Hearts Afire (13 page)

“It was useless,” replied
Harleigh
, sadly.

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! You didn’t tell him of our love, of our happiness? You
didn’t implore him, weeping? You didn’t try to move his hard old heart? But
what sort of man are you; what sort of soul have you, that you let them
sentence us to death like this? O
Harleigh
! O
Harleigh
! —
What
man have I been
loving?”

“Charlotte, Charlotte!”
Harleigh
said, softly.

“Why didn’t you reason with him? Why didn’t you beg him? You’re young;
you’re brave. How could father, an old man, with ice in his veins, how could he
silence you?”

“Because your father was right, Charlotte,”
Harleigh
answered quietly.

“Oh, horror! Horrible sacrilege of love!” cried Charlotte, starting back.

In her despair she had unconsciously allowed her shawl to drop from her
shoulders; it had fallen to the ground, at her feet. And now she stood up
before him like a white, desolate phantom, impelled by sorrow to wander the
earth on a quest that can never have an end.

But he had a desperate courage, though it forced him to break with the only
woman he had ever loved.

“Mr. Morgan was right, my dearest Charlotte. I couldn't answer him. I’m a
poor young fellow, without a penny.”

“Love is stronger than money.”

“I am a commoner, I have no title to give you.”

“Love is stronger than a title.”

“Everything is against our union, Charlotte.”

“Love is stronger than everything; stronger even than death.”

After this there befell a silence. But he felt that he must go to the bottom
of the subject. He saw his duty, and overcame his pain.

“Think a little, Charlotte. Our souls were made for each other; but our
persons are placed in such different circumstances, separated by so many
things, such great distances, that not even a miracle could unite them. You
accuse me of being a traitor to our love, which is our strength; but is it
unworthy of us to conquer ourselves in such a pass? Charlotte, Charlotte, it is
I who lose everything; and yet I advise you to forget this youthful fancy. You
are young; you are beautiful; you are rich; you are noble, and you love me; yet
it is my duty to say to you, forget me— forget me. Consider how great the
sacrifice is, and see if it is not our duty, as two good people, to make it
courageously. Charlotte, you will be loved again, better still, by a better
man. You deserve the purest and the noblest love. You won’t be unhappy long.
Life is still sweet for you. You weep, yes; you suffer; because you love me,
because you are a dear, loving woman. But afterward, afterward you will find
your path broad and flowery. It is I who will have nothing left; the light of
my life will go out, the fire in my heart. But what does it matter? You will
forget me, Charlotte.”

Charlotte, motionless, listened to him, uttering no word.

“Speak”
Harleigh
said, anxiously.

“I can’t forget you,” she answered.

“Try—make the effort. Let us try not to see each other.”

“No, no; it’s useless” she said, her voice dying on her lips.

“What do you wish us to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

A great impulse of pity, greater than his own sorrow, assailed him. He took her
hands; they were cold now.

“What is the matter with you? Are you ill?”

She did not answer. She leant her head on his shoulder, and he caressed her
rich brown hair.

“Charlotte, what is it?”
Harleigh
whispered,
thrilled by a wild emotion.

“You don’t love me.”

“How can you doubt it?”

“If you loved me,” she began, sobbing, “you would not propose our
separation. If you loved me you would not think such a separation possible. If
you loved me it would be like death to you to forget and be forgotten.
Harleigh
, you don’t love me.”

“Charlotte, Charlotte I do love you.”

“Judge by me,” she went on, softly. “I’m a poor, weak woman; yet I resist, I
struggle. And we would conquer, we would conquer, if you loved me.”

She turned away from him, to run off. But he detained her.

“What do you want to do?”
Harleigh
whispered.

“If I can't live with you, I must die,” she said, quietly, with her eyes
closed, as if she were thus awaiting death.

“Don’t speak of dying, Charlotte. Don’t make my regret worse than it is.
It’s I who have spoiled your life.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s I who have put bitterness into your sweet youth.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It’s I who have stirred you up to rebel against Mr. Morgan, against your
mother, against the wish of all that love you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It is I who have called you from your sleep, who have exposed you to a
thousand dangers. Think, if you were discovered here you would be lost.”

