“Louis, to whom does that chateau belong?" I asked, as we checked our horses under the antique gateway, and my eye, following the sweep of the lawn, caught a glimpse of the mansion embosomed in a blooming paradise of flowers and grand old trees.
"To Mme. Arnheim, the loveliest widow in all France," Louis answered, with a sigh.
"And the cruelest, I fancy, or you would have been master here," I replied, interpreting the sigh aright, for my friend was a frequent captive to the gentle sex.
"Never its master, Gustave--I should always have remained a slave while Mathilde was there," he answered, with a moody glance through the iron gates that seemed to bar him from the heaven of his desire.
“Nay, Louis, come down from the clouds and tell me something of the Circe whose spells have ensnared you; come hither and sit on this little knoll where we have a better view of the chateau, and while our horses rest, you shall tell the story of your love, as the romances have it." And dismounting as I spoke, I threw myself upon the greensward opposite the flowery lawn that sloped up to the terraces whereon the chateau stood.
Louis flung himself beside me, saying abruptly, "There is no tale to tell, Gustave. I met Mathilde at the general's a year ago- loved her, of course, and of course without success. I say of course, for I am not the only one that has laid siege to her cold heart and got frostbitten in the attempt. She is a marble image, beautiful and cold, though there are rare flashes of warmth that win, a softness the enchants, which make her doubly dangerous. She lives yonder with her old duenna, MIle. D' Aubigny, caring little for the world, and seldom blessing it with her presence. She has made an Eden, but desires no Adam, and is content to dwell year after year solitary in her flowery nook like the English poet's Lady of Shalott.”
"And trust me, like that mysterious lady, she, too, will one day see--
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
Riding 'mong the barley-sheaves,
The sunlight dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flashing on his greaves
A bold Sir Lancelot.
She'll leave her web, and leave her loom,
She'll make three paces thro' the room,
She'll see the water-lilies bloom,
She'll see the helmet and the plume,
And follow down to Camelot,"
chanted I, making a free translation of the lines to suit my jest.
"There she is! Look, Gustave, look!" cried Louis, springing to his feet, with an eager gesture toward the lawn. I looked, almost expecting to behold the shadowy lady of the poet's song, so fully had the beauty of the spot enchanted me. A female figure was passing slowly down the broad steps that led from terrace to terrace into the shaded avenue. Silently I drew Louis into the deep shadow of the gateway, where we could look unperceived.
The slender, white-robed figure came slowly on, pausing now and then to gather a flower, or caress the Italian greyhound tripping daintily beside her. My interest was excited by my friend's words, and I looked eagerly for the beauty he extolled. She was beautiful--and when she paused in the shadow of a drooping acacia, and stood looking thoughtfully toward the blue lake shining in the distance, I longed to be an artist, that I might catch and keep the picture.
The sunshine fell upon her through the leaves, turning her hair, to gold, touching the soft bloom of her cheek, and rendering more fair the graceful arms half bared by the fresh wind tossing the acacia boughs. A black lace scarf was thrown about her, one end drawn over her blond hair, as the Spanish women wear their veils; a few brilliant flowers filled her hands, and gave coloring to her unornamented dress. But the chief charm of her delicate face was the eyes, so lustrous and dark, so filled with the soft gloom of a patient grief that they touched and won my heart by their mute loveliness.
We stood gazing eagerly, forgetting in our admiration the discourtesy of the act, till a shrill neigh from my horse startled us, and woke Mme. Arnheim from her reverie. She cast a quick glance down the avenue, and turning, was soon lost to us in the shelter of a winding path.
"Come, Louis, come away before we are discovered; it was a rude act, and I am ashamed of it," I cried, drawing him away, though my eye still watched the lover, hoping for another glance.
Louis lingered, saying bitterly, "Gustave, I envy
that dog the touch of her hand, the music of her voice, and proud as I
am,
would follow her like a hound, even though she chid me like one, for
I love her as I never loved before, and I have no hope."
Wondering no longer at the passion of my friend,
I made ho reply to his gloomy words, but turning away, we mounted, and
with a lingering look behind, departed silently. Louis returned to Paris;
I to my friend General Moreau, at whose hospitable home I was visiting
to recruit my health, shattered by long illness.
The general's kind lady, even amid her cares as hostess to a mansion full of friends, found time to seek amusement for her feeble guest, and when I had exhausted her husband's stock of literature, as if prompted by some good angel she proposed a visit to Mme. Arnheim to bespeak for me admission to her well-stored library.
Concealing my delight, I cheerfully accompanied Mme. Moreau, asking sundry questions as we drove along, concerning the fair recluse. There was a slight reserve in Madame's manner as she answered me.
"Mathilde has known much sorrow in her short life, mon ami, and seeks to forget the past in the calmness of the present. She seldom visits us except we are alone--then she comes often, for the general regards her with a fatherly affection; and in her society I feel no want of other friends."
“Has she been long a widow?” I asked, impelled by a most unmasculine curiosity to learn yet more.
"Seven years," replied Madame. “Her husband was a German -but I know little of her past life, for she seldom speaks of it, and I have only gathered from the few allusions she has made to it, that she married very young, and knew but little happiness as a wife."
