Charles Auchester Volume II Part 13

"My child, if thou wert strong and manly, how could I confide in thee?

Yet G.o.d forgive me if I show this little one too much too early!"

His eyes wore here an expression so divine, so little earthly that I turned away, still holding his hand, which I bathed in tears that fell s.h.i.+veringly from my dull heart like rain from a sultry sky. It was the tone that pierced me; for I knew not what he meant, or only had a dream of perceiving _how much_.

"Sir, you could not tell me too much. You have taught me all I know already, and I don't intend ever to learn of anybody else."

"My child, it is G.o.d who taught thee. It is something thou hast to teach _me_ now."

"Sir, is it anything about myself?" I chose to say so, but did not think it.

"No; about some one those eyes of thine do love to watch and wait on, so that sometimes I am almost jealous of thine eyes! But it cannot be a hardened jealousy while they are so baby-kind."

"It is Maria, then, sir, of course. But they are not babies,--my eyes, I mean; for they know all about her, and so do I. I know why sometimes she seems looking through us instead of at us. It is because she is seeing other eyes in her soul, and our eyes are only just eyes to her, and nothing else,--you know what I mean, sir?"

I said all this because I had an instinctive dread of his self-betrayal beyond what was needed. Alas! I had not even curiosity left. But I was mistaken in him, so far. He leaned forwards, stroked my hair, and kissed it.

"Whose eyes, then, Carlomein?"

"My master, Anastase, is that person whose eyes I mean."

"Impossible! But I was wrong to ask thee. a.s.suredly, thou art an infant, and couldst even make me smile. That is a fancy only. Not Anastase, my child! Any one but Anastase."

What anguish curled beneath those coaxing tones!

"Sir, I know nothing about it, except that it is true. But that it is true I _do_ know, for Maria told me so herself; and they will be married as soon as she is educated." I trembled as I spoke in sore dismay; for the truth was borne to me that moment in a flash of misery, and all I could feel was what I was fool enough to say, "Oh that I were Maria!" He turned to me in an instant; made a sort of motion with both his arms, like wings, having released the hand I held. I looked up now, and saw that a more awful paleness--a virgin shadow appalling as that of death--had fixed his features. I threw myself into his arms; he was very still, mute, all gentleness. I kissed the glistening dress, the spangled sleeves. He moved not, murmured not. At last my tears would flow. They rushed, they scalded; I called out of the midst of them, and heard that my own voice, child as I was, fell hollow through my hot lips.

"Oh, let my heart burst! Do let me break my heart!" I sobbed, and a s.h.i.+ver seemed to spread from my frame to his. He brought me closer to his breast, and bowed his soft curls till they were wet with my wild weeping through and through. It heaved not. No pa.s.sion swelled the pulses of that heart; still he s.h.i.+vered as if his breath were pa.s.sing.

In many, many minutes I heard his voice; it was a voice all tremble, like a harp-string jarred and breaking. "Carlomein, you will ever be dearer to me than I can say from this night; for you have seen sorrow no man should have seen, and no woman could have suffered. You know what I wished; yet perhaps not yet,--how should you? Carlomein, when you become a man I hope you will love me as you do now when you know what I do feel, what I do wish. May you never despise suffering for my sake! May you never suffer as I do! You _only_ could; I know no one else, poor child! G.o.d take you first, before you suffer _so_. You see the worst of it is, Carlomein, that we need not have suffered at all, if I had only known it from the beginning. But it is very strange, is it not?" He spoke as if inviting me to question him.

"What, dearest sir?"

"That she should not love me. How could she help it?"

Of all his words, few as they were indeed, these touched me most. I felt, indeed, how could she help it? But I was, child as I was, too wise to say so.

"You see, sir, she could not help loving Anastase!"

"Nor could I help loving her, nor can I; but the sorrow is, Carlomein, that neither on earth nor in heaven will she wish to be mine."

"Sir, in heaven it won't matter whether she married Anastase or not; for if she were perfect here, she could but love you, and _there_ she will be perfect and will understand you, sir."

"Sweet religion, if true. Sweet philosophy,--false as pleasant."

"But, sir, you will not be unhappy, because it is of no use; and besides, she will find it out, and you would not like that. And you will not break your heart, sir, because of music."

