Hearts Afire

FOR THE SHAME.

If Charlotte had lived at this day, she would probably have spent her time between her promise and its fulfillment in self-analysis and introspective reasoning with her own conscience. But the women of a century ago were not tossed about with winds of various opinions, or made foolishly subtle by arguments about principles which ought never to be associated with dissent. A few strong, plain dictates had been set before Charlotte as the law of her daily life; and she knew, beyond all controversy, when she disobeyed them.

In her own heart, she called the sin she had determined to commit by its most unequivocal name. “I shall make happy Harleigh; but my father I shall deceive and disobey, and against my own soul there will be the lie.” This was the position she admitted, but every woman is Eve in some hours of her life. The law of truth and wisdom may be in her ears, but the apple of delight hangs within her reach, and, with a full understanding of the consequences of disobedience, she takes the forbidden pleasure. And if the vocal, positive command of Divinity was unheeded by the first woman, mere mortal parents surely ought not to wonder that their commands, though dictated by truest love and clearest wisdom, are often lightly held, or even impotent against the voice of some charmer, pleading personal pleasure against duty, and self-will against the law infinitely higher and purer.

There are women who prefer secrecy to honesty, and sin to truthfulness; but Charlotte was not one of them. If it had been possible to see her lover honorably, she would have much preferred it. She was totally destitute of that contemptible sentimentality which would rather invent difficulties in a love-affair than not have them, but she knew well the storm of reproach and disapproval which would answer any such request; and her thoughts were all bent toward devising some plan which would enable her to leave home early on that morning which she had promised her lover.

But all her little arrangements failed; and it was almost at the last hour of the evening previous, that circumstances offered her a reasonable excuse. It came through Joris Morgan, who returned home later than usual, bringing with him a great many patterns of damask and figured cloth and stamped leather. At once he announced his intention of staying at home the next morning in order to have Lysbet's aid in selecting the coverings for their new chairs, and counting up their cost. He had taken the strips out of his pocket with an air of importance and complaisance; and Charlotte, glancing from them to her mother, thought she perceived a fleeting shadow of a feeling very much akin to her own contempt of the man's pronounced self-satisfaction. So when supper was over, and the house duties done, she determined to speak to her mother.

“Let me go away in the morning. Father dotting about the chairs I cannot bear. Listen, how he will talk: 'See here, Charlotte. A fine piece is this; ten shillings and sixpence the yard, and good enough for the governor's house. But I am a man of some substance,—and fine chairs I will have' Mother, you know how it will be. Tomorrow I cannot bear him. Very near quarreling have we been for a week.”

“I know, Charlotte, I know. Leave, then, and go first to the “Universal Store” of Lady Denham, and ask her if the new fashions will arrive from London this month. I heard also that Mary Blankaart has lost a silk purse, and in it five gold pieces, and some half and quarter silver. Ask kindly for her, and about the money; and so the morning could be passed. And look now, Charlotte, peace is the best thing for this house.”

“That will make me glad.”

“Surly it shall.”

“My mother, sad and troubled are thy looks. What is thy sorrow?”

“For thee my heart aches often,—mine and thy good father's, too. Dost thou not suffer? Can thy mother be blind? Nothing hast thou eaten lately. Father says thou art restless all the night long. Thou art so changed then, that were ever such a happy little one. Once thou did love me, Charlotte.”

“Mother, still I love thee!”

“But what of the young man, Harleigh Daly?”

“Never can I cease to love him. See, now, the love I give him is his love. It never was thine. For him I brought it into the world. None of thy love have I given to him. My mother, thee I would not rob for the whole world; not I!”

“For all that, Charlotte, hard is the mother's lot. The dear child I nursed on my breast, they go here and they go there, with this strange one and that strange one. Last night, ere to our sleep we went, thy father read to me some words of a book they are true words. Every good mother has said them, at the grave or at the bridal, “we shall lose our daughters!'“

The next morning was one of perfect beauty, and Charlotte awoke with a feeling of joyful expectation. She dressed beautifully her pale brown hair; and her intended visit to Mary Blankaart gave her an excuse for wearing her India silk,—the pretty dress Harleigh had seen her first in, the dress he had so often admired. Her appearance caused some remarks, and with much of her old gayety Charlotte walked between her father and mother away from home.