I longed to ask yet more, and though courtesy restrained my tongue, my eyes betrayed me; Mme. Moreau, who had taken the invalid to her motherly heart, could not resist that mute appeal, for, as she drew up the window to shield me from the freshening breeze, she said smilingly:
"Ah, my child, I may repent this visit if I lead you into temptation, for boy as you seem to me, there is a man's heart in this slight frame of yours and a love of beauty shining in these hollow eyes. I cannot satisfy you, Gustave--she came hither but two years ago, and has lived secluded. from the world, regardless of many solicitations to quit her solitude and widowhood. Your friend Louis t was one of her most earnest suitors, but, like the rest, only procured his own banishment, for Mathilde only desires friends and not lovers. Therefore, let me warn you, if you desire the friendship of this charming woman, beware of love. But see, we have arrived, I so bid adieu to ennui for a while at least."
Up the wide steps and over the green terraces we passed into a room whose chief charm was its simplicity; no costly furniture encumbered it, no tasteless decorations marred it; a few rare pictures enriched its walls, and a few graceful statues looked out from flowery nooks. Light draperies swayed to and fro before the open casements, giving brief glimpses of bloom and verdure just with- out. Leafy shadows flickered on the marble floor, and the blithe notes of birds were the only sounds that broke the sunny silence brooding over the whole scene.
Well as I fancied I remembered Mme. Arnheim, I was struck anew with the serene beauty of her face as she greeted us with cordial courtesy.
A rapt pity seemed to fill the pensive eyes as Madame spoke of my long illness, and her whole manner was full of interest, and a friendly wish to serve that captivated me and made me bless the pallid face that wore so sweet a pity for me.
We visited the library, a fascinating place to me, full of rare old books, and the soft gloom of shade and silence so dear to a student's heart. A few graceful words made me welcome here, and I promised myself many blissful hours in a spot so suited to my taste and fancy.
"Come now to the chapel, where M. Novaire will find another friend whose sweet discourse may have power to beguile some hours of their slow flight," said Mme. Arnheim, as she led the way into a little chapel rich in Gothic arches and stained windows, full of saintly legends that recalled the past.
"Ah, yes, here is indeed a treasure for you, Gustave--I had forgotten this," said Mme. Moreau, as our hostess led me to a fine organ, and with a smile invited me to touch its tempting keys.
With a desire to excel never experienced before, I obeyed, and filled the air with surges of sweet sound that came and went like billows breaking melodiously on the strand. Mme. Arnheim listened with drooping eyes and folded hands; and as I watched her standing in the gloom with one mellow ray of sunlight falling on her golden hair, she seemed to my excited fancy a white-robed spirit with the light of heaven shining on its gentle head.
The beautiful eyes full of tender dew as they met mine in thanking me, and a certain deference seemed to mark her manner, as if the music I had power to create were a part of myself, and still lingered about me when the organ keys were mute.
Returning toward the chateau, we found a dainty little feast spread on a rustic table in the shadow of a group of foreign trees. No servants appeared, but Mme. Arnheim served us herself with a cordial ease that rendered doubly sweet the light wines she poured for us, and the nectarines she gathered from the sunny wall.
It was a new and wonderfully winning thing .to me to see a creature beautiful and gifted--so free from affectation, so unconscious, of self, so childlike, yet so full of all the nameless charms of gracious womanhood. To an imaginative temperament like mine it was doubly dangerous, and I dreaded to depart.
I sat apparently listening to the low dash of the fountain, but eye, ear, and mind were all intent on her; watching the pliant grace of her slender form, listening to the silvery music of her voice, and musing on the changeful beauty of her countenance. As I thus regarded her, my eye was caught by the sole ornament she wore, an ornament so peculiar and so ill-suited to its gentle wearer that my attention was arrested by it.
As she refilled my glass, a bracelet slipped from her arm to her wrist, and in that brief moment I had examined it attentively, It was of steel, delicately wrought, clasped by a golden lock, the tiny key of which hung by a golden chain. A strange expression stirred the sweet composure of her face as she saw the direction of my glance, and with a sudden gesture she thrust the trinket out of sight.
But as her hands moved daintily among the fruit in serving us, the bracelet often fell with a soft clash about her slender wrist, and each time she thrust it back, till her white arm was reddened with the marks of its slight links.
It seemed a most unfitting ornament, and as I watched her closely, I fancied some sad memory was connected with it, for the sight of it seemed painful, and all notice irksome to her. Ah, I little knew to what a fate it fettered her!
As we stood upon the terrace, awaiting the carriage, I turned from the chateau with its airy balconies without, and its inviting apartments within, to the blooming scene before me, exclaiming with enthusiasm, "This is the loveliest spot in France! A perfect picture of a peaceful, happy home. Ah, madame, many must envy you this tranquil retreat from the cares and sorrows of the world."
Mme. Arnheim's dark eyes wandered over the fair home I admired, and again I saw that strange expression flit across her face, but now more vividly than before. Pain, abhorrence, and despair seemed to sit for an instant on those lovely features; a swift paroxysm of mute anguish seemed to thrill through her whole figure; and I saw the half-hidden hands clenched as if controlling some wild impulse with an iron will. Like a flash it came and went, and with a long, deep sigh she answered slowly, "Do not envy me, for you have all the world before, free to choose a home where fancy leads. This is my world, and is often wearisome for all its loveliness."