“It doesn't matter. Take me away.”

And
Harleigh
, in spite of the darkness, could see
her fond eyes glowing.

“If you would only take me away,” she sighed.

“But where?”

“Anywhere—to any country. You will be my country.”

“Elope? A noble young girl—elope like an adventuress?”

“Love will secure my pardon.”

“I will pardon you; no others will.”

“You will be my family, my all. Take me away.”

“Charlotte, Charlotte, where should we find refuge? Without means, without
friends, having committed a great fault, our life would be most unhappy.”

“No, no, no! Take me away. We’ll have a little time of poverty, after which
I shall get possession of my fortune. Take me away.”

“And I shall be accused of having made a good speculation. No, no,
Charlotte, it's impossible. I couldn’t bear such a shame.”

She started away from him, pushing him back with a movement of horror.

“What?” she cried. “What?” You would be ashamed? It’s your shame that
preoccupies you? And mine? Honored, esteemed, loved, I care nothing for this
honor, this love, and am willing to lose all, the respect of people, the
affection of my relations—and you think of yourself! I could have chosen any
one of a multitude of young men of my own rank, my own set, and I have chosen
you because you were good and honest and clever. And you are ashamed of what
bad people and stupid people may say of you! I—I brave everything. I lie, I
deceive. I leave my bed at the dead of night, steal out during my parent’s
sleep— out of my room, out of my house, like a guilty servant, so that they
might call me the lowest of the low. I do all this to come to you; and you are
thinking of speculations, of what the world will say about you. Oh, how strong
you are, you men! How well you know your way; how straight you march, never
listening to the voices that call to you, never feeling the hands that try to
stop you— nothing, nothing, nothing! You are men, and have your honor to look
after, your dignity to preserve, and your delicate reputation to safeguard. You
are right, you are reasonable. And so we are fools; we are mad, who step out of
the path of honor and dignity for the love of you—we poor silly creatures of
our hearts! “

Harleigh
had not attempted to protest against this
outburst of violent language; but every word of it, hot with wrath, vibrant
with sorrowful anger, stirred him to the quick, held him silenced, frightened,
shaken by her voice, by the tumult of her passion. Now the fire which he had
rashly kindled burnt up the whole beautiful, simple, stable edifice of his
planning, and all he could see left of it was a smoking ruin. He loved her— she
loved him; and though he knew it was wild and unreasonable. “Forgive me,” he
said; “let us go away.”

She put her hand upon his head, and he heard her murmur, under her voice, “O
Harleigh
!”

They both felt that their life was decided, that they had played the grand
stake of their existence.

There was a long pause; Charlotte was the first to break it.

“Listen,
Harleigh
. Before we part ways let me make
one last attempt. You have spoken to father; you have told him that you love
me, and that I adore you; but he didn’t believe you.”

“It is true. He smiled incredulously.”

“My father is a man who has seen a great deal of the world, who has been
loved, who has loved; but of all that nothing is left to him. He is cold and
solitary. He never speaks of love, but he believes in love. He’s a miserable,
arid creature.”

“Can’t you first persuade your mother? There we’d have an affectionate ally”
said
Harleigh
, tentatively.

“My mother is worse than father,” Charlotte answered, with a slight tremor
of the voice; “I should never dare to depend on her.”

“You are afraid of her?”

“Please don’t speak of her, don’t speak of her. It’s a subject which pains
me.”

“We need her.”

“No, no. mother will not help; she must not be involved; it would be
dreadful if she were involved. I’d a thousand times rather speak to father. I
will speak with him; he will believe our love.”

“And if he shouldn’t believe?”

“He will believe me.”

“But, Charlotte, Charlotte, if he shouldn’t?”

“Then—we will elope. But I ought to make this last attempt. Love will give
me strength. Afterward—I will write to you, I will tell you everything. I
daren’t come here anymore. It’s too dangerous. If anyone should see me it would
be the ruin of all our hopes. I’ll write to you. You’ll arrange your own
affairs in the meantime—as if you were at the point of death, as if you were
going to leave this country never to return. You must be ready at any instant.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Surely?”