She paid a very short visit to the mantua-maker, and then went to Mistress Gordon's. There was less effusion in that lady's manner than at her last interview with Charlotte. She had a little spasm of jealousy; she had some doubts about Charlotte's deserts; she wondered whether Harleigh really adored the girl with the fervour he affected, or whether he had determined, at all sacrifices, to prevent her marriage with Sir Edward Semple. Charlotte had never before seen her so quiet and so cool; and a feeling of shame sprang up in the girl's heart. “Perhaps she was going to do something not exactly proper in Mistress Gordon's eyes, and in advance that lady was making her sensible of her contempt.”

With this thought, she rose, and with burning cheeks said, “I will go home, madam. Now I feel that I am doing wrong. To write to Harleigh will be the best way.”

“Pray don't be foolish, Charlotte. I am of a serious turn this morning, that is all. How pretty you are! And how vastly becoming your gown! But, indeed, I am going to ask you to change it. Yesterday at the “King's Arms,” I said my sister would arrive this morning with me; and I bespoke a little cotillon in Harleigh's rooms. In that dress you will be too familiar, my dear. See here, is not this the prettiest fashion? It is lately come over. So airy! So French! So all that!”

It was a light-blue gown and petticoat of rich satin, sprigged with silver, and a manteau of dark-blue velvet trimmed with bands of delicate fur. The bonnet was not one which the present generation would call “lovely;” but, in its satin depths, Charlotte's fresh, sweet face looked like a rose. She hardly knew herself when the toilet was completed; and, during its progress, Mistress Gordon recovered all her animation and interest.

Before they were ready, a coach was in waiting; and in a few minutes they stood together at Harleigh's door. There was a sound of voices within; and, when they entered, Charlotte saw, with a pang of disappointment, a fine, gallantly looking man by Harleigh's side. But Harleigh appeared to be in no way annoyed by his company. He was looking much better, and wore a chamber gown of maroon satin, with deep laces showing at the wrists and bosom. When Charlotte entered, he was amazed and charmed with her appearance. “Come near to me, my Charlotte,” he said; and as Mistress Gordon drew from her shoulders the mantle, and from her head the bonnet, and revealed more perfectly her beautiful person and dress, his love and admiration were beyond words.

With an air that plainly said, “This is the maiden for whom I fought and have suffered: is she not worthy of my devotion?” he introduced her to his friend, Ewan Rawden. But, even as they spoke, Ewan joined Mistress Gordon, at a call from her; and Charlotte noticed that a door near which they stood was open, and that they went into the room to which it led, and that other voices then blended with theirs. But these things were as nothing. She was with her lover, alone for a moment with him; and Harleigh had never before seemed to her half so dear or half so fascinating.

“My Charlotte,” he said, “I have one tormenting thought. Night and day it consumes me like a fever. I hear that Sir Edward Semple is well. Yesterday Ewan saw him; he was walking with your father. He will be visiting at your house very soon. He will see you; he will speak to you. You have such obliging manners, he may even clasp this hand, my hand. Heavens! I am but a man, and I find myself unable to endure the thought.”

“In my heart, Harleigh, there is only room for you. Sir Edward I fear and dislike.”

“They will make you marry him, my darling.”

“No; that they can never do.”

“But I suffer in the fear. I suffer a thousand deaths. If you were only my wife, Charlotte!”

She blushed divinely. She was kneeling at his side; and she put her arms around his neck, and laid her face against his. “Only your wife I will be. That is what I desire also.”

“Now, Charlotte? This minute, darling? Make me sure of the felicity you have promised.”

“Oh, my love, my love!”

“See how I tremble, Charlotte. Life scarcely cares to inhabit a body so weak. If you refuse me, I will let it go. If you refuse me, I shall know that in your heart you expect to marry Sir Edward,—the savage who has made me to suffer unspeakable agonies.”

“Never will I marry him, Harleigh,—never, never. My word is true. You only I will marry.”

The noon hour was long past, but she made no mention of it. The moment for parting had come; and, when it has, wise are those who delay it not. Harleigh fixed his eyes upon his love until Mistress Gordon had arranged again her bonnet and manteau; then, with a smile, he shut in their white portals the exquisite picture. He could let her go with a smile now, for he knew that Charlotte's absence was but a parted presence; knew that her better part remained with him, that her heart was never away, but ever with his forever.”