There was a mournful cadence in her voice that saddened me, and a black shadow seemed to fall across the sunny landscape as I listened. The carriage came, and when she turned to say adieu, no trace of gloom marred the sweet serenity of her pale countenance.
"Come often and come freely, Monsieur Novaire," she said, adding, with a smile that would have won from me any boon I had the power to bestow, "My books, my organ, and my gardens are most sincerely at your service, and I only claim the right to listen when you fill my little chapel with the melody I love so well."
I could only thank her in words that sounded very poor and cold, remembering the sweetness of her own, and we drove away, leaving her in the shadow of the hall, still smiling her adieu.
Frankly as the favor had been granted, I accepted it, and went often to the chateau which soon became a "Castle Dangerous," and its fair mistress the one beloved object in the world to me. Day after day I went to muse in the quiet library, or to soothe my restless spirit with the music of the chapel organ. Mme. Arnheim I but seldom saw until I learned the spell which had power to lure her to my longing eyes. At the chateau she was the stately hostess, always I courteous and calm, but when I sat alone in the chapel, filling the air with the plaintive or triumphal melody, I never failed to see a shadow gliding past the open door, or hear the light fall of a step along the echoing aisles, and with an altered mien she came to listen as I spoke to her in the tenderest strains heart could devise or hand execute.
This filled me with a sense of power I exulted in, for, remembering Mme. Moreau's warning words, "If you desire Mathilde's friendship, beware of love," I concealed my growing passion, and only gave it vent in the music that lured her to my side, and spoke to her in accents that never could offend. Slowly the coldness of her manner vanished, and though still chary of her presence, she came at last to treat me as a friend. At rare intervals some sudden interest in the book I read, some softened mood produced by the song I sang, the strain I played, gave me glimpses of a nature so frank and innocent, and a heart so deep and tender, that the hope of winning it seemed vain, and I reproached myself with treachery in accepting thus the hospitalities of her home and the blessing of her friendship, while so strong a love burned like a hidden fire in my breast.
Calmly the days flowed by, and nothing marred my peace till a slight incident filled me with restless doubts and fears. Wandering one day among the gardens, led by the desire of meeting Mathilde, I struck into an unfrequented path which wound homeward round a wing of the chateau which I had never visited and which I had believed unused. Pausing on the hillside to examine it, my eye fell on an open window opposite the spot where I was standing, and just within it I beheld Mathilde sitting with bent head and averted face. Eager to catch a glimpse of that beloved countenance, I stood motionless, screened by a drooping tree. As I peered further into the shaded room a jealous pang shot through me and my heart stood still, for in the high carved chair beside Mathilde I saw the arm and shoulder of a man. With straining eyes I watched it, and set my teeth fiercely when I saw the arm encircle her graceful neck, while the hand played idly with a tress of sunny hair I would have given worlds to touch. The arm was clothed in the sleeve of a damask robe de chambre, somber yet rich, and the hand seemed delicate and white; its motions were languid and I heard the murmur of a low voice often broken by faint laughter.
I could not move, but stood rooted to the spot till Mathilde dropped the curtain, and a moment after her voice rose soft and sweet, singing to that unknown guest, then I turned and dashed into the wood like one possessed.
From that day my peace was gone, for though Mathilde was unchanged, between us there always seemed to rise the specter of that hidden friend or lover, and I could not banish the jealous fears that tortured me. I knew from Mme. Moreau that Mathilde had no relatives in France, and few friends beside the general and his wife. The unknown was no cousin, no brother then, and I brooded over the mystery in vain. A careless inquiry of a servant if there were any guests at the chateau received a negative reply, given with respectful brevity and a quick, scrutinizing glance- while, as he spoke, down through hall and corridor floated the sound of Mathilde's voice singing in that far-off room.
Once more, and only once, I watched that window, waiting long in vain, but the curtain was thrown back at length, and then I saw Mathilde pacing to and fro with clasped hands and streaming eyes, as if full of some passionate despair; while the low laughter, I remember well, seemed mocking her great sorrow.
She came to the casement and flung it wide, leaning far out, as if to seek consolation in the caressing breath of the balmy air and the soft sighing of the pines. As she stood thus, I saw her strike her fettered arm a cruel blow upon the strong stone balcony enclosing the window--a blow which left it bruised; though she never heeded it, but turned again into the room, as if in answer to some quick command.
I never looked again--for whatever secret sin or sorrow was there concealed, I had no right to know it, for by no look or word did Mathilde ever seek my sympathy or aid; but with a growing paleness on her cheek, a deepening sadness in her eye, she met me with unaltered kindness, and listened when I played as if she found her only solace there.
So the summer passed, and silently the hidden passion that possessed me did its work, till the wan shadow that once mocked me from my mirror was changed into the likeness of an ardent, healthful man, clear of eye, strong of arm, and light of foot. They said it was the fresh air of the hills; I knew it was the healing power of a beloved presence and the magic of an earnest love.
