Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (38 page)

 
          
“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 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 I clasped my hands before my face,
crying mournfully, “O 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 I 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: