Sea-gift

CHAPTER XXXV.

Our accident formed quite a subject of sensation in Saratoga, and, in a small way, I found myself the hero of the occasion, and scores of the “fellows” echoed Monte’s sentiments, when he said:

“Smith, I vow I would like to have been in your place. ‘Twas jolly, I know, saving that angelic Lola. The devil take your good luck! did she hold on tight?”

The afternoon following the day of the disaster I went over to Congress Hall, and sent up my card, and inquiries after Carlotta’s health. The servant returned with a card from mother, saying Carlotta was almost well enough to go out, but that she was now sleeping under the influence of an opiate, and must remain quiet all the evening. They were in their parlor, and insisted that I should join them. I immediately went up stairs, and was met at the door by mother, with her bonnet on. She invited me in, in a whisper, and explained that she had just gotten ready to do some shopping that was necessary. She pointed to the centre table, on which were some new books, and begged me to amuse myself for a quarter of an hour, when she would be back, or Carlotta would awaken.

I accordingly took my seat, nothing loth to watch over such a beautiful charge, and picking up Beulah, which was the sensation just then, began to read. The room was very quiet, and the shaded light from the soft green curtains was very pleasant, but I could not become interested in the book, and, laying it down, I moved a chair noiselessly near Carlotta, and sat silently looking and loving. She was reclining on a folding lounge of pink damask, that reflected a faint tint on her face, which was white as marble. Her hair was parted simply over her forehead, and fell in voluminous waves over the pillow, while her lashes lay in deep black crescents on her cheeks. One soft hand rested under her face, while the other lay at her side, its tapering fingers half closed. No quivers of the lids, no slightest motion, told of life, save the rise and fall of the snowy frill at her throat. Oh, hopeless love! the saddest of all earth’s sadness, the deepest of all earth’s gloom!

She could not, did not love me, I knew from all the past and the present. To tell her of my love would only distress her and make home unhappy. Mine alone must be the struggle and the victory. I would kneel by her side, touch her cheek but once with my lips, and henceforth only be her brother. I rose softly and knelt by the sofa, and my face bent over hers. That kiss was to be the seal of my silence, and I was, from that moment, to bury the love of my life in my own heart, and trust to Time to build its tomb. I steadied myself with one hand on the back of the sofa, leaned down, and whispering only that one word, “Darling!” kissed her cheek. As gentle as was my touch her eyes unclosed and she looked in my face. Overwhelmed with shame and confusion, I could not move or speak, but kneeled motionless with our faces almost touching, and my eyes fixed on hers. The next instant her soft arm was laid timidly around my neck, and, with a look that thrilled my very soul, she said, in a tone of wondrous tenderness, “John!” It was only one word, but it told me all; and the next instant, in a delirium of surprise and joy, I had clasped her in my arms, kissing her brow, and cheeks, and mouth, and murmuring, “Darling, do you love me?”

And when Reason had returned, what a Heaven on earth ‘twas to sit by her side, to hold her hand in mine, to feel the glorious resurrection of hope and love from the grave to which I was about to consign them, to know that the very truth and sincerity of her nature assured the certainty and earnestness of her love for me! Then it was such a delightful surprise, so different from what I expected, that I feared it could not be true – that it was all a dream. “Carlotta,” I said, looking at her fondly, “is this real, do you love me? Is it possible that, after all my fears, all my despair, you will be mine, my own darling – mine to love, cherish and honor, with a devotion man never knew before?” She looked up into my face with a depth of truth in her dark eyes that dispelled every doubt, as she said:

“I have always loved you, John.”

“Always, Lottie? What hours of unhappiness ‘twould have saved me had I known it; for, though I have loved you constantly during these long years of our separation, yet I have felt that my love was hopeless, and while I treasured that dear curl, the pledge of your remembrance, I somehow felt that you would remember me only as the friend, perhaps the brother of your childhood. As I received letters telling me of your growth into beautiful womanhood, and of the attention and devotion that were lavished upon you everywhere, I felt that the gulf between us was widening – that you would return proud and supercilious, inflated with your success, and contemptuous of my quiet student life. Almost fearing to meet you, I delayed along my trip, hoping that when I reached Niagara I would find our party gone; hence I stopped at the Springs, intending, after a week’s stay, to run across to the Falls. You know the rest; how cordially you met me, and how the thraldom of my life was sealed. The love that had glowed so steadily during your absence burst into a resistless flame before your superb beauty and lovely character. Yet O, darling, the anguish of the thought that you would never love me – that another would soon claim the hand that held in its grasp my soul! I could have borne it better had I found you haughty and vain, for then resentment would have aided me; but I found that you were still the same sweet Carlotta that had told me farewell in Raleigh; that the brilliant belle of every occasion was as guileless and pure as when I found her on the beach; that she was unspoilt by the caresses of society. How I worshipped you none can ever know, and I longed to fall at your feet and tell you all, but I felt sure you would laugh at the idea of ‘John’s loving,’ and this evening I was going to kiss your cheek, and bid farewell forever to my love, when you awoke – and thank Heaven for it! And now, darling, tell me again that you love me, for your voice, talking of love, is the sweetest music in the world to me.”

