CHAPTER XLI.
FAUBOURG CLOTILDE.
Must I, ere I close, render some account of that Freedom and Renovationwhich I won on the fete-night? Must I tell how I and the two stalwartcompanions I brought home from the illuminated park bore the test ofintimate acquaintance?
I tried them the very next day. They had boasted their strength loudlywhen they reclaimed me from love and its bondage, but upon my demandingdeeds, not words, some evidence of better comfort, some experience of arelieved life--Freedom excused himself, as for the present impoverishedand disabled to assist; and Renovation never spoke; he had died in thenight suddenly.
I had nothing left for it then but to trust secretly that conjecturemight have hurried me too fast and too far, to sustain the oppressivehour by reminders of the distorting and discolouring magic of jealousy.After a short and vain struggle, I found myself brought back captive tothe old rack of suspense, tied down and strained anew.
Shall I yet see him before he goes? Will he bear me in mind? Does hepurpose to come? Will this day--will the next hour bring him? or must Iagain assay that corroding pain of long attent--that rude agony ofrupture at the close, that mute, mortal wrench, which, in at onceuprooting hope and doubt, shakes life; while the hand that does theviolence cannot be caressed to pity, because absence interposes herbarrier!
It was the Feast of the Assumption; no school was held. The boardersand teachers, after attending mass in the morning, were gone a longwalk into the country to take their gouter, or afternoon meal, at somefarm-house. I did not go with them, for now but two days remained erethe _Paul et Virginie_ must sail, and I was clinging to my last chance,as the living waif of a wreck clings to his last raft or cable.
There was some joiners' work to do in the first classe, some bench ordesk to repair; holidays were often turned to account for theperformance of these operations, which could not be executed when therooms were filled with pupils. As I sat solitary, purposing to adjournto the garden and leave the coast clear, but too listless to fulfil myown intent, I heard the workmen coming.
Foreign artisans and servants do everything by couples: I believe itwould take two Labassecourien carpenters to drive a nail. While tyingon my bonnet, which had hitherto hung by its ribbons from my idle hand,I vaguely and momentarily wondered to hear the step of but one"ouvrier." I noted, too--as captives in dungeons find sometimes drearyleisure to note the merest trifles--that this man wore shoes, and notsabots: I concluded that it must be the master-carpenter, coming toinspect before he sent his journeymen. I threw round me my scarf. Headvanced; he opened the door; my back was towards it; I felt a littlethrill--a curious sensation, too quick and transient to be analyzed. Iturned, I stood in the supposed master-artisan's presence: lookingtowards the door-way, I saw it filled with a figure, and my eyesprinted upon my brain the picture of M. Paul.
Hundreds of the prayers with which we weary Heaven bring to thesuppliant no fulfilment. Once haply in life, one golden gift fallsprone in the lap--one boon full and bright, perfect from Fruition'smint.
M. Emanuel wore the dress in which he probably purposed to travel--asurtout, guarded with velvet; I thought him prepared for instantdeparture, and yet I had understood that two days were yet to runbefore the ship sailed. He looked well and cheerful. He looked kind andbenign: he came in with eagerness; he was close to me in one second; hewas all amity. It might be his bridegroom mood which thus brightenedhim. Whatever the cause, I could not meet his sunshine with cloud. Ifthis were my last moment with him, I would not waste it in forced,unnatural distance. I loved him well--too well not to smite out of mypath even Jealousy herself, when she would have obstructed a kindfarewell. A cordial word from his lips, or a gentle look from his eyes,would do me good, for all the span of life that remained to me; itwould be comfort in the last strait of loneliness; I would take it--Iwould taste the elixir, and pride should not spill the cup.
The interview would be short, of course: he would say to me just whathe had said to each of the assembled pupils; he would take and hold myhand two minutes; he would touch my cheek with his lips for the first,last, only time--and then--no more. Then, indeed, the final parting,then the wide separation, the great gulf I could not pass to go tohim--across which, haply, he would not glance, to remember me.
