Hearts Afire

GETTING AWAY.

The clean linen, the stockings that required mending, lay upon the table. Charlotte sat down to the task. Resolutely, but almost unconsciously, she put her needle through and through. Her longing for Harleigh was pitiful; this little one, who a few months ago would have wept for a cut finger, now silently battling with the longing agony that can come to a loving woman. At first Lysbet tried to talk to her; but she soon saw that the effort to answer was beyond Charlotte's power, and conversation was abandoned. So for an hour, an hour of speechless sorrow, they sat. The tick of the clock, the purr of the cat, the snap of a breaking thread, alone relieved the tension of silence in which this act of suffering was completed. Its atmosphere was becoming intolerable, like that of a nightmare; and Lysbet was feeling that she must speak and move, and so dissipate it, when there was a loud knock at the front door.

Charlotte trembled all over. “Today I cannot bear it, mother. No one can I see. I will go upstairs.”

Ere the words were finished, Mistress Gordon's voice was audible. She came into the room laughing, with the smell of fresh violets and the feeling of the brisk wind around her. “Dear Madam,” she cried, “I entreat you for a favor. I am going to take the air this afternoon: be so good as to let Charlotte come with me. For I must tell you that the colonel has orders for Boston, and I may see my charming friend no more after today.”

“Charlotte, what say you? Will you go?”

“Please, my mother.”

“Make great haste, then.” For Lysbet was pleased with the offer, and fearful that Joris might arrive, and refuse to let his daughter accept it. She hoped that Charlotte would receive some comforting message.

“Stay not long,” she whispered, “for your father's sake. There is no good, more trouble to give him.”

“Well, my dear, you look like a ghost. Have you not one smile for a woman so completely in your interest? When I promised Harleigh this morning that I would be sure to get word to you, I was at my wits end to discover a way. But, when I am between the horns of a dilemma, I find it the best plan to take the bull by the horns. Hence, I have made you a visit which seems to have quite nonplussed you and your good mother.”

“What did he say?”

“He has said, he will meet you tonight at Midnight at the garden where Sir Edward challenged him. Do not fail Harleigh: he is risking all to see you.”

“I will be there.”

“La! What are you crying for, child? Poor girl! What are you crying for? Harleigh, the scamp? He is not worthy of such pure tears; and yet, believe me, he loves you to distraction.”

MOTIONLESS under the white coverlet of her bed, Charlotte appeared to have been sleeping soundly for the past two hours. She dared not move, she dared not even sigh; and all her life was in her gaze, trying to penetrate the secret of the dusk—trying to hear whether really her parents were asleep. It was a cool summer night, and as the hour advanced the room became colder and colder; but Charlotte did not feel it.

The moment the clock chimed a surge had leapt from her heart to her brain, diffusing itself through all her members, scalding her veins, scorching her flesh, quickening the beating of her pulses. As in the height of fever, she felt herself burning up; her tongue was dry, her head was hot; and the cool air that entered her lungs could not quench the fire in her, could not subdue the tumultuous irruption of her young blood.

Often, to relieve herself, she had longed to cry out, to moan; but the fear of waking her parents held her silent. It was not, however, so much from the great heat throbbing at her temples that she suffered, as from her inability to know for certain whether her parents was asleep.

Sometimes she thought of moving noisily, so that her bed should creak; then if mother were awake, she would come in, and thus Charlotte could make sure they were asleep. But the fear of thereby still further lengthening this time of waiting, kept her from letting the thought become an action. She lay as motionless as if her limbs were bound down by a thousand chains.

She had lost all track of time, too; she had forgotten to count the last strokes of the clock— the clock that could be heard from the sitting-room adjoining. It seemed to her that she had been lying like this for years, burning with this maddening fire.

And then the horrible thought crossed her mind—What if the hour had passed? Perhaps it had passed without her noticing it; she who had waited for it so impatiently had let it escape.

But no. Presently, deadened by the distance and the doors closed between, she heard the clock ring out.

The hour had come.