She smiled such a tender, loving smile, and, nestling up close to me, said:

“I have loved you, John, ever since we met. When I clasped your hand first after the shipwreck there was a thrill in my heart that ever came back when you were near me. So fearful was I that you might detect this feeling, that I tried to be reserved and silent in your presence, and even avoided you as much as possible. Conscious of my own love, I felt, child as I was, that every one else knew it, and hence my extreme sensitiveness at any connection of our names together. You doubtless remember the scene with Mrs. Smith, when you were asleep in the hall, or pretending to be. That explained the nature of my feelings. I shrank from the position I seemed to occupy – that of awaiting your love, and of being trained to suit that love if you pleased to confer it. While I saw you so full of Lulie and Lillian I buried my feelings in my own heart, and strove strenuously to crush them out of existence; but there were times when you were tender and loving to me, and then they came resistlessly. Do you remember one night, years ago, when we were out on the stoop, and you took my hand and held it awhile? No words can ever tell how I have treasured up that little scene. When you told me farewell, the night of our departure for Europe, and I gave you the curl, it was an earnest pledge of what I faithfully performed.”

“Darling, do not speak of Lulie and Lillian. One was only the passing object of boyish affection, and the other a heartless though brilliant woman, who flattered me by her notice into an admiration that was as vain as it was transient. Dearest Lottie, your heart believes me, I know, when I vow that the purest, fondest love of my nature is yours, that without it all life is void and blank. Darling, have you loved me always, have you never wavered in your love, as affections more worthy, but none more devoted than mine, have been laid at your feet?”

“Never, John. No faintest shadow of love for another has ever passed across my mind, and the only pleasure I took in the attention I may have received has been the thought that, if others see aught in me to love, perhaps, when we meet, he will.”

“He being myself?” I asked, looking at her with a smile.

“He being yourself. There, I have made enough unladylike confessions for one afternoon; but ‘tis all a proof of my trust and confidence in you.”

“As God shall help me it is not misplaced,” and I lifted her hand tenderly to my lips. “Never was man as proud of as beautiful and pure a love as I am of yours, and never was a love guarded and cherished as I will yours, and I will seek no higher happiness on earth than to keep that dear brow as bright and beautiful as now. Darling, look into my eyes and read the truth of love.”

She looked, and would have read, perhaps, had not the door opened just then, and mother entered from her shopping excursion. As she saw us sitting lovingly together, Carlotta’s hand in mine, she was so utterly astounded that she stood without moving, her hands full of bundles, which kept dropping on the floor.

To prevent further embarrassment, I rose from my seat, and taking mother’s hand, led her to Carlotta.

“She is going to be my wife, mother,” I said, and without waiting to hear her reply, left the room.

How bright and beautiful all nature seemed. The cloudless sky, the rich green foliage, and the fragrant roses scenting the evening air – all were in unison with my heart. The very birds in the lawn seemed to twitter congratulations. Nothing could have ruffled my temper; a bootblack might have thrown his brush in my face, and I would have picked it up for him with a smile. I felt that I could even be kind and courteous to Miss Finnock.

In this pleasant frame of mind I went in to tea, and found the two gentlemen and Mrs. Marshman at our table, Mrs. M., after inquiries about Carlotta, and some compliments to her beauty, thought of a note for me, from Miss Finnock; and, as she gave it to me, said that Sappho had been quite indisposed all day, and had suffered severely from her fright, and the shock of the cold water.

Excusing myself, I opened the little three cornered note, and read:

“Will the generous and unselfish preserver of my life do me the favor to call this evening at our parlor, No. – , that I may unburden my heart of its gratitude, and offer a hecatomb of thanks to his self-sacrificing spirit. Call at eight.

In much smaller writing, just beneath this, were some verses, as usual, across which she had drawn her pen, as if to erase them, taking care, however, to leave them sufficiently legible —

That’s the first sensible poetry you ever wrote, I muttered, as I read it. But there was more:

You ought to have said “path,” Saph; you’ve spoiled your rhyme; and “mermaids” and a “coral strand,” out in this little lake, are very much strained, but so are the verses. I was, as I have stated, in a pleasant frame of mind, and thus jested to myself with the verses as I read them. The next verse, however, put the case a little more strongly:

To think of marrying her anywhere! much less down in a grotto, with sea-weeds and bad colds, and coral, etc. No, I could not “fain,” as she did; but I glanced at my watch as I rose from the table, and found that it wanted a quarter of eight. Fifteen minutes with a Partaga, and I tapped at the door of her parlor. Miss Finnock after Carlotta! ‘Twas like a dessert of nutgalls after Hymettean honey; but I felt that the necessary exercise of my ingenuity would be rather pleasant than otherwise, and looked forward to our interview, with anticipated pride in my skilful retrogression.

When I entered I found Miss Finnock reclining in an easy chair, and looking as little like her Lesbian nomenclatress as scant strings of hair, an unmade, stiff figure, and pale blue eyes, in a sallow face, could make her. She smiled a faint little welcome, and pointed me to a seat in front of her.

