Part 81 (1/2)
He drew her close to his side, unconscious that he pressed her fingers so tight that the small points of the diamonds cut into the flesh.
”G.o.d bless you, Lily. Think of me sometimes.”
They looked in each other's eyes an instant, and she walked away. He turned and closed the door, and she heard the click of the lock inside. Blind and tearless, like one staggering from a severe blow, she reached her own room, and fell heavily across the foot of her bed.
Through the long hours of that night she lay motionless, striving to hush the moans of her crushed heart, and wondering why such anguish as hers was not fatal. Staring at the wall, she could not close her eyes, and the only staff that supported her in the ordeal was the consciousness that she had fought bravely, had not betrayed her humiliating secret.
Toward dawn she rose, and opened her window. The sleet had ceased, and the carriage was standing before the door. An impulse she could not resist drove her out into the hall, to catch one more glimpse of the form so precious to her. She heard a door open on the hall beneath, and recognized her guardian's step. He paused, and she heard him talking to his stepmother, bidding her adieu. His last words were deep and gentle in their utterance.
”Be very tender and patient with Olga. Wounds like hers heal slowly.
Take good care of my ward. G.o.d bless you all.”
Descending the steps she saw him distinctly, enveloped in an overcoat b.u.t.toned so close that it showed the fine proportions of his tall figure; and as he stopped to light his cigar at a gas globe which a bronze Atalanta held in a niche half way up the stairs, his n.o.bly formed head and gleaming forehead impressed itself for ever on her memory.
Slowly he went down, and leaning over the bal.u.s.trade to watch the vanis.h.i.+ng figure, the withered azaleas slipped from her hair, and floated like a snowflake down, down to the lower hall.
Fearful of discovery she shrank back, but not before he had seen the drifting flowers, and one swift upward glance showed him the blanched suffering face pale as a summer cloud, retreating from observation.
Stooping, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the bruised wilted petals that seemed a fit symbol of the drooping flower he was leaving behind him, kissed them tenderly, and thrust them into his bosom.
The blessed a.s.surance so long desired seemed nestling in their perfumed corollas making all his future fragrant; and how little she dreamed of the precious message they breathed from her heart to his!
”What could he do indeed? A weak white girl Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand; His hopes, and power, and majesty were hers, And not his own.”
CHAPTER x.x.xI.
”No, mother; no. Not less, but more beautiful; not so pale as when you hang over me at the convent, baptizing me with hot, fast dripping tears. Now a delicate flush like the pink of an apple bloom overspreads your cheeks; and your eyes, once so sad, eyes which I remember as s.h.i.+mmering stars, burning always on the brink of clouds, and magnified and misty through a soft veil of April rain, are brighter, happier eyes than those I have so fondly dreamed of. Oh, mother! mother! Draw me close, hold me tight. Earth has no peace so holy as the blessed rest in a mother's clasping arms. After the long winter of separation, it is so sweet to bask in your presence, thawing like a numb dormouse in the suns.h.i.+ne of May. I knew I should find joy in the reunion, but how deep, how full, antic.i.p.ation failed to paint; and only the blessed reality has taught me.”
On the carpet at her mother's feet, with her head in her mother's lap and her arms folded around her waist, Regina had thrown herself, feasting her eyes with the beauty of the face smiling down upon her.
It was the second day after her arrival in Paris, and hour after hour she had poured into eagerly listening ears the recital of her life at the quiet parsonage, at the stately mansion on Fifth Avenue; and yet the endless stream of talk flowed on, and neither mother nor child took cognizance of the flight of time.
Of her past the girl withheld only the acknowledgment of her profound interest in Mr. Palma, and when questioned concerning his opposition to her engagement with Mr. Lindsay she had briefly announced her belief that he was hastening the preparations for his marriage with Mrs. Carew. Of him she spoke only in quiet terms of respect and grat.i.tude, and her mother never suspected the spasm of pain that the bare mention of his name aroused.
Thus far no allusion had been hazarded to the long-veiled mystery of her parentage, and Mrs. Orme wondered at the exceeding delicacy with which her daughter avoided every reference that might have been construed into an inquiry. As the soft motherly hand pa.s.sed caressingly over the forehead resting so contentedly on her knee, Regina continued:
”In all the splendid imagery that makes 'Aurora Leigh' deathless, nothing affected me half so deeply as the portrait of the motherless child; and often when I could not sleep, I have whispered in the wee sma' hours:
”I felt a mother want about the world, And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb Left out at night, in shutting up the fold, As restless as a nest-deserted bird, Grown chill through something being away, though what-- It knows not. So mothers have G.o.d's license to be missed.”
”My guardians were n.o.ble, kind, high-toned, honourable gentlemen, and I owe them thanks, but ah! a girl should be ward only to those who gave her being; and, mother, brown-eyed mother, sweet and holy, it would have been better for your child had she shared her past with none but you. Do I weary you with my babble? If so, lay your hand upon my mouth, and I will watch your dear face, and be silent.”
In answer, the mother stooped and kissed many times the perfect lips that smiled at the pressure; but the likeness to a mouth dangerously sweet, treacherously beautiful, mocked her, and Regina saw her turn away her eyes, and felt rather than heard the strangled moan.
”Mother-kisses, the sweetest relic of Eden that followed Eve into a world of pain. All these dreary years I have kept your memory like a white angel-image, set it up for wors.h.i.+p, offered it the best part of myself; and I know I have grown jealously exacting, where you are concerned. I studied because I wished you to be proud of me; I practised simply that my music might be acceptable and pleasant to you; and when people praised me, said I was pretty, I rejoiced that one day I might be considered worthy of you. Something wounded me when at last we met. Let me tell you, my dearest, that you may take out the thorn, and heal the grieved spot. The day I came,--how long ago? for I am in a delicious dream, have been eating the luscious lotos of realized hope,--the day I came, and saw a new, glorious sun s.h.i.+ning from my mother's eyes, you ran to meet me. I hear you again, 'My baby! my baby!' as you rushed across the floor. You opened your arms, and when you clasped me to your bosom you bent my head back, and gazed at me--oh! how eagerly, hungrily; and I saw your face turn ghastly white, and a great agony sweep across it, and the lips that kissed me were cold and quivering. To me it was all sweet as heaven; but the cup of delight I drained, had bitter drops for you. Mother, tell me, were you disappointed in your daughter?”
”No, darling; no. The little blue-eyed child has grown into a woman, of whom the haughtiest mother in the land might be proud. My darling is all I wish her.”
”Ah, mother! the flattery is inexpressibly sweet, falling like dew on parched leaves; but the eyes of your idolatrous baby have grown very keen, and I know that the sight of me brings you a terrible pain you cannot hide. Last night, when Mrs. Waul made me shake out my hair to show its length, and praised it and my eyebrows, you dropped my hand, and walked away; and in the mirror on the wall, I saw your countenance shaken with grief. What is it? We have been apart so long, do take me into your heart fully; tell me why you look at me, and turn aside and s.h.i.+ver?”
Her clasping arms tightened about her mother's waist, and after a short silence, Mrs. Orme exclaimed:
”It is true. It has always been so. From the hour when you were born, and your little round head black with silky locks was first laid upon my arm, your face stabbed me like a dagger, and your eyes are blue steel that murder my peace. My daughter, my daughter, you are the exact counterpart, the beautiful image of your father! It is because I see in your eyes so wonderfully blue the reproduction of his, and about your mouth and brows the graceful lines of his, that I shudder while I look at you. Ah, my darling! is it not hard that your beauty should sting like a serpent the mother whose blood filled your veins?