Thereupon, with an infinite caution, born of infinite fear, slowly, trembling, holding her breath at every sound, pausing, starting back, going on, she sat up in bed, and at last slipped out of it.

That vague spot of whiteness in the distance, where her parents lay, still fascinated her; she kept her head turned in its direction, while with her hands she felt for her shoes and stockings and clothes. They were all there, placed conveniently near; but every little difficulty she had to overcome in dressing, so as not to make the slightest noise, represented a world of precautions, of pauses, and of paralyzing fears.

When at last she had got on her frock of white serge, which shone out in the darkness, “Perhaps” mother sees me,” she thought.

But she had made ready a big heavy black shawl, and in this she now wrapped herself from head to foot, and the whiteness of her frock was hidden.

Then, having accomplished the miracle of dressing herself, she stood still at her bedside; she had not dared to take a step as yet, sure that by doing so she would wake all.

“A little strength—please send me a little strength,” she mumbled inwardly to self.

Then she set forth stealthily across the room. In the middle of it, seized by a sudden audacious impulse, she called her mother’s name, in a whisper, “mother, mother” listening intensely.

No answer. She went on, past her parent’s open door, through the sitting-room, the drawing-room, feeling her way amidst the chairs and tables. She struck her shoulder against the frame of the door between the sitting-room and the drawing room, and halted for a moment, with a beating heart.

“Stay calm! Stay calm! “She murmured in an agony of terror.

When she reached the dining-room, it seemed to her that she must have traversed a hundred separate chambers, a hundred entire houses, and an endless chain of chambers.

At last she opened the front door that gave upon the porch, and ran out into the night, the cold, the blackness. She crossed the lawn, and being made frightened by the gathering of the night shadows, she turned quickly, and taking the very road up which Harleigh had come the night Sir Edward challenged him, she entered the garden by a small gate at its foot, which was intended for the gardener's use. The lilacs had not much foliage, but in the dim light her dark, slim figure was indistinguishable behind them. Longingly and anxiously she looked up and down the garden. A mist was gathering over it; and there were no souls in sight except two felines lying in the flower bed.

In the pettiest character there are unfathomable depths; and Charlotte's, though yet undeveloped, was full of noble aspirations and singularly sensitive. As she stood there alone, watching and waiting in the dim light, she had a strange consciousness of some mysterious life ante-dating this life! And of a long-forgotten voice filling the ear-chambers of that spiritual body which was the celestial inhabitant of her natural body. “Harleigh, Harleigh,” she murmured; and she never doubted but that he heard her.

All her senses were keenly on the alert. Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps, and the measure was that of steady, powerful strokes. She turned her face southward, and watched. Like a flash Harleigh shot out of the shadow a few feet away.

“Charlotte!”

It was but a whisper, but she heard it. He opened his arms, and she flew to their shelter like a bird to her mate.

“My love, my love, my beautiful Charlotte! My true, good heart! Now, at last we can speak face to face. I have come to you—come at all risks for you.

Covered by her black mantle, without speaking, Charlotte bent her head and broke into sobs.

“What is it? What is wrong? “Harleigh asked, trying to see her face.

Charlotte wept without answering.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry. Tell me what’s troubling you,” he murmured earnestly, with a caress in his words and in his voice.

“Nothing, nothing. I was so frightened,” she stammered.

“Dearest, dearest, dearest!” Harleigh whispered.

“Oh, I ‘am a wicked creature—a poor wicked thing,” said she, with a desolate gesture.

“I love you so,” said Harleigh, simply, in a low voice.

“Oh, say that again,” she begged, ceasing to weep.

“I love you so, Charlotte.”

“I adore you—my soul, my darling.”

“If you love me, you must be calm.”

“I adore you, my dearest one.”

“Promise me that you won’t cry any more, then.”

“I adore you, I adore you, I adore you! “ Charlotte repeated, her voice heavy with emotion.

Harleigh did not speak. It seemed as if he could find no words fit for responding to such a passion. A cold gust of wind swept over them.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No: I feel fine” And Charlotte gave him her hand.