He took my hand in one of his, with the other he put back my bonnet; helooked into my face, his luminous smile went out, his lips expressedsomething almost like the wordless language of a mother who finds achild greatly and unexpectedly changed, broken with illness, or wornout by want. A check supervened.
"Paul, Paul!" said a woman's hurried voice behind, "Paul, come into thesalon; I have yet a great many things to say to you--conversation forthe whole day--and so has Victor; and Josef is here. Come Paul, come toyour friends."
Madame Beck, brought to the spot by vigilance or an inscrutableinstinct, pressed so near, she almost thrust herself between me and M.Emanuel.
"Come, Paul!" she reiterated, her eye grazing me with its hard ray likea steel stylet. She pushed against her kinsman. I thought he receded; Ithought he would go. Pierced deeper than I could endure, made now tofeel what defied suppression, I cried--
"My heart will break!"
What I felt seemed literal heart-break; but the seal of anotherfountain yielded under the strain: one breath from M. Paul, thewhisper, "Trust me!" lifted a load, opened an outlet. With many a deepsob, with thrilling, with icy shiver, with strong trembling, and yetwith relief--I wept.
"Leave her to me; it is a crisis: I will give her a cordial, and itwill pass," said the calm Madame Beck.
To be left to her and her cordial seemed to me something like beingleft to the poisoner and her bowl. When M. Paul answered deeply,harshly, and briefly--"Laissez-moi!" in the grim sound I felt a musicstrange, strong, but life-giving.
"Laissez-moi!" he repeated, his nostrils opening, and his facialmuscles all quivering as he spoke.
"But this will never do," said Madame, with sternness. More sternlyrejoined her kinsman--
"Sortez d'ici!"
"I will send for Pere Silas: on the spot I will send for him," shethreatened pertinaciously.
"Femme!" cried the Professor, not now in his deep tones, but in hishighest and most excited key, "Femme! sortez a l'instant!"
He was roused, and I loved him in his wrath with a passion beyond whatI had yet felt.
"What you do is wrong," pursued Madame; "it is an act characteristic ofmen of your unreliable, imaginative temperament; a step impulsive,injudicious, inconsistent--a proceeding vexatious, and not estimable inthe view of persons of steadier and more resolute character."
"You know not what I have of steady and resolute in me," said he, "butyou shall see; the event shall teach you. Modeste," he continued lessfiercely, "be gentle, be pitying, be a woman; look at this poor face,and relent. You know I am your friend, and the friend of your friends;in spite of your taunts, you well and deeply know I may be trusted. Ofsacrificing myself I made no difficulty but my heart is pained by whatI see; it _must_ have and give solace. _Leave me!_"
This time, in the "_leave me_" there was an intonation so bitter and soimperative, I wondered that even Madame Beck herself could for onemoment delay obedience; but she stood firm; she gazed upon himdauntless; she met his eye, forbidding and fixed as stone. She wasopening her lips to retort; I saw over all M. Paul's face a quickrising light and fire; I can hardly tell how he managed the movement;it did not seem violent; it kept the form of courtesy; he gave hishand; it scarce touched her I thought; she ran, she whirled from theroom; she was gone, and the door shut, in one second.
The flash of passion was all over very soon. He smiled as he told me towipe my eyes; he waited quietly till I was calm, dropping from time totime a stilling, solacing word. Ere long I sat beside him once moremyself--re-assured, not desperate, nor yet desolate; not friendless,not hopeless, not sick of life, and seeking death.
"It made you very sad then to lose your friend?" said he.
"It kills me to be f
orgotten, Monsieur," I said. "All these weary daysI have not heard from you one word, and I was crushed with thepossibility, growing to certainty, that you would depart without sayingfarewell!"
"Must I tell you what I told Modeste Beck--that you do not know me?Must I show and teach you my character? You _will_ have proof that Ican be a firm friend? Without clear proof this hand will not lie stillin mine, it will not trust my shoulder as a safe stay? Good. The proofis ready. I come to justify myself."
"Say anything, teach anything, prove anything, Monsieur; I can listennow."
"Then, in the first place, you must go out with me a good distance intothe town. I came on purpose to fetch you."
