“Why talk of the future at all?” he said, impatiently. “Let me at least dream that I have you forever. These hours are so sweet—I sip them slowly, like drops of some precious wine. I even fancy sometimes that the days go lingeringly, as if the very moments felt the joy they hold, and were loath to depart from us. We are but children playing in the sun; let us play that we are lovers—and love, you know, is eternal.”
“Oh, but that is too idle.”
“Yes; I will have it so,” he said, evidently feeling that he was securing an advantage. “You insist that this companionship of ours is not any part of our real lives. It is a little dream we are dreaming together—a brief drama which we enact. In such a fictitious world it is no matter what roles we take for our own. I choose the part of your lover. You can listen to my vows, for it is only play, you know.”
She laughed, but made no reply. She was unwilling, by objecting, to seem to attach any importance to this new freak. He never relinquished the ground her silence conceded; yet he seemed always to feel that this advantage was a stolen one, and was careful not to press it too far. Though after that he would often hold toward her the language of a lover, he was strangely gentle for one so naturally fierce and wild, and he played with this whim in a half sad, half tender way, which some times moved her more than she chose to show.
Raphael was passionately fond of music, and sang well in a wild, lawless way of his own, though in that, as in every thing else, quite guiltless of scientific method. He often chose to be present when Miss
Darrington was giving her morning lesson to the young ladies; and, as what he chose to do it w as rather difficult to prevent, both teacher and pupils soon learned to go on without paying any attention to him.
One memorable morning in May the two girls had finished their lesson and left the room. Raphael, who had been lying on a sofa by the window, with a newspaper over his face, as if asleep, flung it away as they closed the door.
“Now that those chatterers are gone, sing to me, Isabel,” he said. It was one of his caprices to substitute for her stately English name of Elizabeth, whose consonants plagued his southern tongue, the softer Spanish form which is its equivalent.
“What will you have?” she asked, reseating herself. “Are you in a sober mood, or will something gay and sparkling suit you better?”
“Any thing you like will please me.”
“That is a very flattering frame of mind in which to find one’s audience. As a reward you shall hear this choice little bit from Tennyson’s ‘Maud,’ which has just been set to music.”
“Very well; I have not an idea who Tennyson is, and never heard of his ‘Maud;’ but if you like it I shall. I only want to hear your voice.”
“What pretty things you say this morning! But I assure you that my grim tones do no justice to it. You should hear Alice.”
“Alice screams like a macaw.”
“That is not quite complimentary to my best pupil. But now, barbarian, be silent, and listen.”
The song was the one, so familiar now, beginning, “There has fallen a splendid tear.” She sang it in a way of her own, rolling out the words at the top, or rather bottom, of her voice, trying to imitate the deep, passionate tones of Maud’s lover, as he stands, half stifled with impatience, listening in the hush of the summer night for the footfall that he loves:
“There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate.
The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’
And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late;’
The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’
And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’
“She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.”
During the singing of the first stanza Raphael kept his position on the sofa, but the second had not proceeded far when, with a smothered exclamation, he started upright, and sat leaning eagerly forward, listening with a flushed and working face. At the close he sprang to his feet, and came toward her, his eyes burning like coals of fire.
“Jesu Maria! Why do you sing like that to me?”
The passion in his tones made her tremble, but she answered as calmly as possible: “I had no special reason. I thought the song a pretty piece of hyperbole, which would please you.”
“It is not hyperbole; it is truth,” he said, softly, a sudden paleness replacing the flush on his face. He stood close behind her, and leaned over to look at the sheet from which she had been singing. His fingers rested for a moment with a light touch upon her hair—a touch inexpressibly soft and caressing—as he repeated:
“‘My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.’
“Why, yes,” he went on, dreamily, “surely the earth does not furnish a grave so deep that the sound of her little foot above it would not send a thrill through his heart.”
“Raphael, I think you rave.”
“Indeed no,” he said, smiling softly. “Can not you see that if I were really your lover, as we only play I am, neither death nor the grave could divide me from you? In life, distance might divide us. Your own coldness, the cruel conveniences of the world in which you live, might build themselves like a wall between us; but were this soul unchained by death I should be free to seek you, and the universe of God is not wide enough to divide me from her I love. Not highest heaven nor deepest hell could keep me from my darling.”
“You would not appear to her in the fashion of the spectre bride groom, in the ballad of ‘Leonora’ we read the other day? Few ladies would like that.”
She spoke lightly, for the scene was becoming too painful, and she felt that she must end it at any cost. But her effort failed. He only smiled—a grave, patient smile, strangely unlike himself, she thought—as he answered:
“No, surely. Do you think I would frighten her, or harm one hair of her little head? Not to terrify, but to bless, would I seek her. And she would know my soul at last, and read all its love for her—a love she was too blind to believe in here.”