Her little hand, between those of Harleigh, was indeed not cold; it was burning.

“That is love,” said she.

He lifted the hand gently to his lips, and kissed it lightly. And thereupon, her eyes glowed in the darkness, like human stars of passion.

“My love is consuming me,” she went on, as if speaking to herself. “I can feel nothing else; neither cold, nor night, nor danger—nothing. I can only feel you. I want nothing but your love. I only want to live near you always—till death, and after death—always with you—always, always.”

“Ah me! “Sighed Harleigh, under his breath.

“What did you say?” she cried, eagerly.

“It was a sigh, dear one; a sigh over dream.”

“Don’t talk like that; don’t say that,” she exclaimed.

“Why shouldn’t I say it, Charlotte? The sweet dream that we have been dreaming together—any day we may have to wake from it. They aren’t willing that we should live together.”

“Who are—they?”

“He who can dispose of you as he wishes, your father.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes; today, I asked your father for your hand one last time.”

“What did father say?”

“He won’t consent.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have money, and I have none. Because you are noble, and I'm not.”

“But I adore you, Harleigh.”

“That matters little to your father.”

“He’s a barbarous man.”

“He’s a man,” said Harleigh, shortly.

“But it’s an act of cruelty that he’s committing,” she cried, lifting her hands towards heaven.

Harleigh did not speak.

“What did you answer? What did you plead? Didn’t you tell him again that you love me, and that I adore you, that I shall die if we are separated? Didn’t you describe our despair to him?”

“It was useless,” replied Harleigh, sadly.

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! You didn’t tell him of our love, of our happiness? You didn’t implore him, weeping? You didn’t try to move his hard old heart? But what sort of man are you; what sort of soul have you, that you let them sentence us to death like this? O Harleigh! O Harleigh! — What man have I been loving?”

“Charlotte, Charlotte!” Harleigh said, softly.

“Why didn’t you reason with him? Why didn’t you beg him? You’re young; you’re brave. How could father, an old man, with ice in his veins, how could he silence you?”

“Because your father was right, Charlotte,” Harleigh answered quietly.

“Oh, horror! Horrible sacrilege of love!” cried Charlotte, starting back.

In her despair she had unconsciously allowed her shawl to drop from her shoulders; it had fallen to the ground, at her feet. And now she stood up before him like a white, desolate phantom, impelled by sorrow to wander the earth on a quest that can never have an end.

But he had a desperate courage, though it forced him to break with the only woman he had ever loved.

“Mr. Morgan was right, my dearest Charlotte. I couldn't answer him. I’m a poor young fellow, without a penny.”

“Love is stronger than money.”

“I am a commoner, I have no title to give you.”

“Love is stronger than a title.”

“Everything is against our union, Charlotte.”

“Love is stronger than everything; stronger even than death.”

After this there befell a silence. But he felt that he must go to the bottom of the subject. He saw his duty, and overcame his pain.

“Think a little, Charlotte. Our souls were made for each other; but our persons are placed in such different circumstances, separated by so many things, such great distances, that not even a miracle could unite them. You accuse me of being a traitor to our love, which is our strength; but is it unworthy of us to conquer ourselves in such a pass? Charlotte, Charlotte, it is I who lose everything; and yet I advise you to forget this youthful fancy. You are young; you are beautiful; you are rich; you are noble, and you love me; yet it is my duty to say to you, forget me— forget me. Consider how great the sacrifice is, and see if it is not our duty, as two good people, to make it courageously. Charlotte, you will be loved again, better still, by a better man. You deserve the purest and the noblest love. You won’t be unhappy long. Life is still sweet for you. You weep, yes; you suffer; because you love me, because you are a dear, loving woman. But afterward, afterward you will find your path broad and flowery. It is I who will have nothing left; the light of my life will go out, the fire in my heart. But what does it matter? You will forget me, Charlotte.”

Charlotte, motionless, listened to him, uttering no word.

“Speak” Harleigh said, anxiously.