Without questioning his meaning, or sounding his plan, or offering thesemblance of an objection, I re-tied my bonnet: I was ready.
The route he took was by the boulevards: he several times made me sitdown on the seats stationed under the lime-trees; he did not ask if Iwas tired, but looked, and drew his own conclusions.
"All these weary days," said he, repeating my words, with a gentle,kindly mimicry of my voice and foreign accent, not new from his lips,and of which the playful banter never wounded, not even when coupled,as it often was, with the assertion, that however I might _write_ hislanguage, I _spoke_ and always should speak it imperfectly andhesitatingly. "'All these weary days' I have not for one hour forgottenyou. Faithful women err in this, that they think themselves the solefaithful of God's creatures. On a very fervent and living truth tomyself, I, too, till lately scarce dared count, from any quarter;but----look at me."
I lifted my happy eyes: they _were_ happy now, or they would have beenno interpreters of my heart.
"Well," said he, after some seconds' scrutiny, "there is no denyingthat signature: Constancy wrote it: her pen is of iron. Was the recordpainful?"
"Severely painful," I said, with truth. "Withdraw her hand, Monsieur; Ican bear its inscribing force no more."
"Elle est toute pale," said he, speaking to himself; "cette figure-lame fait mal."
"Ah! I am not pleasant to look at----?"
I could not help saying this; the words came unbidden: I never rememberthe time when I had not a haunting dread of what might be the degree ofmy outward deficiency; this dread pressed me at the moment with specialforce.
A great softness passed upon his countenance; his violet eyes grewsuffused and glistening under their deep Spanish lashes: he started up;"Let us walk on."
"Do I displease your eyes _much_?" I took courage to urge: the pointhad its vital import for me.
He stopped, and gave me a short, strong answer; an answer whichsilenced, subdued, yet profoundly satisfied. Ever after that I knewwhat I was for _him_; and what I might be for the rest of the world, Iceased painfully to care. Was it weak to lay so much stress on anopinion about appearance? I fear it might be; I fear it was; but inthat case I must avow no light share of weakness. I must own great fearof displeasing--a strong wish moderately to please M. Paul.
Whither we rambled, I scarce knew. Our walk was long, yet seemed short;the path was pleasant, the day lovely. M. Emanuel talked of hisvoyage--he thought of staying away three years. On his return fromGuadaloupe, he looked forward to release from liabilities and a clearcourse; and what did I purpose doing in the interval of his absence? heasked. I had talked once, he reminded me, of trying to be independentand keeping a little school of my own: had I dropped the idea?
"Indeed, I had not: I was doing my best to save what would enable me toput it in practice."
"He did not like leaving me in the Rue Fossette; he feared I shouldmiss him there too much--I should feel desolate--I should grow sad--?"
This was certain; but I promised to do my best to endure.
"Still," said he, speaking low, "there is another objection to yourpresent residence. I should wish to write to you sometimes: it wouldnot be well to have any uncertainty about the safe transmission ofletters; and in the Rue Fossette--in short, our Catholic discipline incertain matters--though justifiable and expedient--might possibly,under peculiar circumstances, become liable to misapplication--perhapsabuse."
"But if you write," said I, "I _must_ have your letters; and I _will_have them: ten directors, twenty directresses, shall not keep them fromme. I am a Protestant: I will not bear that kind of discipline:Monsieur, I _will not_."
"Doucement--doucement," rejoined he; "we will contrive a plan; we haveour resources: soyez tranquille."
So speaking, he paused.
We were now returning from the long walk. We had reached the middle ofa clean Faubourg, where the houses were small, but looked pleasant. Itwas before the white door-step of a very neat abode that M. Paul hadhalted.
"I call here," said he.
He did not knock, but taking from his pocket a key, he opened andentered at once. Ushering me in, he shut the door behind us. No servantappeared. The vestibule was small, like the house, but freshly andtastefully painted; its vista closed in a French window with vinestrained about the panes, tendrils, and green leaves kissing the glass.Silence reigned in this dwelling.