"I should never break my heart, Carlchen, under any earthly circ.u.mstances." He smiled upon me indifferently; a pure disdain chiselled every feature in that att.i.tude. "There is now no more to be said. I need scarcely say, my child, never speak of this. But I _will_ command you to forget it--as I forget--have already forgotten."

He rose, and pa.s.sed his hand, with weary grace, over the curls that had fallen forward; and then he took me by the hand and we went out together, I knew not whither.

I returned that night with my brother and sister to Cecilia. I never had taken part in a scene so brilliant as the concluding banquet, which was in the open air, and under shade lamp-fruited; but I knew nothing that happened to me, was cold all over, and for a time, at least, laid aside my very consciousness. Millicent was positively alarmed by my paleness, which she attributed, neither wrongly, to excitement; and it was in consequence of her suspicion that we retired very early.

We met no one,--having bowed to the king and queen of the night's festival,--nor did I behold the Chevalier, except in the distance, as he glided from table to table to watch that all should fare well at them, though he never sat himself. Maria was seated by Anastase. I noticed them, but did not gaze upon them. Their aspect sickened me.

It was well that Millicent believed me ill, for I was thus not obliged to speak, and she and Davy had it all to themselves on the road.

That time, when she got me to bed, I became strangely affected in a fas.h.i.+on of my own, and not sleeping at all, was compelled to remain there day after day for a week, not having the most shadowy notion of that which was my affection. It was convenient that Davy knew a great deal about such suffering on his own account, or I might have been severely tampered with. He would not send for a doctor, as he understood what was the matter with me; and presently I got right. In fact, my nerves, ever in my way, were a.s.serting themselves furiously; and as I needed no physic, I took none, but trusted Davy and kept quiet.

I heard upon my resuscitation that Maria, Anastase, and Delemann had all been to inquire after me, and, oh, strange sweetness! also the Chevalier. It was some satisfaction when Millicent said he was looking very well and had talked to her for half an hour. This news tended most to my restoration of anything; and it was not ten days before I returned to school, my people having left the village the same morning only.

I saw as much of Anastase as before, now; but I felt as if till now I had never known him, nor of how infinite importance a finite creature may become under certain circ.u.mstances. In a day or two I had worked up to the mark sufficiently to permit myself a breath of leisure; and towards the afternoon I went after Maria, to accompany her home. This she permitted; but I knew that Anastase would be with her in the evening, and refused her invitation to enter, for I felt I could not bear to see them together just then. I entreated her, therefore, to take a walk with me instead. She hesitated, on account of her preparation for the morrow; but when I reminded her that Anastase desired her to walk abroad daily, she a.s.sented. "Florimond would be pleased."

Up the green sides of the hill we wandered, and again into the valley.

It was a mild day, with no rude wind to break the silken thread of conversation, and I was mad to talk to her. I could hardly tell how to begin, though I knew what I wanted to find out well enough; but I need not have been afraid. She was singularly unsuspicious.

"So, Carl," she began herself, "the Chevalier took you into his room,--his very room where he writes, was it?"

"I don't know," I said, "whether he writes there. I should think he would write anywhere. But it was stuffed full of books and had an organ."

"A large organ?"

Heaven help and pardon me! I had not seen anything in the room specifically; but I drew upon my imagination,--usually a lively spring enough.

"Oh! yes, a very large organ, with beautiful carving about it,--cherubs above, with their wings spread, I believe; and the books bound exquisitely, and set in cabinets."

"What sort of furniture?"

"I don't know. Oh! I think it was dark red, and very rich looking.

Embroidered cloths, too, upon the tables and sofas,--but really I may be mistaken, because, you see, I was not looking at them."

"No, I should think not. Carnation is his favorite color, you know; he told me so."

"He tells you everything, I think, Maria."

"Yes, of course he does,--just as one talks to a little child that asks for stories."

"That is not the reason,--it cannot be. Besides, he always talks about himself to you, and one never talks about one's self to children."

"Do not you? But, Carl, he chiefly talks to me about music."

"And for that, is he not himself music? But, Maria, I can, telling you his favorite color, talking about himself as much as if he told you he had a headache."

"Well, Carl, he did come to me when he had scratched his finger and ask me to tie it up."

"And did you? Was that since _the_ evening?"

"It was the day before yesterday. He was going to play somewhere. But, Carl, we shall not hear him play again."

"What do you mean?"