Hearts Afire (7 page)

Till both our heads were in his aureole
.”

The news of the duel spread with the proverbial rapidity of evil news. At
the doors of all the public houses, in every open shop, on every private stoop,
and at the street-corners, people were soon discussing the event, with such
additions and comments as their imaginations and prejudices suggested. One
party insisted that lawyer to be Sir Edward was dead; another, that it was the
young man
Harleigh
Daly; a third, that both died as
they were being carried from the ground.

Joris
Morgan, who had lingered to the last moment
at the scene of the fight, heard the story from many a lip as he went home. He
was bitterly indignant at Charlotte. He felt betrayed, indeed, that she had not
ended this triangle of love. How wicked Charlotte had been not to remember that
she had a family whose spotless name would be tarnished by her love affairs! He
was hot with haste and anger as he walked his house.

Lysbet
Morgan on the front-stoop, looking
anxiously down the road. She was aware that Elder Van
Heemskirk
had called for her husband, and she had heard from the wagging tongues that
they had left town in unexplained haste. At first, the incident did not trouble
her much. Perhaps one of the valuable Norman horses was sick, or there was an
unexpected ship in, or an unusually large order.
Lysbet
Morgan only worried because supper must be delayed an hour, and that delay
would leave the supper stone cold. As
Lysbet
Morgan
was on the front-stoop watching for her husband, who was becoming dreadfully
late; and, like many other loving women, she could think of nothing good which
might have detained him, but her heart was full only of evil apprehensions. It
was then. She thought the hour would never come. Eagerly she watched her
husband coming down the road; certainty it would be better than such cruel fear
and suspense.

“Where is Charlotte?” That was the Father’s first question, and he called
her through the house. From the closed best parlor, Charlotte came, white and
weeping.

“What is the matter, then, that you are crying? And why into the dark room
go you?”

“Full of sorrow I am, father, and I went to the room to cry alone; but I
cannot weep but a teardrop.”

“Full of sorrow. Yes, for that scamp
Harleigh
Daly
you are full of sorrow. And how can you weep for yourself when you are disobeying
your good father? Your teardrop will dry as fast as it falls.”

Joris
Morgan was not pitiless; but he was angered
and troubled, and Charlotte's grief irritated him at the moment. “Go and tell
mother to bring in the tea. The work of the house must go on,” he muttered.

Ere the words were finished, just as
Lysbet
Morgan
said, “The tea is served” the large figure of
Joris
Morgan loomed through the gathering grayness; and the women waited for him. He
came upon the room without his usual greeting; and his face was so injured and
portentous that
Lysbet
Morgan, with a little cry, put
her arms around his neck. He gently removed them.

“No time is this,
Lysbet
, for embracing. A great
disgrace has come to the family; and I, who have always stood up for morality,
must bear it too.”

“Disgrace! The word goes not with our name,
Joris
;
and what mean you, then? In one word, speak.”

But
Joris
loved too well
any story that was to be wondered over, to give it in a word; though madam's
manner snubbed him a little, and he said, with less of the air of a wronged
man,—

“Well, then, Sir Edward and
Harleigh
Daly have
fought a duel. That is what comes of giving way to passion. I never fought a
duel. It is a fixed principle with me.”

“But what? And how?”

“With swords they fought. Like two banshees they fought, as if to pieces
they would cut each other.”

“Poor Sir Edward! His fault I am sure it was not.”

“
Lysbet
! Sir Edward is nearly dead. A fool he
played to follow his heart.”

In the shadow behind them Charlotte stood. The pallor of her face, the
hopeless
droop of
her white shoulders and arms, were
visible in its gloomy shadows. Softly as a spirit she walked as she drew nearer
to them.

“And the other? Is he hurt?”

“Killed. He has at least twenty wounds. Till morning he will not live. It
was the fate himself who separated the men.”