Opening an inner door, M. Paul disclosed a parlour, or salon--verytiny, but I thought, very pretty. Its delicate walls were tinged like ablush; its floor was waxed; a square of brilliant carpet covered itscentre; its small round table shone like the mirror over its hearth;there was a little couch, a little chiffonniere, the half-open,crimson-silk door of which, showed porcelain on the shelves; there wasa French clock, a lamp; there were ornaments in biscuit china; therecess of the single ample window was filled with a green stand,bearing three green flower-pots, each filled with a fine plant glowingin bloom; in one corner appeared a gueridon with a marble top, and uponit a work-box, and a glass filled with violets in water. The lattice ofthis room was open; the outer air breathing through, gave freshness,the sweet violets lent fragrance.
"Pretty, pretty place!" said I. M. Paul smiled to see me so pleased.
"Must we sit down here and wait?" I asked in a whisper, half awed bythe deep pervading hush.
"We will first peep into one or two other nooks of this nutshell," hereplied.
"Dare you take the freedom of going all over the house?" I inquired.
"Yes, I dare," said he, quietly.
He led the way. I was shown a little kitchen with a little stove andoven, with few but bright brasses, two chairs and a table. A smallcupboard held a diminutive but commodious set of earthenware.
"There is a coffee service of china in the salon," said M. Paul, as Ilooked at the six green and white dinner-plates; the four dishes, thecups and jugs to match.
Conducted up the narrow but clean staircase, I was permitted a glimpseof two pretty cabinets of sleeping-rooms; finally, I was once more ledbelow, and we halted with a certain ceremony before a larger door thanhad yet been opened.
Producing a second key, M. Emanuel adjusted it to the lock of thisdoor. He opened, put me in before him.
"Voici!" he cried.
I found myself in a good-sized apartment, scrupulously clean, thoughbare, compared with those I had hitherto seen. The well-scoured boardswere carpetless; it contained two rows of green benches and desks, withan alley down the centre, terminating in an estrade, a teacher's chairand table; behind them a tableau. On the walls hung two maps; in thewindows flowered a few hardy plants; in short, here was a miniatureclasse--complete, neat, pleasant.
"It is a school then?" said I. "Who keeps it? I never heard of anestablishment in this faubourg."
"Will you have the goodness to accept of a few prospectuses fordistribution in behalf of a friend of mine?" asked he, taking from hissurtout-pocket some quires of these documents, and putting them into myhand. I looked, I read--printed in fair characters:--
"Externat de demoiselles. Numero 7, Faubourg Clotilde, Directrice,Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe."
* * * * *
And what did I say to M. Paul Emanuel?
Certain junctures of our lives must always be difficult of recall tomemory. Certai
n points, crises, certain feelings, joys, griefs, andamazements, when reviewed, must strike us as things wildered andwhirling, dim as a wheel fast spun.
I can no more remember the thoughts or the words of the ten minutessucceeding this disclosure, than I can retrace the experience of myearliest year of life: and yet the first thing distinct to me is theconsciousness that I was speaking very fast, repeating over and overagain:--
"Did you do this, M. Paul? Is this your house? Did you furnish it? Didyou get these papers printed? Do you mean me? Am I the directress? Isthere another Lucy Snowe? Tell me: say something."
But he would not speak. His pleased silence, his laughing down-look,his attitude, are visible to me now.
"How is it? I must know all--_all_," I cried.
The packet of papers fell on the floor. He had extended his hand, and Ihad fastened thereon, oblivious of all else.
"Ah! you said I had forgotten you all these weary days," said he. "Poorold Emanuel! These are the thanks he gets for trudging about threemortal weeks from house-painter to upholsterer, from cabinet-maker tocharwoman. Lucy and Lucy's cot, the sole thoughts in his head!"
I hardly knew what to do. I first caressed the soft velvet on his cuff,and then. I stroked the hand it surrounded. It was his foresight, hisgoodness, his silent, strong, effective goodness, that overpowered meby their proved reality. It was the assurance of his sleepless interestwhich broke on me like a light from heaven; it was his--I will dare tosay it--his fond, tender look, which now shook me indescribably. In themidst of all I forced myself to look at the practical.
"The trouble!" I cried, "and the cost! Had you money, M. Paul?"
