Part 17 (1/2)
The astonishment of the father may be conceived, and his cavils; L----'s also.
To cut the story short, it was settled in Emily's way, for she was one of the sultana kind, dread and dangerous. L---- hardly wished her to love him now, for he half hated her for all she had done; yet he was glad to have her back, as she had judged, for the sake of appearances.
All was smoothed over by a plausible story. People, indeed, knew the truth as to the fair one's outrageous conduct perfectly, but Mr. L---- was rich, his wife beautiful, and gave good parties; so society, as such, bowed and smiled, while individuals scandalized the pair.
They had been living on this footing for several years, when I saw Emily at the opera. She was a much altered being. Debarred of happiness in her affections, she had turned for solace to the intellectual life, and her naturally powerful and brilliant mind had matured into a splendor which had never been dreamed of by those who had seen her amid the freaks end day-dreams of her early youth.
Yet, as I said before, she was not captivating to me, as her picture had been. She was, in a different way, as beautiful in feature and coloring as in her spring-time. Her beauty, all moulded and mellowed by feeling, was far more eloquent; but it had none of the virgin magnificence, the untouched tropical luxuriance, which had fired my fancy. The false position in which she lived had shaded her expression with a painful restlessness; and her eye proclaimed that the conflicts of her mind had strengthened, had deepened, but had not yet hallowed, her character.
She was, however, interesting, deeply so; one of those rare beings who fill your eye in every mood. Her pa.s.sion for music, and the great excellence she had attained as a performer, drew us together. I was her daily visitor; but, if my admiration ever softened into tenderness, it was the tenderness of pity for her unsatisfied heart, and cold, false life.
But there was one who saw with very different eyes. V---- had been intimate with Emily some time before my arrival, and every day saw him more deeply enamored.
_Laurie._ And pray where was the husband all this time?
_Aglauron._ L---- had sought consolation in ambition. He was a man of much practical dexterity, but of little thought, and less heart. He had at first been jealous of Emily for his honor's sake,--not for any reality,--for she treated him with great attention as to the comforts of daily life; but otherwise, with polite, steady coldness. Finding that she received the court, which many were disposed to pay her, with grace and affability, but at heart with imperial indifference, he ceased to disturb himself; for, as she rightly thought, he was incapable of understanding her. A coquette he could have interpreted; but a romantic character like hers, born for a grand pa.s.sion, or no love at all, he could not. Nor did he see that V---- was likely to be more to her than any of her admirers.
_Laurie._ I am afraid I should have shamed his obtuseness. V---- has nothing to recommend him that I know of, except his beauty, and that is the beauty of a _pet.i.t-maitre_--effeminate, without character, and very unlikely, I should judge, to attract such a woman as you give me the idea of.
_Aglauron._ You speak like a man, Laurie; but have you never heard tales of youthful minstrels and pages being preferred by princesses, in the land of chivalry, to stalwart knights, who were riding all over the land, doing their devoirs maugre scars and starvation? And why? One want of a woman's heart is to admire and be protected; but another is to be understood in all her delicate feelings, and have an object who shall know how to receive all the marks of her inventive and bounteous affection. V---- is such an one; a being of infinite grace and tenderness, and an equal capacity for prizing the same in another.
Effeminate, say you? Lovely, rather, and lovable. He was not, indeed, made to grow old; but I never saw a fairer spring-time than shone in his eye when life, and thought, and love, opened on him all together.
He was to Emily like the soft breathing of a flute in some solitary valley; indeed, the delicacy of his nature made a solitude around him in the world. So delicate was he, and Emily for a long time so unconscious, that n.o.body except myself divined how strong was the attraction which, as it drew them nearer together, invested both with a l.u.s.tre and a sweetness which charmed all around them.
But I see the sun is declining, and warns me to cut short a tale which would keep us here till dawn if I were to detail it as I should like to do in my own memories. The progress of this affair interested me deeply; for, like all persons whose perceptions are more lively than their hopes, I delight to live from day to day in the more ardent experiments of others. I looked on with curiosity, with sympathy, with fear. How could it end? What would become of them, unhappy lovers? One too n.o.ble, the other too delicate, ever to find happiness in an unsanctioned tie.
I had, however, no right to interfere, and did not, even by a look, until one evening, when the occasion was forced upon me.
