CHAPTER XXIV.
How shall I describe the occurrences of this day, the most memorableand eventful in my life? A new life is opening for me. I amoverwhelmed at the happiness which is within my grasp. As I walkedhome from Doctor Louis's house through the darkness a spirit walked bymy side, illumining the gloom and filling my heart with gladness.
At one o'clock I presented myself at Doctor Louis's house. He met meat the door, expecting me, and asked me to come with him to a littleroom he uses as a study. I followed him in silence. His face wasgrave, and but for its kindly expression I should have feared it washis intention to revoke the permission he had given me to speak to hisdaughter on this day of the deep, the inextinguishable love I bear forher. He motioned me to a chair, and I seated myself and waited for himto speak.
"This hour," he said, "is to me most solemn."
"And to me, sir," I responded.
"It should be," he said, "to you perhaps, more than to me; but we areinclined ever to take the selfish view. I have been awake very nearlythe whole of the night, and so has my wife. Our conversation--well,you can guess the object of it."
"Lauretta, sir."
"Yes, Lauretta, our only child, whom you are about to take from us." Itrembled with joy, his words betokening a certainty that Laurettaloved me, an assurance I had yet to receive from her own sweet lips."My wife and I," he continued, "have been living over again the lifeof our dear one, and the perfect happiness we have drawn from her. Iam not ashamed to say that we have committed some weaknesses duringthese last few hours, weaknesses springing from our affection for ourHome Rose. In the future some such experience may be yours, and thenyou will know--which now is hidden from you--what parents feel who areasked to give their one ewe lamb into the care of a stranger." Istarted. "There is no reason for alarm, Gabriel," he said, "because Ihave used a true word. Until a few short months ago you were really astranger to us."
"That has not been against me, sir," I said, "and is not, I trust."
"There is no such thought in my mind, Gabriel. There is nothingagainst you except--except," he repeated, with a little pitiful smile,"that you are about to take from us our most precious possession.Until to-day our dear child was wholly and solely ours; and not onlyherself, but her past was ours, her past, which has been to us agarden of joy. Henceforth her heart will be divided, and you will havethe larger share. That is a great deal to think of, and we havethought of it, my wife and I, and talked of it nearly all the night.Certain treasures," he said, and again the pitiful smile came on hislips, "which in the eyes of other men and women are valueless, stillare ours." He opened a drawer, and gazed with loving eyes upon itscontents. "Such as a little pair of shoes, a flower or two, a lock ofher bright hair."
"May I see it, sir?" I asked, profoundly touched by the loving accentsof his voice.
"Surely," he replied, and he passed over to me a lock of golden hair,which I pressed to my lips. "The little head was once covered withthese golden curls, and to us, her parents, they were as holy as theywould have been on the head of an angel. She was all that to us,Gabriel. It is within the scope of human love to lift one's thoughtsto heaven and God; it is within its scope to make one truly fit forthe life to come. All things are not of the world worldly; it is agrievous error to think so, and only sceptics can so believe. In thekiss of baby lips, in the touch of little hands, in the myriad sweetways of childhood, lie the breath of a pure religion which Godreceives because of its power to sanctify the lowest as well as thehighest of human lives. It is good to think of that, and to feel that,in the holiest forms of humanity, the poor stand as high as the rich."He paused a while before he continued. "Gabriel, it is an idle phrasefor a father holding the position towards you which I do at thepresent moment, to say he has no fears for the happiness of his onlychild."
"If you have any, sir," I said, "question me, and let me endeavour toset your mind at ease. In one respect I can do so with solemnearnestness. If it be my happy lot to win your daughter, her welfare,her honour, her peace of mind, shall be the care of my life. Theseassured, happiness should follow. I love Lauretta with a pure heart;no other woman has ever possessed my love; to no other woman have Ibeen drawn; nor is it possible that I could be. She is to me part ofmy spiritual life. I am not as other men, in the ordinary acceptation.In my childhood's life there was but little joy, and the commonpleasures of childhood were not mine. From almost my earliestremembrances there was but little light in my parents' house, and inlooking back upon it I can scarcely call it a home. The fault was notmine, as you will admit. May I claim some small merit--not of my ownpurposed earning, but because it was in me, for which I may havereason to be grateful--from the fact that the circumstances of myearly life did not corrupt me, did not drive me to a searching for lowpleasures, and did not debase me? It seemed to me, sir, that I wasever seeking for something in the heights and not in the depths. Booksand study were my comforters, and I derived real pleasures from them.They served to satisfy a want, and, although I contracted a melancholymood, I was not unhappy. I know that this mood is in me, but when Ithink of Lauretta it is dispelled. I seem to hear the singing ofbirds, to see flowers around me, to bathe in sunshine. Perhaps itsprings from the fervour of my love for her; but a kind of belief ismine that I have been drawn hither to her, that my way of life wasmeasured to her heart. What more can I say, sir?"
"You have said much," said Doctor Louis, "to comfort and assure me,and have, without being asked, answered questions which were in mymind. Do you remember a conversation you had with my wife in the firstdays of your convalescence, commenced I think by you in saying thatthe happiest dream of your life was drawing to a close?"
"I was thinking of Lauretta. Even in those early days I felt that Iloved her."
"I understand that now," said Doctor Louis. "My wife replied that lifemust not be dreamt away, that it has duties."
"I remember the conversation well, sir."
"My wife said that one's ease and pleasures are rewards, onlyenjoyable when they have been worthily earned; and when you asked,'Earned in what way?' she answered, 'In accomplishing one's work inthe world.'"