"Plenty of money!" said he heartily. "The disposal of my large teachingconnection put me in possession of a handsome sum with part of it Idetermined to give myself the richest treat that I _have_ known or_shall_ know. I like this. I have reckoned on this hour day and nightlately. I would not come near you, because I would not forestall it.Reserve is neither my virtue nor my vice. If I had put myself into yourpower, and you had begun with your questions of look and lip--Wherehave you been, M. Paul? What have you been doing? What is yourmystery?--my solitary first and last secret would presently haveunravelled itself in your lap. Now," he pursued, "you shall live hereand have a school; you shall employ yourself while I am away; you shallthink of me sometimes; you shall mind your health and happiness for mysake, and when I come back--"
There he left a blank.
I promised to do all he told me. I promised to work hard and willingly."I will be your faithful steward," I said; "I trust at your coming theaccount will be ready. Monsieur, monsieur, you are _too_ good!"
In such inadequate language my feelings struggled for expression: theycould not get it; speech, brittle and unmalleable, and cold as ice,dissolved or shivered in the effort. He watched me, still; he gentlyraised his hand to stroke my hair; it touched my lips in passing; Ipressed it close, I paid it tribute. He was my king; royal for me hadbeen that hand's bounty; to offer homage was both a joy and a duty.
* * * * *
The afternoon hours were over, and the stiller time of evening shadedthe quiet faubourg. M. Paul claimed my hospitality; occupied and afootsince morning, he needed refreshment; he said I should offer himchocolate in my pretty gold and white china service. He went out andordered what was needful from the restaurant; he placed the smallgueridon and two chairs in the balcony outside the French window underthe screening vines. With what shy joy I accepted my part as hostess,arranged the salver, served the benefactor-guest.
This balcony was in the rear of the house, the gardens of the faubourgwere round us, fields extended beyond. The air was still, mild, andfresh. Above the poplars, the laurels, the cypresses, and the roses,looked up a moon so lovely and so halcyon, the heart trembled under hersmile; a star shone subject beside her, with the unemulous ray of purelove. In a large garden near us, a jet rose from a well, and a palestatue leaned over the play of waters.
M. Paul talked to me. His voice was so modulated that it mixedharmonious with the silver whisper, the gush, the musical sigh, inwhich light breeze, fountain and foliage intoned their lulling vesper:
Happy hour--stay one moment! droop those plumes, rest those wings;incline to mine that brow of Heaven! White Angel! let thy light linger;leave its reflection on succeeding clouds; bequeath its cheer to thattime which needs a ray in retrospect!
Our meal was simple: the chocolate, the rolls, the plate of freshsummer fruit, cherries and strawberries bedded in green leaves formedthe whole: but it was what we both liked better than a feast, and Itook a delight inexpressible in tending M. Paul. I asked him whetherhis friends, Pere Silas and Madame Beck, knew what he had done--whetherthey had seen my house?
"Mon amie," said he, "none knows what I have done save you and myself:the pleasure is consecrated to us two, unshared and unprofaned. Tospeak truth, there has been to me in this matter a refinement ofenjoyment I would not make vulgar by communication. Besides" (smiling)"I wanted to prove to Miss Lucy that I _could_ keep a secret. How oftenhas she taunted me with lack of dignified reserve and needful caution!How many times has she saucily insinuated that all my affairs are thesecret of Polichinelle!"
This was true enough: I had not spared him on this point, nor perhapson any other that was assailable. Magnificent-minded, grand-hearted,dear, faulty little man! You deserved candour, and from me always hadit.
Continuing my queries, I asked to whom the house belonged, who was mylandlord, the amount of my rent. He instantly gave me these particularsin writing; he had foreseen and prepared all things.