On one soft September day, I had wandered with Mathilde into the deep ravine that cleft a green hill not far from the chateau. We had sat listening to the music of the waterfall as it mingled pleasantly with our conversation, till a sudden peal of thunder warned us home. Shut in by the steep cliffs, the gathering clouds had been unobserved until the tempest was close at hand. We hastily wound our way up from below, and paused a moment to look out upon the wildly beautiful scene. Standing thus, there came a sudden glare before my eyes, followed by a deafening crash that brought me faint and dizzy to the ground. A flood of rain revived me, and on recovering I was conscious that Mathilde's arms encircled me, and my head was pillowed on her bosom; I felt the rapid beating of her heart, and heard the prayers she was murmuring as she held me thus. Her mantle was thrown about me, as if to shield me from the storm, and shrouded in its silken folds I lay as if in a dream, with no fear of thunderbolt or lightning flash--conscious only of the soft arms enfolding me, the faint perfume of her falling hair, and the face so near my own that every whispered word fell clearly on my ear.
How long I should have remained thus I cannot tell, for warmer drops than rain fell on my cheek and recalled me to myself. Putting aside the frail screen she had placed between me and the sudden danger. I staggered to my feet, unmindful of my dizzy brain and still half-blinded eyes.
"Not dead! Not dead! Thank God for that" was the glad cry that broke from Mathilde's lips, as I stood wild-eyed and pale before her. "0 Gustave, are you unscathed by that awful bolt which I thought had murdered you before me?"
I reassured her, and felt that it was now my turn to shelter and protect, for she clung to me trembling and tearful, so changed that the calm, cold Mme. Arnheim of the fair chateau and the brave, tenderhearted creature on the cliff seemed two different women, but both lovely and beloved.
Swiftly and silently we hurried home, and when I would have quitted her she detained me with gentle force, saying, "You must remain my guest tonight, I cannot suffer you to leave my roof in such a storm as this."
Old Mlle. D' Aubigny bustled to and fro, and after refreshment and repose left us together by the cheerful firelight on the library hearth.
Mathilde sat silent, as if wrapped in thought, her head bent on her hand. I sat and looked at her till I forgot all but my love, and casting prudence to the winds, spoke out fervently and fast.
"Mathilde," I said, "deal frankly with me, and tell me was it fear or love that stirred this quiet heart of yours, and spoke in words of prayerful tenderness when you believed me dead? Forgive me if I pain you, but remembering that moment of unlooked-for bliss, I can no longer keep the stern silence I have imposed upon myself so long. I have loved you very truly all these months of seeming coldness, have haunted this house not in search of selfish ease, but to be near you, to breathe the air you breathed, to tread the ground you trod, and to sun myself in the light of your beloved presence. I should have been silent still, knowing my unworthiness, but as I lay pillowed on your bosom, through the tumult of the storm, a low voice from your heart seemed to speak to mine, saying 'I love you.' Tell me, dearest Mathilde, did I hear aright?"
An unwonted color dawned upon her cheek, a world of love and longing shone upon me in her glance, while a change as beautiful as it was brief passed over her, leaving in the stately woman's place a tender girl, whose heart looked from her eyes, and made her broken words more full of music than the sweetest song.
"Gustave, you heard aright; it was not fear that spoke." She stretched her hand to me, and clasping it in both my own I bent to kiss it with a lover's ardor--when between my eager lips and that fair hand dropped the steel bracelet with a sharp metallic sound.
With a bitter cry, Mathilde tore herself from my hold, and covering up her face shrank away, as if between us there had risen up a barrier visible to her alone.
"Mathilde, what is it? What power has this bauble, to work such a change as this? See! It is off and gone forever; for this hand is mine now, and shall wear no fetter but the golden one I give it," I cried, as kneeling on the cushion at her feet I repossessed myself on her passive hand, and unlocking the hateful bracelet, flung it far away across the room.
Apparently unconscious of my presence, Mathilde sat with such mute anguish and despair in every line of her drooping figure that a keen sense of coming evil held me silent at her feet, waiting some look or word from her.
A sharp struggle must have passed within her, for when she lifted up her face, all light and color had died out, and the whole countenance was full of some stern resolve, that seemed to have chilled its beauty into stone. Silently she motioned me to rise, and with a statelier mien than I had ever seen her wear, she passed down the long room to where the ominous steel bracelet glittered in the light. Silently she raised it, reclasped it on her arm, then with rapid motion rent away the tiny key and flung it into the red embers glowing on the hearth.
A long, shuddering sigh heaved her bosom as it vanished, a sound more eloquent of patient despair than the bitterest tears that ever fell. Coming to my side, she looked into my eyes with such love and pity shining through the pale determination of her face that I would have folded her to my breast, but with a swift gesture of that fettered arm she restrained me, saying slowly as if each word wrung her heart:
"God forgive me that I could forget the solemn duty this frail chain binds me to. Gustave, I never meant to wrong you thus, and will atone for it by giving you the confidence never bestowed on any human being. Come and see the secret anguish of my life, the haunting specter of my home, the stern fate which makes all love a bitter mockery, and leaves me desolate."
Like a shadow she flitted from me, beckoning me to follow. The storm still raged without, but all was bright arid still within as we passed through gallery and hall into that distant wing of the chateau. The radiance of shaded lamps fell on the marble floors- graceful statues gleamed among the flowers, and the air was full of perfume, but I saw no beauty anywhere, for between me and the woman whom I loved an unknown phantom seemed to stand, and its black shadow darkened all the world to me.