The coach was waiting; and, without delay, Charlotte returned with Mistress Gordon to her lodgings. Both were silent on the journey. When a great event has taken place, only the shallow and unfeeling chatter about it. Charlotte's heart was full, even to solemnity; and Mistress Gordon, whose affectation of fashionable levity was in a large measure pretense, had a kind and sensible nature, and she watched the quiet girl by her side with decided approval. “She may not be in the mode, but she is neither silly nor heartless,” she decided; “and as for loving foolishly my poor, delightful Harleigh, why, any girl may be excused the folly.”

Upon leaving the coach at Mistress Gordon's, Charlotte went to an inner room to resume her own dress. The India silk lay across a chair; and she took off, and folded with her accustomed neatness, the elegant suit she had worn. As she did so, she became sensible of a singular liking for it; and, when Mistress Gordon entered the room, she said to her, “Madam, very much I desire this suit: it shall be my wedding-gown. Will you save it for me? Someday I may wear it again, when Harleigh is well.”

“Indeed, Charlotte, you shall have the gown. I shall be put it away for you.”

“The time, madam? What is the hour?”

“Indeed, I think it is much after four o'clock. Half an hour hence, you will have to bring out your excuses.

“Her excuses” Charlotte had not suffered herself to consider. She could not bear to shadow the present with the future. She had, indeed, a happy faculty of leaving her emergencies to take care of themselves; and perhaps wiser people than Charlotte might, with advantage, trust less to their own planning and foresight, and more to that inscrutable power which we call chance, but which so often arranges favorably the events apparently very unfavorable. For, at the best, foresight has but probabilities to work with; but chance, whose ways we know not, very often contradicts all our bad prophecies, and untangles untoward events far beyond our best prudence or wisdom. And Charlotte was so happy. She really loved Harleigh; and on that solid vantage-ground she felt able to beat off trouble, and to defend her own and his rights.

“So much better you look, Charlotte,” said Mother. “Where have you been all the day? And did you see Mary Blankaart? And the money, is it found yet?”

The family were at the supper-table; and Joris looked kindly at his truant daughter, and motioned to the vacant chair at his side. She slipped into it, touching her father's cheek as she passed; and then she answered, “At Mary Blankaart's I was not at all, mother.”

“Where, then?”

“To Universal Store I went first, and with Mistress Gordon I have been all the day.”

“Who sent you there, Charlotte?”

“No one, mother. When I passed the house, my name I heard, and Mistress Gordon came out to me; and how could I refuse her? Much had we to talk of.”

Lysbet Morgan saw her daughter's placid face, and heard her open confession, with the greatest amazement. She looked at Joris, and was just going to express her opinion, when Joris rose, pushed his chair aside, and said, come with thy father, Charlotte, and down the garden we will walk, and see if there are dahlias yet, and how grow the gold and the white chrysanthemums.”

But all the time they were in the garden together, Joris never spoke of Mistress Gordon, nor of Charlotte's visit to her. About the flowers, and the restless swallows, and the bluebirds, who still lingered, silent and anxious, he talked.

“Every one speaks so highly of Sir Edward,” said Charlotte; “so hard he tries to have many friends, and to be well spoken of.”

“That is his way, Charlotte; every man has his way.”

“And I like not the way of Sir Edward.”

“In business, then, he has a good name, honest and prudent. He will make you a good husband.”

But, though Joris said nothing to his daughter concerning her visit to Mistress Gordon, he talked long with Lysbet about it. “What will be the end, thou may see by the child's face and air,” he said; “the shadow and the heaviness are gone. Like the old Charlotte she is tonight.”

“And this afternoon comes here Sir Edward. Scarcely he believed me that Charlotte was out. Joris, what wilt thou do about the young man?”

“His fair chance he is to have, Lysbet. That to the Elder Van Heemskirk is promised.”

“The case now is altered. Sir Edward I like not. Little he thought of our child's good name. With his sword he wounded her most. No patience have I with the man. And his dark look thou should have seen when I said, “Charlotte is not at home.” Plainly his eyes said to me, “Thou art lying.”

