Part 21 (2/2)
He took my hand and led me out, shutting the door noiselessly. He took me across the hall, and into the parlor, where there was no light, except what came in from the hall. There was a sofa opposite the door, and to that he led me, standing himself before me, with his perplexed and careworn face. I was very silent for some time: all that awful time in the library, I had never made a sound: but suddenly, some thought came that reached the source of my tears, and I burst into a pa.s.sion of weeping. I am not sure what it was: I think, perhaps, the sight of the piano, and the recollection of that magnificent voice that would never be heard again, Whatever it was, I bless it, for I think it saved my brain. I threw myself down upon the sofa, and clung to Richard's hand, and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.
Poor fellow! my tears seemed to shake him terribly. Once he turned away, and drew his hand across his brow, as if it were a little more than he could bear. But some men, like many women, are born to sacrifice.
He tried to comfort and soothe me with broken words. But what was there to say?
”Oh, Richard,” I cried, ”What does it all mean? why am I so punished?
was it so very wicked to have loved him after I knew all? Was all this allowed to come because I did that? Answer me, tell me; tell me what you think.”
”No, Pauline, I don't think that was it. Don't talk about it now. Try to be quiet. You are not fit to think about it now.”
”But, Richard, what else can it mean? I know, I know that it is the truth. G.o.d wouldn't have sent such a punishment upon me if he hadn't seen my sin.”
”It's more likely He sent it to--” and then he paused.
I know now he meant, it was more likely He had sent it to save me from the sins of others; but he had the holy charity not to say it.
”Oh,” I cried, pa.s.sionately, ”When all the sin was mine, that he should have had to die: when he never came near me, never looked at me: when he would rather die than break his word to me. That night in the library, after he had told me all, he said, 'I will never look into your eyes again, I will never touch your hand;' and though we were in the same room together after that, and in the same house all this time, and though he knew I loved him so--he never looked at me, he never turned his eyes upon me; and I--I was willing to sin for him--to die for him. I would have followed him to the ends of the earth, not twelve hours ago.”
”Hush, Pauline,” said Richard huskily, ”you don't know what you're saying--you are a child.”
”No, I'm not a child--after to-day, after to-night--I am not a child--and I know too well what I say--too well--too well. Richard, you don't know what has been in my heart. That night, he held me in his arms and kissed me--when he said good-bye. Then I was innocent, for I was dazed by grief and had not come to my senses, after what he told me. But to-day I said--_to-day_--to have his arms around me once again--to have him kiss me once again as he kissed me then--I would go away from all I ever had been taught of right and duty, and would be satisfied.”
”Then, thank G.o.d for what has come,” said Richard, hoa.r.s.ely, wiping from his forehead the great drops that had broken out upon it.
”No!” I cried with a fresh burst of weeping. ”No, I cannot thank G.o.d, for I want him back again. _I want him_. I had rather die than be separated from him. I cannot thank G.o.d for taking him away from me. Oh, Richard, what shall I do? I loved him, loved him so. Don't look so stern; don't turn away from me. You used to love me. Could you thank G.o.d for taking me away from you, out of your arms, warm, and strong, and living, and making me cold, and dumb, and stiff, like _that_?”
”Yes, Pauline, if it had been to save us both from sin.”
”You don't know what love is, if you say that.”
”I know what sin is, better than you do, maybe. Listen, Pauline. I've loved you ever since I saw you; men don't often love better than I have loved you; but I'd rather drag you, to-night, to that black river there, and hold you down with my own hands till the breath left your body, than see you turn into a sinful woman, and lead the life of shame you tell me you had it in your heart to lead, to-day.”
”Is it so very awful?” I whispered with a s.h.i.+ver, my own emotion stilled before his. ”I only loved him!”
”Forget you ever did,” he said, rising, and pacing up and down the room.
I put my hands before my face, and felt as if I were alone in the world with sin. If this unspoken, pa.s.sionate, sweet thought, that I had harbored, were so full of danger as to force G.o.d to blast me with such punishment, as to drive this tender, generous, loving man to wish me dead, what must be the blackness of the sin from which I had been saved, if I were saved? If there were, indeed, anything but shocks of woe and punishment, and deadly despair and darkness, in this strange world in which I found myself. There was a silence. I rose to my feet. I don't know what I meant to do or where to go; my only impulse was to hide myself from the eyes of my companion, and to go away from him, as I had hidden myself from all others, since I was smitten with this chastis.e.m.e.nt.
”Forgive me, Pauline,” he said, coming to my side. ”It is the second time I have been harsh with you this dreadful day. This is what comes of selfishness. I hope you will forget what I have said.”
I still turned to go away, feeling afraid of him and ashamed before him.
He put out his hand to stop me.
”Pauline, remember, I have been sorely tried. I would do anything to comfort you. I haven't another wish in my heart but to be of use to you.”
”Oh, Richard,” I cried, bursting into tears afresh, and hiding my eyes, ”if you give me up and drive me away from you, I am all alone. There isn't another human being that I love or that cares for me. Dear Richard, do be good to me; do be sorry for me.”
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