Mathilde paused in a silent corridor at length, and looking back at me, whispered imploringly, "Gustave, do not judge me till I have told you all." Then before I could reply, she passed before me into a dimly lighted room, still beckoning me to follow.
Bernhardt, an old servant whom I had seldom seen, rose as she entered, and at a motion from Mathilde bade me be seated, Mechanically I obeyed, for all strength seemed to desert me as I looked upon the scene before me.
On the floor, clothed in the dress I well remembered, sat a man playing with the childish toys that lay around him. The face would have been a young and comely one, were it not for the awful blight which had fallen on it; the vacant gaze of his hollow eyes, the aimless movements of his feeble hands, and the unmeaning words he muttered to himself, all told the fearful loss of that divine gift--reason.
Mathilde pointed to the mournful wreck, saying, with a look of desolation which few human faces wear, "Gustave, am I not a widow?"
Then I knew that I saw the husband of my Mathilde--and he an idiot!
A brief sensation of mingled disgust, despair, and rage possessed me, for I knew how powerless I was to free the heart I coveted from this long slavery; one thought of Mathilde recalled me, one glance into those eyes so full of pain and passion banished every feeling but a tender pity for her cruel lot, and a redoubled love and admiration for the patient strength which had borne this heavy weight of care all those years. I could not speak, I only took that fettered hand and kissed it reverently.
The imbecile (I cannot say husband) rose, when he saw Mathilde, and creeping to her side filled her hands with toys, still smiling that vacant smile, so pitiful to see in eyes that have shone unclouded upon such a wife, still muttering those senseless words so dreadful to hear, from lips that should have spoken with a man's wisdom and a husband's tenderness to her.
My heart ached, as I saw that young, fair woman sit near that wreck of manhood, soothing his restless spirit with the music of her voice, while his wandering hands played with the one ornament she wore, that bracelet whose slight links were so strong a chain to bind her to a bitter duty, so sorrowful a badge of slavery to a proud soul like hers.
Sleep fell suddenly on that poor, wandering mind, and with a few words to old Bernhardt, Mathilde led me back into the quiet room we left.
I sank into a chair, and dropping my head upon my folded arms, sat silent, knowing now what lay before us.
The storm rolled and crashed above our heads, but in the silence of the room, the voice I loved so well spoke softly at my side, as Mathilde told the story of her life.
"Gustave, I was an orphan, and my stern guardian found his ward an irksome charge. He looked about him for some means of relief, and but two appeared, marriage or a convent. I was but sixteen then, blithe of heart, and full of happy dreams; the convent seemed a tomb to me, and any fate a blessed one that saved me from it. I had a friend--heaven forgive her the wrong she did me--and this friend influenced my guardian's choice, and won for me the husband you have seen. She knew the fearful malady that cursed him even then, but bade him conceal it from my guardian and me. He loved me, and obeyed her, and thus she led me into that dark web of woe where I have struggled all these years.
"I had innocently won a heart that she coveted, and though I did not listen to that lover's suit, he was lost to her, and for that she hated me. I knew nothing of her passion then, and trusted her implicitly. We were in Germany, and I, a stranger in a strange land, followed where she pointed, and so walked smilingly to my doom. Reinhold Arnheim was a gentle but weakhearted man, guided by his cousin Gertrude, my false friend. He loved me with all the ardor of his feeble nature, and I, seeing a free future before me, thought I gave him my heart, when it was but a girlish affection for the man who saved me from the fate I dreaded.
"My guardian's last illness coming suddenly upon him, he desired to see me safe in a husband's house, before he left me forever. I was married, and he died, believing me a happy wife--I, a child, betrothed one little month. "Nine years ago, that marriage mockery took place, but to me it seems a lifetime full of pain. Ah! I should have been a happier woman in a nun's narrow cell than a wife worse than widowed, with a secret grief like this!" Mathilde paused, and for a moment nothing broke the silence but the wind, as it swept moaning away across the lake.
"Let me pass lightly over the two years that followed that unhappy bridal," she continued hurriedly. "I was frantic with indignation and dismay when I learned the secret Gertrude's wickedness and Reinhold's weakness had withheld from me. I had no friends to flee to, no home but my husband's, and too proud to proclaim the wrongs for which I knew no redress, I struggled to conceal my anguish, and accept my fate.
"My husband pleaded with me to spare him, the victim of a hereditary curse. I knew he loved me, and pity for his misfortune kept me silent. For years, no one knew the secret of his malady but Gertrude, his physician, Bernhardt, and myself.
"We seemed a happy pair, for Reinhold was truly kind, and I played my part well, proud to show my false friend that her cruel blow had failed to crush me.
"Gustave, tongue can never tell how I suffered--how I prayed for strength and patience; love would have made it easier to bear, but when those years of trial made a woman of the careless girl, and looking into my heart for some affection to sustain me, I found only pity and aversion, then I saw the error I had committed in my ignorance--I never loved him, and this long suffering has been my punishment for that great sin. Heaven grant it may atone!