“I can’t forget you,” she answered.

“Try—make the effort. Let us try not to see each other.”

“No, no; it’s useless” she said, her voice dying on her lips.

“What do you wish us to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

A great impulse of pity, greater than his own sorrow, assailed him. He took her hands; they were cold now.

“What is the matter with you? Are you ill?”

She did not answer. She leant her head on his shoulder, and he caressed her rich brown hair.

“Charlotte, what is it?” Harleigh whispered, thrilled by a wild emotion.

“You don’t love me.”

“How can you doubt it?”

“If you loved me,” she began, sobbing, “you would not propose our separation. If you loved me you would not think such a separation possible. If you loved me it would be like death to you to forget and be forgotten. Harleigh, you don’t love me.”

“Charlotte, Charlotte I do love you.”

“Judge by me,” she went on, softly. “I’m a poor, weak woman; yet I resist, I struggle. And we would conquer, we would conquer, if you loved me.”

She turned away from him, to run off. But he detained her.

“What do you want to do?” Harleigh whispered.

“If I can't live with you, I must die,” she said, quietly, with her eyes closed, as if she were thus awaiting death.

“Don’t speak of dying, Charlotte. Don’t make my regret worse than it is. It’s I who have spoiled your life.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s I who have put bitterness into your sweet youth.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It’s I who have stirred you up to rebel against Mr. Morgan, against your mother, against the wish of all that love you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It is I who have called you from your sleep, who have exposed you to a thousand dangers. Think, if you were discovered here you would be lost.”

“It doesn't matter. Take me away.”

And Harleigh, in spite of the darkness, could see her fond eyes glowing.

“If you would only take me away,” she sighed.

“But where?”

“Anywhere—to any country. You will be my country.”

“Elope? A noble young girl—elope like an adventuress?”

“Love will secure my pardon.”

“I will pardon you; no others will.”

“You will be my family, my all. Take me away.”

“Charlotte, Charlotte, where should we find refuge? Without means, without friends, having committed a great fault, our life would be most unhappy.”

“No, no, no! Take me away. We’ll have a little time of poverty, after which I shall get possession of my fortune. Take me away.”

“And I shall be accused of having made a good speculation. No, no, Charlotte, it's impossible. I couldn’t bear such a shame.”

She started away from him, pushing him back with a movement of horror.

“What?” she cried. “What?” You would be ashamed? It’s your shame that preoccupies you? And mine? Honored, esteemed, loved, I care nothing for this honor, this love, and am willing to lose all, the respect of people, the affection of my relations—and you think of yourself! I could have chosen any one of a multitude of young men of my own rank, my own set, and I have chosen you because you were good and honest and clever. And you are ashamed of what bad people and stupid people may say of you! I—I brave everything. I lie, I deceive. I leave my bed at the dead of night, steal out during my parent’s sleep— out of my room, out of my house, like a guilty servant, so that they might call me the lowest of the low. I do all this to come to you; and you are thinking of speculations, of what the world will say about you. Oh, how strong you are, you men! How well you know your way; how straight you march, never listening to the voices that call to you, never feeling the hands that try to stop you— nothing, nothing, nothing! You are men, and have your honor to look after, your dignity to preserve, and your delicate reputation to safeguard. You are right, you are reasonable. And so we are fools; we are mad, who step out of the path of honor and dignity for the love of you—we poor silly creatures of our hearts! “

Harleigh had not attempted to protest against this outburst of violent language; but every word of it, hot with wrath, vibrant with sorrowful anger, stirred him to the quick, held him silenced, frightened, shaken by her voice, by the tumult of her passion. Now the fire which he had rashly kindled burnt up the whole beautiful, simple, stable edifice of his planning, and all he could see left of it was a smoking ruin. He loved her— she loved him; and though he knew it was wild and unreasonable. “Forgive me,” he said; “let us go away.”

She put her hand upon his head, and he heard her murmur, under her voice, “O Harleigh!”

They both felt that their life was decided, that they had played the grand stake of their existence.