The house was not M. Paul's--that I guessed: he was hardly the man tobecome a proprietor; I more than suspected in him a lamentable absenceof the saving faculty; he could get, but not keep; he needed atreasurer. The tenement, then, belonged to a citizen in theBasse-Ville--a man of substance, M. Paul said; he startled me byadding: "a friend of yours, Miss Lucy, a person who has a mostrespectful regard for you." And, to my pleasant surprise, I found thelandlord was none other than M. Miret, the short-tempered andkind-hearted bookseller, who had so kindly found me a seat thateventful night in the park. It seems M. Miret was, in his station,rich, as well as much respected, and possessed several houses in thisfaubourg; the rent was moderate, scarce half of what it would have beenfor a house of equal size nearer the centre of Villette.
"And then," observed M. Paul, "should fortune not favour you, though Ithink she will, I have the satisfaction to think you are in good hands;M. Miret will not be extortionate: the first year's rent you havealready in your savings; afterwards Miss Lucy must trust God, andherself. But now, what will you do for pupils?"
"I must distribute my prospectuses."
"Right! By way of losing no time, I gave one to M. Miret yesterday.Should you object to beginning with three petite bourgeoises, theDemoiselles Miret? They are at your service."
"Monsieur, you forget nothing; you are wonderful. Object? It wouldbecome me indeed to object! I suppose I hardly expect at the outset tonumber aristocrats in my little day-school; I care not if they nevercome. I shall be proud to receive M. Miret's daughters."
"Besides these," pursued he, "another pupil offers, who will come dailyto take lessons in English; and as she is rich, she will payhandsomely. I mean my god-daughter and ward, Justine Marie Sauveur."
What is in a name?--what in three words? Till this moment I hadlistened with living joy--I had answered with gleeful quickness; a namefroze me; three words struck me mute. The effect could not be hidden,and indeed I scarce tried to hide it.
"What now?" said M. Paul.
"Nothing."
"Nothing! Your countenance changes: your colour and your very eyesfade. Nothing! You must be ill; you have some suffering; tell me what."
I had nothing to tell.
He drew his chair nearer. He did not grow vexed, though I continuedsilent and icy. He tried to win a word; he entreated with perseverance,he waited with patience.
"
Justine Marie is a good girl," said he, "docile and amiable; notquick--but you will like her."
"I think not. I think she must not come here."
Such was my speech.
"Do you wish to puzzle me? Do you know her? But, in truth, there _is_something. Again you are pale as that statue. Rely on Paul Carlos; tellhim the grief."
His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towardshim.
"Do you know Marie Justine?" said he again.
The name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It didnot prostrate--no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heatthrough my veins--recalling an hour of quick pain, many days and nightsof heart-sickness. Near me as he now sat, strongly and closely as hehad long twined his life in mine--far as had progressed, and near aswas achieved our minds' and affections' assimilation--the verysuggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be heard onlywith a fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainful resolve,an ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek could hide theflame, nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb the cry.
"I want to tell you something," I said: "I want to tell you all."
"Speak, Lucy; come near; speak. Who prizes you, if I do not? Who isyour friend, if not Emanuel? Speak!"
I spoke. All escaped from my lips. I lacked not words now; fast Inarrated; fluent I told my tale; it streamed on my tongue. I went backto the night in the park; I mentioned the medicated draught--why it wasgiven--its goading effect--how it had torn rest from under my head,shaken me from my couch, carried me abroad with the lure of a vivid yetsolemn fancy--a summer-night solitude on turf, under trees, near adeep, cool lakelet. I told the scene realized; the crowd, the masques,the music, the lamps, the splendours, the guns booming afar, the bellssounding on high. All I had encountered I detailed, all I hadrecognised, heard, and seen; how I had beheld and watched himself: howI listened, how much heard, what conjectured; the whole history, inbrief, summoned to his confidence, rushed thither, truthful, literal,ardent, bitter.
Still as I narrated, instead of checking, he incited me to proceed hespurred me by the gesture, the smile, the half-word. Before I had halfdone, he held both my hands, he consulted my eyes with a most piercingglance: there was something in his face which tended neither to calmnor to put me down; he forgot his own doctrine, he forsook his ownsystem of repression when I most challenged its exercise. I think Ideserved strong reproof; but when have we our deserts? I meritedseverity; he looked indulgence. To my very self I seemed imperious andunreasonable, for I forbade Justine Marie my door and roof; he smiled,betraying delight. Warm, jealous, and haughty, I knew not till now thatmy nature had such a mood: he gathered me near his heart. I was full offaults; he took them and me all home. For the moment of utmost mutiny,he reserved the one deep spell of peace. These words caressed my ear:--
"Lucy, take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first onearth."