"Gustave, I tried to be a patient wife--I tried to be a cheerful companion to poor Reinhold in his daily life, a brave comforter in those paroxysms of sharp agony which tortured him in secret--but all in vain. I could not love him, and I came at length to see my future as it stretched before me black and barren.
"Tied for life, to a man whose feeble mind left no hope of comforting companionship in our long pilgrimage, and with whom duty, unsweetened by affection, grew to a loathsome slavery--what wonder that I longed to break away and flee from my prison by the only outlet left, to my despair?
"I wavered long, but resolved at length to end the life now grown too burdensome to bear. I wrote a letter to my husband, asking forgiveness for the grief I caused him, and freely pardoning the great wrong he had done me. No reproaches embittered my last words, but tenderly and truthfully I showed him all my heart, and said farewell forever.
"But before I could consummate my sinful purpose, I was seized with what I fondly hoped would prove a mortal illness, and while lying unconscious of all grief and care, Reinhold found and read that letter. He never told me the discovery he had made, but hid the wound and loved me still--never kinder than when he watched beside me with a woman's patient tenderness, as I slowly and reluctantly came back to life and health again.
"Then when he deemed me strong enough to bear the shock, he kissed me fondly one sad day, and going out with dogs and gun, as if to his favorite sport, at nightfall was brought home a ghastly spectacle.
"To all but his old servant it seemed a most unhappy accident, but in the silence of the night, as we watched beside what we believed to be his dying bed, old Bernhardt told me, that from broken words and preparations made in secret, he felt sure his master had gone out that day intending never to return alive--choosing to conceal his real design under the appearance of a sad mischance, that no remorse might poison my returning peace.
"With tears the old man told his fears, and when I learned that Reinhold had read that fatal letter, I could no longer doubt. It was a sad and solemn sight to me--for sitting in the shadow of death, I looked back upon my life, and seeing clearly where I had failed in wifely duty and in Christian patience, I prayerfully devoted my whole future to the atonement of the wrong I had committed against God, my husband, and myself.
"Reinhold lived, but never knew me again, never heard my entreaties for pardon, or my tender assurances of pity and affection--all could truly offer even then. The grief my desperate resolve had caused him and the shock of that rash act were too much for his weak body and weak brain, and he rose up from that bed of suffering the mournful wreck you see him now.
"Gustave, I have kept my vow, and for seven long years have watched and guarded him most faithfully. I could not bear the pity of those German friends, and after wandering far and wide in search of health for my unhappy husband, I came hither unknown and friendless, bringing my poor husband to a quiet home, where no rude sound could disturb, no strange face make afraid. I was a widow in the saddest sense of that sad word, and as such I resolved henceforward to be known.
"The few who knew of the existence of the shadow you have seen believe him to be my brother, and I have held my peace, making a secret sorrow of my past, rather than confess the weakness and wickedness of those most near to me; I may have erred in this, but wronging no one, I hoped to win a little brightness to my life, to find a brief oblivion of my grief.
"I fled from the world; seeking to satisfy the hunger of my heart with friendship, and believing myself strong to resist temptation, I welcomed you and tasted happiness again, unconscious of love's subtle power, till it was too late to recall the heart you made your own. Gustave, I shunned you, I seemed cold and calm, when longing to reply to the unspoken passion shining in your glance; I felt my unseen fetters growing too heavy to be borne, and my life of seeming peace a mockery whose gloom appalled and tortured me.
"Heaven knows I struggled to be firm, and but for that unguarded moment of today, when death seemed to have bereft me of the one joy I possessed, I should still have the power to see you go unsaddened by a hopeless love, unburdened by a tale of grief like this. O my friend, forgive and pity me! Help me to bear my burden as I should, and patiently accept the fate heaven sends."
We had sat motionless, looking into each other's eyes as the last words fell from Mathilde's lips; but as she ceased and bent her head as if in meek submission, my heart overflowed. I threw myself before her, and striving to express the sympathy that mingled with my love, could only lay my throbbing forehead on her knee, and weep as I had not wept for years.
I felt her light touch on my head, and seemed to gather calmness from its soothing pressure.
"Do not banish me, Mathilde," I said, "let me still be near you with a glance of tenderness, a word of comfort for your cheer. There is a heavy shadow on your home. Let me stay and lighten it with the love that shall be warm and silent as the summer sunshine on your flowers."
But to my prayer there came a resolute reply, though the face that looked into my own was eloquent with love and grief.
"Gustave, we must part at once, for while my husband lives I shall guard his honorable name from the lightest breath, You were my friend, and I welcomed you--you are my lover, and henceforth are banished. Pardon me, and let us part unpledged by any vow. You are free to love whenever you shall weary of the passion that now rules your heart. I am bound by a tie which death alone can sever; till then I wear this fetter, placed here by a husband's hand nine years ago; it is a symbol of my life, a mute monitor of duty, strong and bright as the hope and patience which now come to strengthen me. I have thrown away the key, and its place is here till this arm lies powerless, or is stretched free and fetterless to clasp and hold you mine forever!"
"Give me some charm, some talisman, to keep my spirit brave and cheerful through the separation now before us, and then I will go," I cried, as the chapel clock tolled one, and the last glimmer died upon the hearth.