Tears sprang to her steadfast eyes. “Dear Raphael,” she said, “I will not wrong you by jesting any more. I do know your generous regard for me, and I am grateful for it. But if I were to listen to you it would be the bane of both. We are not suited to each other. We belong to two different worlds. The air of yours would scorch and blast me, as mine would chill and destroy you.”
“You do not care for me, then?”
“Indeed I do care. I was cold and lonely here, away from all I love; you came, and I was warmed with the sun of the tropics. It is you who give the charm to these sweet spring days which are passing so swiftly. But when they are gone that will be the end. You will leave us, and though you will think of me kindly for a while, the world of excitement and adventure will quickly renew its charm for you, and you will thank me then that I have left you unfettered.”
“And you?” he asked, in a tone of some bitterness. “You will forget me, doubtless?”
“I shall never forget you,” she answered, sadly. “I shall remember you always as the kindest, the most generous of friends. My life is one of labor and care; and this brief holiday we have spent together has the charm which only rare pleasures have. To you it is like the rest of your life, and so its memory will fade the sooner.”
“So you doubt alike my truth and const
ancy?”
“Doubt your truth? Ah, no. But for constancy—what is it? We are none of us constant—God be thanked, who gives us the power to change. How could we live if we had not that—if every sorrow held its keenness forever?”
“Do I cause you sorrow, Isabel?”
“Only when I see you unhappy. Did you not say that we were children playing in the sun? Then what have we to do with care? Let us play the play out merrily, for the end of it is near.”
She staid for no reply, but smiling on him kindly, though with swimming eyes, she rose and left the room.
* * * *
A week later Raphael went. Imperative business compelled Tom Sibthorpe’s departure, and his friend had no pretext for lingering longer. In the interval he bore himself toward Miss Darrington with a fair degree of the coolness she had been teaching him, but whether from pride or acquired indifference she could not tell. The day before his departure he ordered his horse immediately after breakfast, and rode to L—. She noticed, as he passed the window, that he had exchanged the white linen suit which, in common with other gentlemen at that season, he wore constantly, for a complete black dress.
He was gone nearly all day, only making his appearance after dinner was over, and the whole family assembled in the drawing-room. He had resumed his usual garb, and seemed in very gay spirits. Several guests were present, and he made himself brilliantly agreeable to them, flirted with Rose Sibthorpe, and paid any number of compliments to Alice on her singing. Miss Darrington played superbly, but he did not approach her. When she had finished, however, and walked away from the others into the shelter of a window, he soon followed.
“Have you heard,” he said, “that I go tomorrow?”
“So Tom has been telling me.”
“You speak very quietly. Do you understand that we part finally—that we shall never meet again?”
“Yes, I know.”
The words were almost inaudible, for pain choked her voice. He went on:
“Well, then, since it is so—since we shall never be any thing to each other any more, will you not give me something which shall at times remind me of you? Otherwise I might forget you, you know.”
“What shall it be?” she asked, faintly. The smile on his lips was almost more than she could bear.
“Any thing which you have worn, so it will seem a part of you.”
“Wear this, then,” drawing from her finger a little plain gold ring.
There was a flash like triumph in his eyes as he received it, and touched it to his lips before placing it upon his own finger.
“Now,” he said, still speaking in the same slow tone, as if he were controlling it by an effort—“now, will you look at what I have here?”
He took a small parcel from the breast of his coat and placed it in her hand. She removed the wrapper, and there appeared a common jewel-case of purple morocco, which, on being opened, revealed, reposing on its velvet bed, a trinket of singular and beautiful workman ship. It was a large drop, or globe, of exquisitely cut crystal, enclosed in a fine net-work of gold.
“Do you like it?” he asked, as she did not speak.
“Who would not? It looks like a soap-bubble tangled in a golden nest, or a great dewdrop bound round with threads of Titania’s hair. Surely you did not find such a rare and curious thing at L—?”
“No; I carried it there to-day. For what purpose I am not sure that I dare to tell you. It is an heir-loom in our family, and has come down to me through many generations. There is a tradition among us that it is a talisman, and brings good fortune to her who wears it. Will you wear it in memory of the last Aldama?”
Miss Darrington hesitated. “Ought you to part with a thing of such peculiar value?”
He answered with a strange smile: “I do not part with it. I only make of it a link between myself and you. While you wear it you can not wholly forget me. If you wish to do so, reject it.”
She answered by fastening it to her watch-chain. Again that triumphant flash broke from his eyes. Some one approached the window. Their tete-a-tete must come to an end. He leaned toward her and whispered hastily: “Some day, when you look at it, you will learn how high my presumption has soared. But the link between us is riveted now. You can never undo it.” The next moment he had moved away, and was laughing gaily with a group of ladies.