For a moment Charlotte's consciousness reeled. The
air of the wind which girds our life round was in her ears, the feeling of
chill and collapse at her heart. But with a supreme will she took possession of
herself. “Weak I will not be. All I will know. All I will suffer.” And with
these thoughts she went back to the room, and took her place at the table. In a
few minutes the rest followed.
Joris
Morgan did not
speak to her. It was also something of a cross to him that madam would not talk
of the event. He did not think that Charlotte deserved to have her
ill-regulated feelings so far considered, and he had almost a sense of personal
injury in the restraint of the whole household.

Joris
Morgan had anticipated his wife's amazement
and shock. He had felt a just satisfaction in the suffering he was bringing to
Charlotte. He had determined to point out to Charlotte the difference between
herself and family. But nothing had happened as he expected. The meal, instead
of being pleasantly lengthened over such dreadful intelligence, was hurried and
silent. Charlotte, instead of making herself an image of wailing or unconscious
remorse, sat like other people at the table, and pretended to drink her tea.

It was some comfort that after it
Lysbet
and he could walk in the garden, and talk the affair thoroughly over. Charlotte
watched them away, and then she fled to her room. For a few minutes she could
let her sorrow have way, and it would help her to bear the rest. And oh, how
she wept! She took from their hiding-place the flowers her lover had giving
her, and she mourned over them as women mourn in such extremities. She kissed
the petal with passionate love; she vowed, amid her broken ejaculations of
tenderness, to be faithful to him if he lived, to be faithful to his memory if
he died. She never thought of Sir Edward; or, if she did, it was with an anger
that frightened her. In the full tide of her anguish. Charlotte Morgan had
become a woman that night, and a woman's sorrow had found her.

Once in the garden.
Lysbet
noticed his face was
troubled, his clothing disarranged and blood-stained; and his wife never
remembered to have seen him so completely exhausted. “Guy Barrington is with
Sir Edward,” he blurted out; “he will not be home.”

“And the other?”

“I witnessed them carry—him. To the “King's Arms” they took him. I stayed
for a moment; that is all.”

“Live will he?”

“His right lung is pierced clean through. A bad wound
in the throat he has. At death's door is he, from loss of the blood. But then,
youth he has, and a great spirit, and hope. I wish not for his death, my God
knows.”

“Sir Edward, what of him?”

“Unconscious he was when I left him. I stayed not there. His father and Guy
Barrington were by his side Does Charlotte know?”

“She knows.”

“How then?”

“The words of trouble fly faster on the wings of vultures, then do the good
tidings of a song bird.”

“O
Joris
, if in her room thou could have heard her
crying! My heart for her aches, the sorrowful one!”

“See, then, that this lesson she miss not. It is a hard one, but learn it
she must. If thy love would pass it by, think this, for her good it is. Many
bitter things are in it. What unkind words will now be said! With our own people
a disgrace it will be counted. Can I not hear towns folk grumble, and that evil
old woman, Madam Van
Corlaer
, will shake her head and
whisper, Yes, neighbors, and depend upon it, the girl is of a light mind and
bad morals, and it is her fault; and I shall take care my nieces to her speak
no more. So it will be; Charlotte herself will find it so.”

The next morning was the Sabbath, and many painful
questions suggested themselves to
Joris
and
Lysbet
.
Joris
felt that he must
not take his seat among the deacons until he had been fully exonerated of all
blame of blood-guiltiness by his elders and deacons in full kirk session. Madam
could hardly endure the thought of the glances that would be thrown at her
daughter, but these things did not seem to
Joris
a sufficient
reason for neglecting worship. He thought it best for people to face the
unpleasant consequences of wrong-doing; and he added, “In trouble also, my dear
ones, where should we go but into the house of the good God?”

Charlotte had not spoken during the discussion but, when it was over, she
said, “
My dear mother
, today I cannot go! For me have some
pity.
Bear it I cannot. I shall fall down, I shall be ill;
and there shall be shame and fear, and the service to make stop, and then more
wonder and more talk, and the
dominie
angry also! At
home I am the best.”