Mathilde brushed the hair back from my eager face, and gazed long and earnestly into my eyes, then bent and left a kiss upon my forehead, saying, as she rose, "It is a frank, true countenance, Gustave, and I trust the silent pledge it gives me. God keep you, dearest friend, and grant us a little happiness together in the years to come!"
I held her close for one moment, and with a fervent
blessing turned to go, but pausing on the threshold, I looked back. The
storm had died, and through the black clouds broke the moon with sudden
radiance. A silvery beam lit that beloved face, and seemed to lure me back.
I started to return, but Mathilde's clear voice cried farewell; and on
the arm that waved a last adieu, the steel bracelet glittered like a warning
light. Seeing that, I knew there was no return. I went out into the night
a better and a happier man for having known the blessedness and pain of
love.
Three years went by, but my hidden passion never wavered, never died--and although I wandered far and wide over the earth, I found no spot so beautiful to me as the sunny chateau in its paradise of flowers, and no joy so deep as the memory of Mathilde.
I never heard from her, for, though I wrote as one friend to another, no reply was returned. I lamented this, but could not doubt the wisdom of her silence, and waited patiently for my recall.
A letter came at length, not to welcome, but to banish me forever. Mathilde had been a widow, and was a wife again. Kindly she told me this, speaking of my love as a boyish passion, of her own as a brief delusion--asking pardon for the pain she feared to give, and wishing for me a happiness like that she had now won.
It almost murdered me, for this hope was my life. Alone in the Far East, I suffered, fought, and conquered, coming out from that sharp conflict with no faith, no hope, no joy, nothing but a secret love and sorrow locked up in my wounded heart to haunt me like a sad ghost, till some spell to banish it was found.
Aimlessly, I journeyed to and fro till led by the longing to again see familiar faces, I returned to Paris and sought out my old friend Moreau. He had not left the city for his summer home, and desiring to give him a glad surprise, I sprang up the stairs unannounced and entered his saloon.
A lady stood alone in the deep window, gazing thoughtfully upon the busy scene below. I knew the slender figure draped in white, the golden hair, the soft dark eyes, and with a sharp pang at my heart, I recognized Mathilde--more lovely and serene than I ever.
She turned, but in the bronzed and bearded man did not recognize the youth she parted from, and with a glance of quiet wonder waited for me to speak. I could not, and in a moment it was needless, for eye spoke to eye, heart yearned to heart, and she remembered. A sudden color flushed her cheek as she leaned toward me with dilated eyes; the knot of Parmese violets upon her bosom rose and fell with her quickened breath, and her whole frame thrilled with eagerness as she cried joyfully, "Gustave! Come back to meet me at last!"
I stirred to meet her, but on the arms outstretched to greet me no steel bracelet glittered, and recollecting all my loss! clasped my hands before my face, crying mournfully, "0 Mathilde, how can you welcome me, when such a gulf has parted us forever? How smile upon the friend whose love you have so wronged, whose life you have made so desolate?"
A short silence ensued, and then Mathilde's low voice replied, still tenderly, but full of pain, "Gustave, there is some mystery in this deal frankly with me, and explain how I have wronged, how made you desolate?"
"Are you not married and am I not bereft of the one dear gift I coveted? Did not your own hand part us and give the wound that still bleeds in my faithful heart, Mathilde?" I asked, with a glance of keen inquiry.
"Gustave, I never doubted your truth, though years passed, and I received no answer to the words of cheer I sent to comfort your long exile--then why doubt mine? Some idle rumor has deceived you, for I am now free--free to bestow the gift you covet, free to reward your patient love, if it still glows as warmly as mine."
Doubt, fear, and sorrow fled at once; I cared for nothing, remembered nothing, desired nothing, for Mathilde was free to love me still. That was rapture enough for me, and drank freely of the cup of joy offered, heedless of unanswered doubts, unraveled mysteries and fears.
A single hour lifted me from gloom and desolation to blessedness again, and in the light of that returning confidence and peace all that seemed dark grew clear before our eyes. Mathilde had written often, but not one word from her had reached me, and not one line of mine had gladdened her. The letter telling of her marriage she had never penned, but knew now to whom she owed the wrong; and pale with womanly indignation told me that the enemy who had schemed to rob us of our happiness was Louis my friend.
He had met her again in Paris, and the passion, smothered for a long time, blazed up afresh. He never spoke of it in words lest he should again be banished, but seemed content to be her friend, though it was evident he hoped to win a warmer return in time.
Poor Reinhold died the year we parted, and was laid to rest in the quiet chapel where sunlight and silence brooded over his last sleep. Mathilde had written often to recall me, but when no reply to those fond missives came, she ceased, and waited hopefully for my return. Louis knew of my friendship with Mathilde, and must have guessed our love, for by some secret means he had thus intercepted letters, which would have shortened my long exile, and spared us both much misery and doubt.
More fully to estrange us he had artfully conveyed through other lips the tidings of my falsehood to Mathilde, hoping to destroy her faith in me and in her sorrow play the comforter and win her to himself. But she would not listen to the rumors of my marriage, would not doubt my truth, or accept the friendship of a man who could traduce a friend.