“Please lower the gas,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand; “you must excuse me, Mr. Smith, for seeing you in such deshabille, but I felt sure you would appreciate this liberty, and feel more free and unrestrained than if I had prepared formally to see you.”

“I do appreciate and thank you for your consideration,” I said, feeling assured that if she had known how different was the effect of her deshabille from what she intended it should be, she would not have been so considerate.

“I sent for you, Mr. Smith,” she continued, in a whispering kind of voice, “that I might express my gratitude for your heroic efforts to save me yesterday.”

I would have suspected any one else of irony, but I knew she was in earnest.

“Really, Miss Finnock, you overestimate my conduct,” I said; “I must be candid with you, and tell you that I was doing all I could to save myself, which was almost impossible with yourself and Miss Rurlestone on my arms.”

She looked at me with a queer little smile, and said: “What a trying ordeal for you! If no boat had been near us, ‘twould have been an effectual test of your love, indeed. Would you have found it difficult to have made a choice, if you had seen you could not save but one?”

“Not at all,” I replied, hoping she would construe the preference as intended for herself, and let the subject rest.

She played with the tassel of her wrapper, and said softly, “Which would you have chosen?”

I pretended not to have heard, and asked if she had suffered any serious inconvenience from the accident?

“Not much,” she said, with something of a sigh in her tone. “I have been feeble to-day, but hope to gain strength rapidly. I expect to take a stroll every morning before breakfast, and to ride with brother in the afternoons.”

It was a very fine opening for engagements; but I had had enough of strolls, and so I said nothing. There was a pause of some length, during which I saw a scrap of paper lying on the table, and as my name was on it, I looked at it more closely. The light in the room was very dim, and Miss Finnock was all the while stealing quick glances at me; besides, I knew ‘twas highly improper to read it, yet under all these difficulties I managed to make out its purport. It was a note from Miss Belle Monte, Miss Finnock’s dearest friend and adviser, to her “precious Saph,” telling her that I was only trifling with her, that her brother had certain information that I was engaged to Miss Rurlestone; that my attentions to Miss F. were all insincere; that the best thing to do was to secure an interview with me, and, on my first committal, discard me promptly and finally.

I now saw that I had been invited to her parlor that she might have the credit of dismissing me, and I resolved that say what she would, I would not, by any reply, give her an opportunity of so doing.

“When do you think of leaving?” she asked, at length, lifting her head wearily from her hand.

“We will leave to-morrow or next day for Newport, where we will spend some weeks before going home.”

“Oh, that is too soon,” she said; “you have not seen enough of the Springs.”

“As I have not seen my parents in several years, and came on here to meet them, I must regulate my movements by theirs. Besides,” I continued, “they were here some time before I came, and desire a change – at least, Miss Rurlestone does, I am sure – as she has captured every heart here, and perhaps pines for more.” This I said a little maliciously.

“Miss Rurlestone can probably account for your filial devotion – at least gossip says so.”

“Gossip knows very little about such matters,” I replied, cautiously.

“But is gossip wrong in this instance?”

“Oh, I must not commit myself,” I said, with a forced smile.

“You are so tantalizing,” she said, throwing her tassel at me, “and that reminds me that you promised to complete that unfinished sentence soon.”

“What unfinished sentence?” I asked, with pretended ignorance.

“You must be forgetful, indeed; do you not remember your promise when we parted yesterday morning?”

“Pardon me; I do remember now,” and instantly the thought flashed on me that I would candidly inform her of my intended flirtation, confess my sin, ask her forgiveness, and thus prevent her acting on Miss Belle Monte’s advice. “I recollect now distinctly the sentence to which you refer, and its intended termination. My remarks were made in the same light style in which we were conversing, and I had no idea you would attach sufficient importance to anything I said to think of it at all afterwards. I was about to ask, if I loved you – if I offered my heart – would you reject it? I – ”

“That’s what I suspected, sir,” she cut in before I could finish, and with a deprecatory wave of her hand dismissing what I had said as painful, “and while the suspicion flattered it pained me.”

“But, Miss Finnock,” I said, hurriedly, “you certainly misun – ”

“Flattered, indeed, I was,” she went on, without allowing my interruption, “because one so noble and gifted as yourself had conferred on me the honor of his love, and pained that I must refuse it.”

I was too much astonished to reply, while she went on:

“But, Mr. Smith, while a calm review of my own feelings forces me to discard you, or if that is too harsh a word, to ask you to be only my friend, I can assure you that our brief intercourse has been exceedingly pleasant to me. It will ever be an oasis in the desert of my past, and I trust that the rainbow of mutual regard and esteem will ever arch brightly o’er our pathways, however diverse they may be. And when Time’s fingers have plastered over the scars I regret to inflict, and you have found another love, whose voice may be sweeter, and eye brighter, and heart dearer than mine, I hope you will not think of this evening with anger, but with the pleasure of forgiveness.”

“With pleasure, certainly,” I managed to edge in, as she drew her breath.

“And at your life’s close,” she went on, in her peculiar strain, “may your barque furl its sails in a peaceful harbor, and having bosomed” (Sapphic for breasted) “every wave, anchor safely there.”