“Surely.”

“Without a regret?”

“Without a regret.” But his voice died on his lips.

“Thank you; you love me. We shall be so happy! You will see. Happier than
anyone in the world!”

“So happy!” murmured
Harleigh
, faithful but sad.

“And may Heaven help us,” she concluded, fervently, putting out her hand to
leave him.

He took her hand, and his pressure of it was a silent vow; but it was the
vow of a friend, of a brother, simple and austere.

She moved slowly away, as if tired. He remained where he was, waiting a
little before returning to his carriage. Not until some ten minutes had passed,
during which he heard no sound, no movement, could he feel satisfied that
Charlotte had safely reached her room.

Charlotte was exhausted by the great moral crisis through which she had
passed. An immense burden seemed to bow her down, to make heavy her footsteps,
as she groped her way through the silent house.

When she reached the sitting-room she stopped with sudden terror. A light
was burning within the room.

Charlotte stood still a long while. She could hear a sound as of the pages
of a book being turned. Mother was reading.

At last Charlotte pushed open the door, and crossed the threshold.

Lysbet
Morgan looked at her, smiled haughtily, and
did not speak.

Charlotte fell on her knees before her, crying, “Forgive me. For pity’s
sake, mother, forgive me!”

But the
Lysbet
Morgan remained silent, white and
cold and statue like, never ceasing to smile scornfully.

Charlotte lay on the floor, weeping. And the morning dawn found her there,
weeping, weeping; while her mother slept peacefully in her own bed.

The letter ran thus:

“
Dearest Love,—I have had my talk with father. What a man! His mere
presence seemed to freeze me; it was enough if he looked at me, with his big
clear blue eyes, for speech to fail me. There is something in his silence which
frightens me; and when he speaks, his sharp voice quells me by its tone as well
as by the hard things he says.

“
And yet this morning when he came for breakfast, I was bold enough to
speak to him of my love for you. I spoke simply, briefly, without trembling,
though I could see that the courtesy with which he listened was ironical.
Mother was present, silent and absent-minded as usual. She shrugged her
shoulders indifferently, disdainfully, and then, getting up, left the room with
that light footstep of hers which scarcely seems to touch the earth.

“
Father smiled without looking at me, and his smile disconcerted me
horribly, putting all my thoughts into confusion. But I felt that I ought to
make the attempt—I ought. I had promised it to you, my darling, and to myself.
My life had become insupportable; the more so because of my mother, who knew my
secret, who tortured me with her contempt—the contempt of a person who has
never any wrong—who might at any moment betray me, and tell the story of that
balmy night.

“
Father smiled, and didn’t seem to care in the least to hear what I had
to say. I had the courage to tell him that I adored you, that I wished to live
and die with you, that our love would suffice for our needs, that I would never
marry anyone but you ; and finally, that, humbly, earnestly, I besought him, as
my father, my guardian, my wisest parent, to give his consent to our marriage.

“
He had listened, with his eyes cast down, giving no sign of interest.
And now at the end he simply uttered a dry little “No.”

“
And then took place a dreadful scene. I implored, I wept, I rebelled, I
declared that my heart was free, that my person was free; and always I found
that I was addressing a man of stone, hard and dry, with a will of iron, an
utterly false point of view, a conventional standard based upon the opinion of
the world, and a total lack of good feeling. My father denied that I loved you,
denied that you loved me. His one word was No—no, no, no, from the beginning to
the end of our talk. He made the most specious, extravagant, and cynical
arguments to convince me that I was deceiving myself, that we were deceiving
ourselves, and that it was his duty to oppose himself to our folly. Oh, how I
wept! How I abased my spirit before that man, who reasoned in this cold strain!
And how it hurts me now to think of the way I humiliated myself! I remember
that while my love for you, dearest, was breaking out in wild utterance, I saw
that he was looking admiringly at me, as in a theatre he might admire an actor
who was cleverly feigning passion. He did not believe me; and two or three times
my anger rose to such a point that I stooped to threaten him; I threatened to
make a public scandal.