But for that well-counterfeited letter I too had never doubted, never suffered, and my ireful contempt rose fiercely as I listened to these proofs of Louis's treachery and fraud.
He was absent on some sudden journey, and ere he could return I won Mathilde to give me the dear right to make her joys and griefs my own. One soft, spring morning we went quietly away into a neighboring church, and returned one in heart and name forever.
No one but our old friends the general and his wife knew the happy truth, for Mathilde dreaded the gossip of the world, and besought me not to proclaim my happiness till we were safe in our quiet home, and I obeyed, content to know her mine.
The crimson light of evening bathed the tranquil face beside me as we sat together a week after our marriage, full of that content which comes to loving mortals in those midsummer days of life--when suddenly a voice we both remembered roused us from our happy reverie, Mathilde's eye lit, her slender figure rose erect, and as I started with a wrathful exclamation on my lips, she held me fast, saying, in the tones that never failed to sway me to her will, "Let me deal with him, for he is not worthy of your sword, Gustave; let me avenge the wrong he did us, for a woman's pity will wound deeper than your keenest thrust; promise me, dearest Gustave, that you will control yourself for love of me, remembering all the misery you might bring down upon us both!"
She clung to me with such fond entreaty that I promised, and standing at her side endeavored to be calm, though burning with an indignation nothing but the clasp of that soft hand had power to restrain.
Singing a blithe song Louis entered, but with arrested step and half-uttered greeting paused upon the threshold, eyeing us with a glance of fire, and struggling to conceal the swift dismay that drove the color from his cheek, the power from his limbs.
Mathilde did not speak, and with an effort painful
to behold, Louis regained composure; for some sudden purpose seemed to
give him courage and sent a glance of triumph to his eye, as with a mocking
smile he bowed to the stately woman at my side, saying with malicious emphasis,
"I come to present my compliments to Mme. Arnheim on my return from Germany,
from
Frankfort, her old home--and I bear to her the tenderest greetings
from our fair friend Mme. Gertrude Steinburg. Will Madame accept as gladly
as I offer them?"
"A fit messenger from such a friend?" icily replied
Mathilde. With a quick perception of her meaning, and a warning pressure
of my clenched hand, Louis threw himself into a seat, and with an assumption
of friendly ease, belied by the pallor of his
countenance and the fierce glitter of the eye, continued with feigned
sympathy-determined to leave no bitter word unsaid:
"She is a charming woman, and confided much to me
that filled me with surprise and grief. What desolation will be carried
to the hearts of Madame's many lovers when they learn that she is no lovely
widow, but a miserable wife bound to an idiotic
husband--how eagerly will they shun the fair chateau where Madame guards
the secret shame and sorrow of her life, and how
enviable must be the feelings of my friend when he discovers the deception
practiced upon him and the utter hopelessness of
his grand passion."
His keen eye was upon me as he spoke, and seeing
the conflict which raged within me, mistook it for dismay and fear. A
sardonic laugh broke from his lips, and before Mathilde could reply,
he said, "I little thought, when listening to the cheerful story Mme. Steinburg
told with such grace, how speedy and agreeable a use I should have power
to make of it, Believe me, madame, I sympathize with your misfortunes,
and admire the art which renders you all ice to one lover, and all fire
to another."
Mathilde dropped my hand, and stood with folded arms, lofty pride in her mien, calm pity in her eye, and cool contempt upon her lips, as she replied in clear, cold tones:
"I am not what you think me, sir, and your generous
sympathy comes too late. I was a widow; for the husband whose
misfortune should have made his name sacred even to you died three
years ago--I am wife, happy in the love doubt could
not estrange or time destroy. Your dark designs have failed, and for
every year of needless separation we forgive you, since it renders our
affection doubly strong, our union doubly blessed. Your absence at Mme.
Steinburg's side removed the only barrier that could have kept us still
asunder. Let me thank both of those false friends for the one kind deed
that crowned our happiness. Gustave has left your punishment to me. See!
It is this."
With a gesture of impassioned grace she threw herself
upon my breast, and looking out from that fond shelter with a countenance
all radiant with love, and pride, and joy, she cried, "Go! We pity you,
and from the fullness of our bliss we pardon
all."
She had avenged us well, for in the glance my proud eyes met, I read passion, humiliation, and despair, as Louis gazed upon us for a moment, and then vanished, the last cloud that dimmed our sky.
Paris lay behind us, and we stood on the green terrace
looking over the fair domain now so full of peace and promise to our
eyes. Remembering the look of hopeless anguish that had stirred the
face I loved in that same spot so long ago, I looked down to read its lineaments
afresh.
It was there, close beside me, bright with happiness,
and beautiful with the returning bloom that banished its former pensive
charm. Trust spoke in the clinging touch upon my arm, joy beamed in
the blithe smile of her lips, and love sat like a glory in her
tender eyes.
She met my glance, and with a sudden impulse folded her hands, saying softly, "The shadow has departed, Gustave, never to return, and I am free at last. May I be truly grateful for my happy lot."
"No, dearest Mathilde, you are a captive still, not
to duty, but to love, whose thralldom shall be to you as light as the fetter
I
now bind you with." And as I spoke I clasped a slender chain of gold
upon the fair arm where for nine bitter years lay the weight of that steel
bracelet.