So the loving, anxious parents, in their ignorance, planned. Even then, accustomed in all their ways to move with caution, they saw no urgent need of interference with the regular and appointed events of life. A few weeks hence Sir Edward called again on Charlotte. His arm was still useless; his pallor and weakness so great as to win, even from Lysbet, that womanly pity which is often irrespective of desert. She brought him wine, she made him rest upon the sofa, and by her quiet air of sympathy bespoke for him a like indulgence from her daughter. Charlotte sat by her small wheel, unplaiting some flax; and Sir Edward thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He kept angrily asking himself why he had not perceived this rare loveliness before; why he had not made sure his claim ere rivals had disputed it with him. He did not understand that it was love which had called this softer, more exquisite beauty into existence. The tender light in the eyes; the flush upon the cheek; the lips, conscious of sweet words and sweeter kisses; the heart, beating to pure and loving thoughts,—in short, the loveliness of the soul, transfiguring the meaner loveliness of flesh and blood, Sir Edward had perceived and wondered at; but he had not that kind of love experience which divines the cause from the result.

On the contrary, had Harleigh been watching Charlotte, he would have been certain that she was musing on her lover. He would have understood that bewitching languor, that dreaming silence, that tender air and light and color which was the physical atmosphere of a soul communing with its beloved; a soul touching things present only with its intelligence, but reaching out to the absent with intensity of every loving emotion.

For some time the conversation was general. But no one's interest was in their words, and presently Lysbet Morgan rose and left the room. Her husband had said, “Sir Edward was to have some opportunities;” and the words of Joris were a law of love to Lysbet.

Sir Edward was not slow to improve the favor. “Charlotte, I wish to speak to you. I am weak and ill. Will you come here beside me?”

She rose slowly, and stood beside him; but, when he tried to take her hands, she clasped them behind her back.

“So?” he asked; and the blood surged over his white face in a crimson tide that made him for a moment or two speechless. “Why not?”

“Blood-stained are your hands. I will not take them.”

The answer gave him a little comfort. It was, then, only a moral qualm. He had even no objection to such a keen sense of purity in her; and sooner or later she would forgive his action, or be made to see it with the eyes of the world in which he moved.

“Charlotte, I am very sorry I had to guard my honor with my sword; and it was your love I was fighting for.”

“My honor you cared not for, and with the sword I could not guard it. Of me cruel and false words have been said by everyone. On the streets I was ashamed to go.”

“Your honor is my honor. They that speak ill of you, sweet Charlotte, speak ill of me. Your life is my life. O my precious one, my wife!”

“Such words I will not listen to. Plainly now I tell you, your wife I will never be,—never, never, never!”

“I will love you, Charlotte, beyond your dream of love. I will die rather than see you the wife of another man. For your bow of ribbon, only see what I have suffered.”

“And, also, what have you made another to suffer?”

“Oh, I wish that I had slain him!”

“Not your fault is it that you did not murder him.”

“An affair of honor is not murder, Charlotte.”

“Honor!—Name not the word. From a dozen wounds your enemy was bleeding; to go on fighting a dying man was murder, not honor. Brave some call you: in my heart I say, “Sir Edward was a savage and a coward.”

“Charlotte, I will not be angry with you.”

“I wish that you should be angry with me. Because some day you will be very sorry for these foolish words, my dear love.”

“Your dear love I am not.”

“Tis true.”

“My dear love, give me a drink of wine, I am faint.”

His faint whispered words and deathlike countenance moved her to human pity. She rose for the wine, and as she did so, called her mother; but Sir Edward had at least the satisfaction of feeling that she had ministered to his weakness, and held the wine to his lips. From this time, he visited her constantly, unmindful of her frowns, deaf to all her unkind words, patient under the most pointed slights and neglect. And as most men rate an object according to the difficulty experienced in attaining it, Charlotte became every day more precious and desirable in Sir Edward's eyes.

In the meantime, without being watched, Charlotte felt herself to be under a certain amount of restraint. If she proposed a walk into the city, mother or father was sure to have the same desire. She was not forbidden to visit Mistress Gordon, but events were so arranged as to make the visit almost impossible; and only once, during the month after seeing Harleigh, had she an interview with him. For even Harleigh's impatience had recognized the absolute necessity of circumspection. The landlord's suspicions had been awakened, and not very certainly allayed. “There must be no scandal about my house, Harleigh,” he said. “I merit something better from you;” and, after this injunction, it was very likely that Mistress Gordon's companions would be closely scrutinized. True, the “King's Arms” was the great rendezvous of the military and government officials, and the landlord himself subserviently loyal; but, also, Joris Morgan was not a man with whom any good citizen would like to quarrel. Personally he was much beloved, and socially he stood as representative of a class which held in their hands commercial and political power no one cared to oppose or offend.