“Well, then, so it shall be.”

But
Joris
was stern to Charlotte, and his anger
added the last bitterness to her grief. No one had said a word of reproach to
her; but, equally, no one had said a word of pity. Even
Lysbet
was shy and cold, for
Joris
had made her feel that
one's own daughter may fall below moral par and sympathy. “If either of the men
die,” he had said, “I shall always consider Charlotte guilty of murder; and
even while the matter is uncertain, is it not right to be careful? Are we not
told to avoid even the appearance of evil?” So that, with this charge before
him,
Joris
felt that countenancing Charlotte in any
way was not keeping it.

And certainly the poor girl might well fear the disapproval
of the general public, when her own family made her feel her fault so keenly.
The service that morning would have been the pillory to her. She was
unspeakably grateful for the solitude of the house, for space and silence, in
which she could have the relief of unrestrained weeping. About the middle of
the morning, she sighted Guy Barrington as he walked toward the front gate. She
divined
why
he had come, and she shrank from meeting him until he
removed the clothing he had worn during the night's bloody vigil. Guy
Barrington had not thought of Charlotte's staying from the morning service; and
when she confronted him, so tear-stained and woe-be gone, his heart was full of
pity for her. “My poor little Charlotte!” he said; and she threw her arms
around his neck, and sobbed upon his breast as if her heart would break.

“
My Charlotte
, who has grieved thee?”

“O Guy! Is he dead?”

“Who? Sir Edward? I think he will get well once more.”

“What care I for Sir Edward? The wicked one! I wish that he might die. Yes
that I do.”

“Whish!—to say that is wrong.”

“Guy! Guy! A little pity give me. It is the other one. Hast thou heard?”

“How can he live? Look at the sorrow he hath caused.”

“No, I will not look at it. I will ask God every
moment that he may get well. Could I help that I should love him? So kind, so
generous, is he! Oh, my dear one, my dear one, would I had died for thee!”

Guy Barrington was much moved. Within the last twenty-four hours he had
begun to understand the temptation in which Charlotte had been; begun to
understand that love never asks, 'What is thy name? Of what country art thou?
Who is thy father?

“Everyone is angry at me, Guy, father will not sit on the chair at my side;
and mother says a great disgrace I have made for her. And thou? Wilt thou also
scold me? I think I shall die of grief.”

“Scold thee, thou little one? That I will not. And
those that are angry with thee may be angry with me also. How could they make
thee weep? Cruel are they to do so. And as for your father, mind him not. Not
much I think of
Joris
! If he says this or that to
thee, I will answer him.”

“Guy! My Guy! My only friend! There is one comfort for me,—if I knew that
Harleigh
still lived; if one hope thou could give me!”

“What hope there is, I will go and see. Before they are back from the
morning service, I will be back; and, if there is good news, I will be glad for
thee.”

Not half an hour was Guy Barrington away; and yet, to the miserable girl,
how grief and fear lengthened out the moments! She tried to prepare herself for
the worst; she tried to strengthen her soul even for the message of death. But
very rarely is any grief as bad as our own terror of it. When Guy Barrington
came back, it was with a word of hope on his lips.

“I have seen,” he said, “who dost thou think?—the old surgeon. He of all
men, he has sat by
Harleigh's
side all night; and he
has dressed and redressed the wound continually all night. And he said to me,
Three times, in the Persian desert, I have cured wounds still worse, and, if he
can live through the day, the young man shall recover. That is what he said,
Charlotte.”

“Forever I will love the surgeon. Though he fail, I will love him. So kind
he is, even to those who have not spoken well, nor done well, to him.”

“So kind, also, was his friend Ewan
Rawden
to me.
Now, then, go wash thy face, and take comfort and courage.”

“Guy, leave me not.”

“There is Sir Edward. We have been companions; and his father and his mother
are old, and need me.”