We walked back to the Rue Fossette by moonlight--such moonlight as fellon Eden--shining through the shades of the Great Garden, and haplygilding a path glorious for a step divine--a Presence nameless. Once intheir lives some men and women go back to these first fresh days of ourgreat Sire and Mother--taste that grand morning's dew--bathe in itssunrise.
In the course of the walk I was told how Justine Marie Sauveur hadalways been regarded with the affection proper to a daughter--how, withM. Paul's consent, she had been affianced for months to one HeinrichMuehler, a wealthy young German merchant, and was to be married in thecourse of a year. Some of M. Emanuel's relations and connections would,indeed, it seems, have liked him to marry her, with a view to securingher fortune in the family; but to himself the scheme was repugnant, andthe idea totally inadmissible.
We reached Madame Beck's door. Jean Baptiste's clock tolled nine. Atthis hour, in this house, eighteen months since, had this man at myside bent before me, looked into my face and eyes, and arbitered mydestiny. This very evening he had again stooped, gazed, and decreed.How different the look--how far otherwise the fate!
He deemed me born under his star: he seemed to have spread over me itsbeam like a banner. Once--unknown, and unloved, I held him harsh andstrange; the low stature, the wiry make, the angles, the darkness, themanner, displeased me. Now, penetrated with his influence, and livingby his affection, having his worth by intellect, and his goodness byheart--I preferred him before all humanity.
We parted: he gave me his pledge, and then his farewell. We parted: thenext day--he sailed.
CHAPTER XLII.
FINIS.
Man cannot prophesy. Love is no oracle. Fear sometimes imagines a vainthing. Those years of absence! How had I sickened over theiranticipation! The woe they must bring seemed certain as death. I knewthe nature of their course: I never had doubt how it would harrow as itwent. The juggernaut on his car towered there a grim load. Seeing himdraw nigh, burying his broad wheels in the oppressed soil--I, theprostrate votary--felt beforehand the annihilating craunch.
Strange to say--strange, yet true, and owning many parallels in life'sexperience--that anticipatory craunch proved all--yes--nearly _all_ thetorture. The great Juggernaut, in his great chariot, drew on lofty,loud, and sullen. He passed quietly, like a shadow sweeping the sky, atnoon. Nothing but a chilling dimness was seen or felt. I looked up.Chariot and demon charioteer were gone by; the votary still lived.
M. Emanuel was away three years. Reader, they were the three happiestyears of my life. Do you scout the paradox? Listen. I commenced myschool; I worked--I worked hard. I deemed myself the steward of hisproperty, and determined, God willing, to render a good account. Pupilscame--burghers at first--a higher class ere long. About the middle ofthe second year an unexpected chance threw into my hands an additionalhundred pounds: one day I received from England a letter containingthat sum. It came from Mr. Marchmont, the cousin and heir of my dearand dead mistress. He was just recovering from a dangerous illness; themoney was a peace-offering to his conscience, reproaching him in thematter of, I know not what, papers or memoranda found after hiskinswoman's death--naming or recommending Lucy Snowe. Mrs. Barrett hadgiven him my address. How far his conscience had been sinned against, Inever inquired. I asked no questions, but took the cash and made ituseful.
With this hundred pounds I ventured to take the house adjoining mine. Iwould not leave that which M. Paul had chosen, in which he had left,and where he expected again to find me. My externat became apensionnat; that also prospered.
The secret of my success did not lie so much in myself, in anyendowment, any power of mine, as in a new state of circumstances, awonderfully changed life, a relieved heart. The spring which moved myenergies lay far away beyond seas, in an Indian isle. At parting, I hadbeen left a legacy; such a thought for the present, such a hope for thefuture, such a motive for a persevering, a laborious, an enterprising,a patient and a brave course--I _could_ not flag. Few things shook menow; few things had importance to vex, intimidate, or depress me: mostthings pleased--mere trifles had a charm.