There was a long pause; Charlotte was the first to break it.

“Listen, Harleigh. Before we part ways let me make one last attempt. You have spoken to father; you have told him that you love me, and that I adore you; but he didn’t believe you.”

“It is true. He smiled incredulously.”

“My father is a man who has seen a great deal of the world, who has been loved, who has loved; but of all that nothing is left to him. He is cold and solitary. He never speaks of love, but he believes in love. He’s a miserable, arid creature.”

“Can’t you first persuade your mother? There we’d have an affectionate ally” said Harleigh, tentatively.

“My mother is worse than father,” Charlotte answered, with a slight tremor of the voice; “I should never dare to depend on her.”

“You are afraid of her?”

“Please don’t speak of her, don’t speak of her. It’s a subject which pains me.”

“We need her.”

“No, no. mother will not help; she must not be involved; it would be dreadful if she were involved. I’d a thousand times rather speak to father. I will speak with him; he will believe our love.”

“And if he shouldn’t believe?”

“He will believe me.”

“But, Charlotte, Charlotte, if he shouldn’t?”

“Then—we will elope. But I ought to make this last attempt. Love will give me strength. Afterward—I will write to you, I will tell you everything. I daren’t come here anymore. It’s too dangerous. If anyone should see me it would be the ruin of all our hopes. I’ll write to you. You’ll arrange your own affairs in the meantime—as if you were at the point of death, as if you were going to leave this country never to return. You must be ready at any instant.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Surely?”

“Surely.”

“Without a regret?”

“Without a regret.” But his voice died on his lips.

“Thank you; you love me. We shall be so happy! You will see. Happier than anyone in the world!”

“So happy!” murmured Harleigh, faithful but sad.

“And may Heaven help us,” she concluded, fervently, putting out her hand to leave him.

He took her hand, and his pressure of it was a silent vow; but it was the vow of a friend, of a brother, simple and austere.

She moved slowly away, as if tired. He remained where he was, waiting a little before returning to his carriage. Not until some ten minutes had passed, during which he heard no sound, no movement, could he feel satisfied that Charlotte had safely reached her room.

Charlotte was exhausted by the great moral crisis through which she had passed. An immense burden seemed to bow her down, to make heavy her footsteps, as she groped her way through the silent house.

When she reached the sitting-room she stopped with sudden terror. A light was burning within the room.

Charlotte stood still a long while. She could hear a sound as of the pages of a book being turned. Mother was reading.

At last Charlotte pushed open the door, and crossed the threshold.

Lysbet Morgan looked at her, smiled haughtily, and did not speak.

Charlotte fell on her knees before her, crying, “Forgive me. For pity’s sake, mother, forgive me!”

But the Lysbet Morgan remained silent, white and cold and statue like, never ceasing to smile scornfully.

Charlotte lay on the floor, weeping. And the morning dawn found her there, weeping, weeping; while her mother slept peacefully in her own bed.

The letter ran thus:

“Dearest Love,—I have had my talk with father. What a man! His mere presence seemed to freeze me; it was enough if he looked at me, with his big clear blue eyes, for speech to fail me. There is something in his silence which frightens me; and when he speaks, his sharp voice quells me by its tone as well as by the hard things he says.

“And yet this morning when he came for breakfast, I was bold enough to speak to him of my love for you. I spoke simply, briefly, without trembling, though I could see that the courtesy with which he listened was ironical. Mother was present, silent and absent-minded as usual. She shrugged her shoulders indifferently, disdainfully, and then, getting up, left the room with that light footstep of hers which scarcely seems to touch the earth.

“Father smiled without looking at me, and his smile disconcerted me horribly, putting all my thoughts into confusion. But I felt that I ought to make the attempt—I ought. I had promised it to you, my darling, and to myself. My life had become insupportable; the more so because of my mother, who knew my secret, who tortured me with her contempt—the contempt of a person who has never any wrong—who might at any moment betray me, and tell the story of that balmy night.