There was a summer fete given at L----'s. I had mingled for a while with the guests in the brilliant apartments; but the heat oppressed, the conversation failed to interest me. An open window tempted me to the garden, whose flowers and tufted lawns lay bathed in moonlight. I went out alone; but the music of a superb band followed my steps, and gave impulse to my thoughts. A dreaming state, pensive though not absolutely sorrowful, came upon me,--one of those gentle moods when thoughts flow through the mind amber-clear and soft, noiseless, because unimpeded. I sat down in an arbor to enjoy it, and probably stayed much longer than I could have imagined; for when I reentered the large saloon it was deserted. The lights, however, were not extinguished, and, hearing voices in the inner room, I supposed some guests still remained; and, as I had not spoken with Emily that evening, I ventured in to bid her good-night. I started, repentant, on finding her alone with V----, and in a situation that announced their feelings to be no longer concealed from each other. She, leaning back on the sofa, was weeping bitterly, while V----, seated at her feet, holding her hands within his own, was pouring forth his pa.s.sionate words with a fervency which prevented him from perceiving my entrance.
But Emily perceived me at once, and starting up, motioned me not to go, as I had intended. I obeyed, and sat down. A pause ensued, awkward for me and for V----, who sat with his eyes cast down and blus.h.i.+ng like a young girl detected in a burst of feeling long kept secret.
Emily sat buried in thought, the tears yet undried upon her cheeks.
She was pale, but n.o.bly beautiful, as I had never yet seen her.
After a few moments I broke the silence, and attempted to tell why I had returned so late. She interrupted me: ”No matter, Aglauron, how it happened; whatever the chance, it promises to give both V---- and myself, what we greatly need, a calm friend and adviser. You are the only person among these crowds of men whom I could consult; for I have read friends.h.i.+p in your eye, and I know you have truth and honor.
V---- thinks of you as I do, and he too is, or should be, glad to have some counsellor beside his own wishes.”
V---- did not raise his eyes; neither did he contradict her. After a moment he said, ”I believe Aglauron to be as free from prejudice as any man, and most true and honorable; yet who can judge in this matter but ourselves?”
”No one shall judge,” said Emily; ”but I want counsel. G.o.d help me! I feel there is a right and wrong; but how can my mind, which has never been trained to discern between them, be confident of its power at this important moment? Aglauron, what remains to me of happiness,--if anything do remain; perhaps the hope of heaven, if, indeed, there be a heaven,--is at stake! Father and brother have failed their trust. I have no friend able to understand, wise enough to counsel me. The only one whose words ever came true to my thoughts, and of whom you have often reminded me, is distant. Will you, this hour, take her place?”
”To the best of my ability,” I replied without hesitation, struck by the dignity of her manner.
”You know,” she said, ”all my past history; all do so here, though they do not talk loudly of it. You and all others have probably blamed me. You know not, you cannot guess, the anguish, the struggles of my childish mind when it first opened to the meaning of those words, Love, Marriage, Life. When I was bound to Mr. L----, by a vow which from my heedless lips was mockery of all thought, all holiness, I had never known a duty, I had never felt the pressure of a tie. Life had been, so far, a sweet, voluptuous dream, and I thought of this seemingly so kind and amiable person as a new and devoted ministrant to me of its pleasures. But I was scarcely in his power when I awoke.
I perceived the unfitness of the tie; its closeness revolted me.
”I had no timidity; I had always been accustomed to indulge my feelings, and I displayed them now. L----, irritated, averted his mastery; this drove me wild; I soon hated him, and despised too his insensibility to all which I thought most beautiful. From all his faults, and the imperfection of our relation, grew up in my mind the knowledge of what the true might be to me. It is astonis.h.i.+ng how the thought grow upon me day by day. I had not been married more than three months before I knew what it would be to love, and I longed to be free to do so. I had never known what it was to be resisted, and the thought never came to me that I could now, and for all my life, be bound by so early a mistake. I thought only of expressing my resolve to be free.
”How I was repulsed, how disappointed, you know, or could divine if you did not know; for all but me have been trained to bear the burden from their youth up, and accustomed to have the individual will fettered for the advantage of society. For the same reason, you cannot guess the silent fury that filled my mind when I at last found that I had struggled in vain, and that I must remain in the bondage that I had ignorantly put on.