Do not think that this genial flame sustained itself, or lived whollyon a bequeathed hope or a parting promise. A generous provider suppliedbounteous fuel. I was spared all chill, all stint; I was not sufferedto fear penury; I was not tried with suspense. By every vessel hewrote; he wrote as he gave and as he loved, in full-handed,full-hearted plenitude. He wrote because he liked to write; he did notabridge, because he cared not to abridge. He sat down, he took pen andpaper, because he loved Lucy and had much to say to her; because he wasfaithful and thoughtful, because he was tender and true. There was nosham and no cheat, and no hollow unreal in him. Apology never droppedher slippery oil on his lips--never proffered, by his pen, her cowardfeints and paltry nullities: he would give neither a stone, nor anexcuse--neither a scorpion; nor a disappointment; his letters were realfood that nourished, living water that refreshed.
And was I grateful? God knows! I believe that scarce a living being soremembered, so sustained, dealt with in kind so constant, honourableand noble,
could be otherwise than grateful to the death.
Adherent to his own religion (in him was not the stuff of which is madethe facile apostate), he freely left me my pure faith. He did not teasenor tempt. He said:--
"Remain a Protestant. My little English Puritan, I love Protestantismin you. I own its severe charm. There is something in its ritual Icannot receive myself, but it is the sole creed for 'Lucy.'"
All Rome could not put into him bigotry, nor the Propaganda itself makehim a real Jesuit. He was born honest, and not false--artless, and notcunning--a freeman, and not a slave. His tenderness had rendered himductile in a priest's hands, his affection, his devotedness, hissincere pious enthusiasm blinded his kind eyes sometimes, made himabandon justice to himself to do the work of craft, and serve the endsof selfishness; but these are faults so rare to find, so costly totheir owner to indulge, we scarce know whether they will not one day bereckoned amongst the jewels.
* * * * *
And now the three years are past: M. Emanuel's return is fixed. It isAutumn; he is to be with me ere the mists of November come. My schoolflourishes, my house is ready: I have made him a little library, filledits shelves with the books he left in my care: I have cultivated out oflove for him (I was naturally no florist) the plants he preferred, andsome of them are yet in bloom. I thought I loved him when he went away;I love him now in another degree: he is more my own.
The sun passes the equinox; the days shorten, the leaves grow sere;but--he is coming.
Frosts appear at night; November has sent his fogs in advance; the windtakes its autumn moan; but--he is coming.
The skies hang full and dark--a wrack sails from the west; the cloudscast themselves into strange forms--arches and broad radiations; thererise resplendent mornings--glorious, royal, purple as monarch in hisstate; the heavens are one flame; so wild are they, they rival battleat its thickest--so bloody, they shame Victory in her pride. I knowsome signs of the sky; I have noted them ever since childhood. Godwatch that sail! Oh! guard it!
The wind shifts to the west. Peace, peace, Banshee--"keening" at everywindow! It will rise--it will swell--it shrieks out long: wander as Imay through the house this night, I cannot lull the blast. Theadvancing hours make it strong: by midnight, all sleepless watchershear and fear a wild south-west storm. That storm roared frenzied, forseven days. It did not cease till the Atlantic was strewn with wrecks:it did not lull till the deeps had gorged their full of sustenance. Nottill the destroying angel of tempest had achieved his perfect work,would he fold the wings whose waft was thunder--the tremor of whoseplumes was storm.
Peace, be still! Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony on waitingshores, listened for that voice, but it was not uttered--not utteredtill; when the hush came, some could not feel it: till, when the sunreturned, his light was night to some!
Here pause: pause at once. There is enough said. Trouble no quiet, kindheart; leave sunny imaginations hope. Let it be theirs to conceive thedelight of joy born again fresh out of great terror, the rapture ofrescue from peril, the wondrous reprieve from dread, the fruition ofreturn. Let them picture union and a happy succeeding life.
Madame Beck prospered all the days of her life; so did Pere Silas;Madame Walravens fulfilled her ninetieth year before she died. Farewell.
THE END.
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