“Father smiled, and didn’t seem to care in the least to hear what I had to say. I had the courage to tell him that I adored you, that I wished to live and die with you, that our love would suffice for our needs, that I would never marry anyone but you ; and finally, that, humbly, earnestly, I besought him, as my father, my guardian, my wisest parent, to give his consent to our marriage.

“He had listened, with his eyes cast down, giving no sign of interest. And now at the end he simply uttered a dry little “No.”

“And then took place a dreadful scene. I implored, I wept, I rebelled, I declared that my heart was free, that my person was free; and always I found that I was addressing a man of stone, hard and dry, with a will of iron, an utterly false point of view, a conventional standard based upon the opinion of the world, and a total lack of good feeling. My father denied that I loved you, denied that you loved me. His one word was No—no, no, no, from the beginning to the end of our talk. He made the most specious, extravagant, and cynical arguments to convince me that I was deceiving myself, that we were deceiving ourselves, and that it was his duty to oppose himself to our folly. Oh, how I wept! How I abased my spirit before that man, who reasoned in this cold strain! And how it hurts me now to think of the way I humiliated myself! I remember that while my love for you, dearest, was breaking out in wild utterance, I saw that he was looking admiringly at me, as in a theatre he might admire an actor who was cleverly feigning passion. He did not believe me; and two or three times my anger rose to such a point that I stooped to threaten him; I threatened to make a public scandal.

“The scandal will fall on the person who makes it,”he said severely, getting up, to cut short the conversation.

“He went away. In the drawing-room I heard him talking quietly with mother, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t left me broken-hearted.”

“My Harleigh, my darling Harleigh, my constant thought —it is then decided: we must run. We must fly. Here, like this, I should die. Anything will be better than this house; it is a prison. Anything is better than the galleys.

“I know that what I propose is very grave. According to the common judgment of mankind a young girl who elopes is everlastingly dishonored. In spite of the sanctity of marriage, suspicion never leaves her. I know that I am throwing away a great deal for a dream of love. But that is my strange and cruel destiny—the destiny which has given me a husband and taken away my youth; given me a heart eager for affection and cut me off from all affection; given me the dearest and at the same time the least loving father.”

“Who will weep for me here? No one. Whose hands will be stretched out to call me back? No one’s. What memories will I carry away with me? None. I am lonely and misunderstood; I am flying from a heart of ice and snow to the warm sunlight of love. You are the sun, you are my love. Don’t think I’ll of me. I am not like other girls. I am a poor soul, seeking a home, a family, a nest. I will be your wife, your sweetheart, your servant; I love you. A life passed in the atmosphere of your love will be an absolution for this fault that I am committing. I know, the world will not forgive me. But I despise people who can’t understand one's sacrificing everything for love. And those who do not understand it will pity me. I shall care for nothing but your love; you will forgive me because you love me.

“So, it is decided. On the third day after you receive this letter—that is, on Friday—leave your house as if you were going for a walk, and take a carriage to the garden. I shan’t be in the garden—that might arouse suspicions; but I shall be in the street across from the garden, awaiting your arrival. Find me there—come as swiftly as you can. We will meet there, and then we will leave for the big city, and sail for the East from there. I have some money. My entire savings for the past two years. Afterward— when this money is spent—well, we will work for our living.

“Remember, remember: Friday, at noon, leave your house. At half past one come to me at the garden. Don’t forget, for mercy’s sake. If you shouldn’t arrive at the right time, what would become of me, alone, at the garden, in anguish, devoured by anxiety?

“My sweetest love, this is the last letter you will receive from me. Why, as I write these words, does a feeling of sorrow come upon me, making me bow my head? The word last is always sad, whenever it is spoken. Will you always love me, even though far from your country, even though poor, even though unhappy? You won’t accuse me of having wronged you? You will protect me and sustain me with your love? You will be kind, honest, loyal. You will be all that I care for in the world.

“This is my last letter, it is true, but soon now our wondrous future will begin—our life together. Remember, remember where I shall wait for you.

“Charlotte,”