"Yes, sir, her words come back to me."
"There is something more," said Doctor Louis, with sad sweetness,"which I should not recall did I not hold duty before me as my chiefbeacon. Inclination and selfish desire must often be sacrificed forit. You will understand how sadly significant this is to me when Irecall what followed. Though, to be sure," he added, in a slightlygayer tone, "we could visit you and our daughter, wherever your abodehappened to be. Continuing your conversation with my wife, you said,'How to discover what one's work really is, and where it should beproperly performed?' My wife answered, 'In one's native land.'"
"Those were the words we spoke to one another, sir."
"It was my wife who recalled them to me, and I wish you--in the eventof your hopes being realised--to bear them in mind. It would bepainful to me to see you lead an idle life, and it would be injuriousto you. This quiet village opens out no opportunities to you; it istoo narrow, too confined. I have found my place here as an activeworker, but I doubt if you would do so."
"There is time to think of it, sir."
"Plenty of time. And now, if you like, we will join my wife anddaughter."
"Have you said anything to Lauretta, sir?"
"No. I thought it best, and so did her mother, that her heart shouldbe left to speak for itself."
Lauretta's mother received me with tender, wistful solicitude, and Iobserved nothing in Lauretta to denote that she had been prepared forthe declaration I had come to make. After lunch I proposed to Laurettato go out into the garden, and she turned to her mother and asked ifshe would accompany us.
"No, my child," said the mother, "I have things in the house to attendto."
So Lauretta and I went out alone.
It was a lovely day, and Lauretta had thrown a light lace scarf overher head. She was in gay spirits, not boisterous, for she is evergen
tle, and she endeavoured to entertain me with innocent prattle, towhich I found it difficult to respond. In a little while this forceditself upon her observation, and she asked me if I was not well.
"I am quite well, Lauretta," I replied.
"Then something has annoyed you," she said.
No, I answered, nothing had annoyed me.
"But there _is_ something," she said.
"Yes," I said, "there _is_ something."
"Tell me," she said.
We were standing by a rosebush, and I plucked one absently, andabsently plucked the leaves. She looked at me in silence for a momentor two and said, "This is the first time I have ever seen you destroya flower."
"I was not thinking of it," I said; and was about to throw it awaywhen an impulse, born purely of love for what was graceful and sweet,restrained me, and I put it into my pocket. In this the mostimpressive epoch in my life no sentiment but that of tenderness couldhold a place in my heart and mind.
"Well?" she said, still not suspecting. "Tell me."
"Lauretta," I said, taking her hand, which she left willingly in mine,"will you listen to the story of my life?"
"You have already told me much," she said.
"You have heard only a part," I said, and I gently urged her to aseat. "I wish you to know all; I wish you to know me as I really am."
"I know you as you really are," she said, and then a faint colour cameto her cheeks, and she trembled slightly, seeing a new meaning in myearnest glances.
"May I tell you? May I sit beside you?"
"Yes," she said, and gently withdrew her hand from mine.
I told her all, withholding only from her those mysterious promptingsof my lonely hours which I knew would distress her, and to which I wasconvinced, with her as my companion through life, there would be forever an end. Of even those promptings I gave her some insight, but sotoned down--for her sweet sake, not for mine--as to excite only hersympathy. Apart from this, I was at sincere pains that she should seemy life as it had really been, a life stripped of the joys ofchildhood; a life stripped of the light of home; a life dependent uponitself for comfort and support. Then, unconsciously, and out of thesuffering of my soul--for as I spoke it seemed to me that a cruelwrong had been perpetrated upon me in the past--I contrasted the younglife I had been condemned to live with that of a child who was blessedwith parents whose hearts were animated by a love the evidences ofwhich would endure all through his after life as a sweet and purifyinginfluence. The tears ran down her cheeks as I dwelt upon this part ofmy story. Then I spoke of the happy chance which had conducted me toher home, and of the happiness I had experienced in my associationwith her and hers.
"Whatever fate may be mine," I said, "I shall never reflect upon theseexperiences, I shall never think of your dear parents, withoutgratitude and affection. Lauretta, it is with their permission I amhere now by your side. It is with their permission that I am openingmy heart to you. They know we are here together. I love you, Lauretta,and if you will bless me with your love, and place your hand in mine,all my life shall be devoted to your happiness. You can bring ablessing into my days; I will strive to bring a blessing into yours."
My arm stole round her waist; her head drooped to my shoulder, so thather face was hidden from my ardent gaze; the hand I clasped was notwithdrawn.
"Lauretta," I whispered, "say 'I love you, Gabriel.'"
"I love you, Gabriel," she whispered; and heaven itself opened out tome.
Half an hour later we went in to her mother, and the noble woman heldout her arms to her daughter. As the maiden nestled to her breast, shesaid, holding out a hand to me, which I reverently kissed, "God in Hismercy keep guard over you! His blessing be upon you both!"
* * * * *
These are my last written words in the record I have kept. From thisday I commence a new life.
BOOK THE SECOND.
IN WHICH THE SECRET OF THE INHERITANCE TRANSMITTED TO GABRIEL CAREW ISREVEALED IN A SERIES OF LETTERS FROM ABRAHAM SANDIVAL, ESQ., ENGLAND,TO HIS FRIEND, MAXIMILIAN GALLENGA, ESQ., CONTRA COSTA CO.,CALIFORNIA.