That night, in her own room, as Miss Darrington was laying aside her watch, she once more examined curiously the crystal drop. As she turned it over and over her fingers must have touched a small spring concealed in the gold net-work, for the globe parted in the middle, and the sides falling open, revealed a small but perfect photograph likeness of Raphael himself. This, then, was the errand which had taken him to L— that day; this was the piece of presumption which he had hesitated to confess to her. He had probably believed that she would not discover it till after he was gone. Should she tell him that she had done so, and reject a gift to which he evidently attached a half-superstitious importance? On consideration she decided against this course. It would bring about an exciting and perhaps stormy scene, and could do no good. They were not likely ever to meet again, so no embarrassment could ensue from her acceptance of his gift, and she need never wear it unless she chose.
The two travelers were to leave early next morning, as they had a ride of some miles to reach the nearest railway station. The heat was excessive, and Miss Darrington, who had not been well for some days, found herself languid and suffering; but she went down as usual. Alice Sibthorpe was in the room with her when Raphael came to say good by. He spoke his farewells lightly and gaily to both ladies, and left the room. Alice followed to say another parting word to her brother, and to watch with the rest the bustle of departure. Miss Darrington remained alone, and yielding to the languor of indisposition and the oppressive heat she sank down upon a lounge. A sadness deeper than she was prepared to feel, and which she chose to attribute mainly to physical depression, sent the slow tears stealing through her closed eye lashes.
So sunk was she in the listlessness of her sorrowful mood that she did not heed the opening of the door, or perceive that she was not alone until, looking up, she saw Raphael again beside her. His face was pale, his lips trembled, his eyes flashed darkly through the tears that filled them. He bent over her; she extended her hand. He caught and pressed it in his own so fiercely as almost to draw from her a cry of pain. He seemed making an effort to speak, but his voice died away in his throat.
There was a sound of footsteps approaching the door. He heard it and started. Then suddenly dropping on his knees beside her couch, and bending down to her feet, he kissed them passionately, again and again, and rising, darted from the room. She heard him spring down the staircase, and the next moment the clatter of his horse’s hoofs dashing away, and the voice of Tom Sibthorpe swearing at him to stop.
Miss Darrington was both shocked and pained by an incident which revealed a feeling on the part of her friend so much deeper than she had thought possible. But she consoled herself with the reflection that with him all emotions, though keen, were transient. Some other woman, she believed, would soon ensnare his fickle fancy, and efface from his mind all memories of pain. “I shall regret him longer than he will me,” she said, and turned to work as the best cure for sorrowful thoughts.
* * * *
The autumn of the year 1868 found Miss Darrington living in Boston. A busy woman now, for life with her had been steadily gathering new interests and occupations. Some youthful dreams, indeed, had faded out of sight, some triumphs anticipated once had been wholly missed; yet in the career she had marked out for herself a fair measure of success had rewarded her efforts, and won her the recognition so dear to us all. Without being a famous woman, she had secured a position which enabled her to make her social world what she would. She was happy and cheerful, for with her no sense was dulled, no power of enjoym
ent diminished; only the uneasy restlessness of youth had passed, and given place to the secure repose of one who has found her place and learned to fill it.
With a life thus pleasantly full, it was not surprising that the episode of her Kentucky sojourn gradually faded from her thoughts. As for her Cuban friend, it was seldom now that the idea of him returned to her. Beautiful as he had been to her, the passing tendresse she had felt for him had taken no hold upon her life. She had never woven his image with a single dream of the future; and the feeling with which she remembered him, though grateful and even tender, had no longing in it. The little globe of crystal still hung at her watch-chain, recalling, when it met her eye, a pleasant memory of those spring days they had spent together; but for that reminder she might perhaps not have thought of him at all. She had never seen him, and all that she knew of him could be briefly told. On the outbreak of the war he had entered the Confederate army, held the rank of colonel, and fought with reckless bravery. But becoming offended at some real or fancied slight put upon him by his commanding officer, he resigned his commission; and the next thing known of him he was enlisted on the Union side. Probably he was actuated each time more by a love of adventure than by any special sympathy with the cause either of Union or rebellion. Severely wounded in the third year of the war, he again withdrew from the service, and returned to Cuba. At Havana he had a quarrel—it was only about a dog—with an Englishman in the street; and the result was a duel, in which the Englishman was killed. To avoid the consequences of this affair he went to Mexico; and in that ever-seething caldron of revolution and tumult he was finally lost to view.
One evening late in September—it was the twenty-ninth, as she had reason afterward to note—Miss Darrington sat alone in the little room which served her as a study. It was a narrow but lofty apartment, its single high-arched window looked westward over the green trees of a square, with a glimpse of the Charles Riving shining beyond. A library table, a single tall book-case, a lounge, a bust or two, some flowers in the window—these were nearly all the objects noticeable in the room.
The Ghost Story Megapack Page 38