Part 15 (2/2)
”I did not hear you, and I do not know anything about them,” I said, feeling not at all affectionate.
”No? Oh, I forgot: it was while you and Henrietta were sitting in the library, and Charlotte and I were walking up and down the piazza while it rained. Why, they are some heavenly sets that I got this spring from Paris--Marshall picked them up one day at the _Bon Marche_--and verily they are _bon marche_. I never saw anything so cheap, and I was telling Charlotte that some of you might just as well have part of them, for I never could use the half. Come up and look them over.”
Now I loved ”heavenly sets” as well as most women, but dress was not the bait for me at that moment. So I said my head ached and I could not look at them then, if she'd excuse me; and I went silently away to my room, not caring at all if she were pleased or not. I disliked and distrusted her more and more every moment, and she seemed to me so mean: for I knew all her worry came from the apprehension of what she might have to fear from Richard, not the thought of the suffering that he or that any one else endured.
It was a long afternoon, but it reached its end, after the manner of all afternoons on record, even those of Marianna. When I came down-stairs they were all at tea and Kilian had arrived. A more enlivening atmosphere prevailed, and the invalid was not discussed. A drive was being canva.s.sed. There was an early moon, and Kilian proposed driving Tom and Jerry before the open wagon, which would carry four, through the valley-road, to be back by half-past nine or ten o'clock.
”But what am I to do,” cried Kilian, ”when there are five angels, and I have only room for three?”
”Why, two will have to stay at home, according to my arithmetic,” said Charlotte, good-naturedly, ”and I've no doubt I shall be remainder.”
”If you stay, I shall stay with you,” said Henrietta, dropping the metaphor, for metaphors, even the mildest, were beyond her reach of mind.
Everybody wanted to stay, and everybody tried to be quite firm; but as no one's firmness but mine was based on inclination, the result was that Sophie and I were ”remainder,” and Mary Leighton, Charlotte, and Henrietta drove away with Kilian quite jauntily, at half-past seven o'clock. But before she went, Charlotte, who was really good-natured with all her sharpness and self-will, went into the library to speak to Mr. Langenau, and to show she did not resent the noonday slight, whatever that had been. But presently she came back looking rather anxious, and said to Sophie, ignoring me (whom she always did ignore if possible),
”Do go and see what you can do for Mr. Langenau. He is really very far from well. His tea stands there, and he hasn't taken anything to eat. He looks feverish and excited, and I truly think he ought to see the Doctor. You know he promised the Doctor to stay in his room, and keep still all the rest of the week. But I am sure he means to come out to-morrow, and he even talks of going down to town. It will kill him if he does; I'm sure he's doing badly, and I wish you'd go and see to him.”
”Does he know Richard is coming up to-night?” asked Sophie, _sotto voce_, but with affected carelessness.
”I do not know; oh yes, he does, I mentioned it to him at dinner-time, I remember now.”
”Well, I'll see if I can do anything for him; now go, they're waiting for you. Have a pleasant time.”
After they were gone, Sophie went into the library, but she did not stay very long. She came and sat beside me on the river-balcony, and talked a little, desultorily and absent-mindedly.
Presently there was a call for ”mamma,” a hubbub and a hurry--soon explained. Charley, who had been running wild for the last two weeks, without tutor or uncle to control him, had just fallen from the mow, and hurt himself somewhat, and frightened himself much more. The whole house was in a ferment. He was taken to mamma's room, for he was a great baby when anything was the matter with him, and would not let mamma move an inch away from him. After a.s.sisting to the best of my ability in making him comfortable, and seeing myself only in the way, I went down-stairs again, and took my seat upon the balcony that overlooked the river.
The young moon was s.h.i.+ning faintly, and the air was soft and balmy. The house was very still; the servants, I think, were all in a distant part of the house, or out enjoying the moonlight and the idleness of evening.
Sophie was nailed to Charley's bed up-stairs, trying to soothe him; Benny was sinking to sleep in his little crib. It seemed like an enchanted palace, and when I heard a step crossing the parlor, it made me start with a vague feeling of alarm. The parlor-window by me, which opened to the floor, was not closed, and in another moment some one came out and stood beside me. It was Mr. Langenau. I started up and exclaimed, ”Mr. Langenau, how imprudent! Oh, go back at once.”
He seemed weak, and his hand shook as he leaned against the cas.e.m.e.nt, but his eyes were glittering with a feverish excitement. He did not answer. I went on: ”The Doctor forbade your coming out for several days yet--and the exertion and the night-air--oh, I beg you to go back.”
”Alone?” he said in a low voice.
”No, oh no, I will go with you. Anything, only do not stay here a moment longer; come.” And taking his hand (and how burning hot it was!) and drawing it through my arm, I started toward the hall. He had to lean on me, for the unusual exertion seemed to have annihilated all his strength. When we reached the library, I led him to a chair--a large and low and easy one, and he sank down in it.
”You are not going away?” he asked, as he gasped for breath, ”For there is something that must be said to-night.”
”No, I will not go,” I answered, frightened to see him so, and agitated by a thousand feelings. ”I will light the lamp, and read to you. Let me move your chair back from the window.”
”No, you must not light the lamp; I like the moonlight better. Bring your chair and sit here by me--here.” He leaned and half-pulled toward him the companion to the chair on which he sat, a low, soft, easy one.
I sat down in it, sitting so I nearly faced him. The moon was s.h.i.+ning in at the one wide window: I can remember exactly the pattern that the vine-leaves made as the moonlight fell through them on the carpet at our feet. I had a bunch of verbena-leaves fastened in my dress, and I never smell verbena-leaves at any time or place without seeing before me that moon-traced pattern and that wide-open window.
”Pauline,” he said, in that low, thrilling voice, leaning a little toward me, ”I have a great deal to say to you to-night. I have a great wrong to ask pardon for--a great sorrow to tell you of. I shall never call you Pauline again as I call you to-night. I shall never look into your eyes again, I shall never touch your hand. For we must part, Pauline; and this hour, which heaven has given me, is the last that we shall spend together on the earth.”
I truly thought that his fever had produced delirium, and, trying to conceal my alarm, I said, with an attempt to quiet him, ”Oh, do not say such things; we shall see each other a great, great many times, I hope, and have many more hours together.”
”No, Pauline, you do not know so well as I of what I speak. This is no delirium; would to heaven, it were, and I might wake up from it. No, the parting must be said to-night, and I must be the one to speak it. We may spend days, perhaps, under the same roof--we may even sit at the same table once again; but, I repeat, from this day I may never look into your eyes again, I may never touch your hand. Pauline, can you forgive me? I know that you can love. Merciful Heaven! who so well as I, who have held your stainless heart in my stained hand these many dreamy weeks; and Justice has not struck me dead. Yes, Pauline, I know you've loved me; but remember this one thing, in all your bitter thoughts of me hereafter: remember this, you have not loved me as I have loved you. You have not given up earth and heaven both for me as I have done for you.
<script>