbowed head. Then remembering, in the midst of her anguish, some wordsshe had been reading that morning, she repeated them with a bitteremphasis,--"What can wringing of the hands do, that which is ordained toalter?" As she did so she tore asunder her clasped hands, to drop themclinched by her side,--the gesture of despair substituted for that ofhope.
"It is not Heaven I am to besiege!" she exclaimed. "Will I never learnthat? Its justice cannot overcome the injustice of man. My God!" shecried then, with a sudden, terrible energy, "our punishment should belight, our rest sure, our paradise safe, at the end, since we have tomake now such awful atonement; since men compel us to endure the pangsof purgatory, the tortures of hell, here upon earth."
After that she sat for a long while silent, evidently revolving athousand thoughts of every shape and hue, judging from the myriads oflights and shadows that flitted over her face. At last, rousing herself,she
perceived that she had no more time to spend in this sorrowfulemployment,--that she must prepare to go away from him, as her heartsaid, forever. "Forever!" it repeated. "This, then, is the close of itall,--the miserable end!" With that thought she shut her slender hand,and struck it down hard, the blood almost starting from the driven nailsand bruised flesh, unheeding; though a little space thereafter shesmiled, beholding it, and muttered, "So--the drop of savage blood istelling at last!"
Presently she was gone. It was a pleasant spot to which her aunt tookher,--one of the pretty little villages scattered up and down the longsweep of the Hudson. Pleasant people they were too,--these Englishfriends of Mrs. Lancaster,--who made her welcome, but did not intrudeupon the solitude which they saw she desired.
Sabbath morning they all went to the little chapel, and left her, as shewished, alone. Being so alone, after hearing their adieus, she went upto her room and sat down to devote herself once again to sorrowfulcontemplation,--not because she would, but because she must.
Poor girl! the bright spring sunshine streamed over her where shesat;--not a cloud in the sky, not a dimming of mist or vapor on all thehills, and the broad river-sweep which, placid and beautiful, rolledalong; the cattle far off on the brown fields rubbed their silky sidessoftly together, and gazed through the clear atmosphere with a lazycontent, as though they saw the waving of green grass, and heard therustle of wind in the thick boughs, so soon to bear their leafy burden.Stillness everywhere,--the blessed calm that even nature seems to feelon a sunny Sabbath morn. Stillness scarcely broken by the voices,mellowed and softened ere they reached her ear, chanting in the villagechurch, to some sweet and solemn music, words spoken in infinitetenderness long ago, and which, through all the centuries, come withhealing balm to many a sore and saddened heart: "Come unto me," thevoices sang,--"come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, andI will give you rest."
"Ah, rest," she murmured while she listened,--"rest"; and with therepetition of the word the fever died out of her eyes, leaving themfilled with such a look, more pitiful than any tears, as would have madea kind heart ache even to look at them; while her figure, alert andproud no longer, bent on the window ledge in such lonely and wearyfashion that a strong arm would have involuntarily stretched out toshield it from any hardness or blow that might threaten, though theowner thereof were a stranger.
There was something indescribably appealing and pathetic in her wholelook and air. Outside the window stood a slender little bird which hadfluttered there, spent and worn, and did not try to flit away anyfurther. Too early had it flown from its southern abode; too earlyabandoned the warm airs, the flowers and leafage, of a more hospitableregion, to find its way to a northern home; too early ventured into arigorous clime; and now, shivering, faint, near to death, drooped itswings and hung its weary head, waiting for the end of its brief life tocome.
Francesca, looking up with woeful eyes, beheld it, and, opening thewindow, softly took it in. "Poor birdie!" she whispered, striving towarm it in her gentle hand and against her delicate cheek,--"poor littlewanderer!--didst thou think to find thy mate, and build thy tiny nest,and be a happy mother through the long bright summer-time? Ah, my pet,what a sad close is this to all these pleasant dreams!"
The frail little creature could not eat even the bits of crumbs whichshe put into its mouth, nor taste a drop of water. All her soothingpresses failed to bring warmth and life to the tiny frame that presentlystretched itself out, dead,--all its sweet songs sung, its brief, brightexistence ended forever. "Ah, my little birdie, it is all over,"whispered Francesca, as she laid it softly down, and unconsciouslylifted her hand to her own head with a self-pitying gesture that wassorrowful to behold.
"Like me," she did not say; yet a penetrating eye looking at them--theslight bird lying dead, its brilliant plumage already dimmed, the younggirl gazing at it--would perceive that alike these two were fitted forthe warmth and sunshine, would perceive that both had been thwarted anddefrauded of their fair inheritance, would perceive that one lay spentand dead in its early spring. What of the other?
"Aunt Alice," said Francesca a few days after that, "can you go to NewYork this afternoon or to-morrow morning?"
"Certainly, dear. I purposed returning to-day or early in the morning tosee the Seventh march away. Of course you would like to be there."
"Yes." She spoke slowly, and with seeming indifference. It was becauseshe could scarcely control her voice to speak at all. "I should like tobe there."
Francesca knew, what her aunt did not, that Surrey was a member of theSeventh, and that he would march away with it to danger,--perhaps todeath.
So they were there, in a window overlooking the great avenue,--Mrs.Lancaster, foreigner though she was, thrilled to the heart's core by themagnificent pageant; Francesca straining her eyes up the long street,through the vast sea of faces, to fasten them upon just one face thatshe knew would presently appear in the throng.
"Ah, heavens!" cried Mrs. Lancaster, "what a sight! look at those youngmen; they are the choice and fine of the city. See, see! there isHunter, and Winthrop, and Pursuivant, and Mortimer, and Shaw, andRussell, and, yes--no--it is, over there--your friend, Surrey, himself.Did you know, Francesca?"
Francesca did not reply. Mrs. Lancaster turned to see her lying whiteand cold in her chair. Endurance had failed at last.
What Answer? Page 6