Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 20 (15 page)

 
          
“How
frail he looks; if life w ith you cannot revive him he must be past hope.”

 
          
Evan
spoke involuntarily, and Ursula’s hand half checked the words upon his lips;
but neither looked the other in the face, and neither owned, even to
themselves, how strong a hidden wish had grown.

 
          
“He
w ill live because he resolves to live, for that frail body holds the most indomitable
spirit I have ever know n. But let me tell you why he lingers where every
breath brings pain,” said Ursula, and having told him, she added:

 
          
“Is
not that both a generous and a gentle rebuke for an unkind doubt?"

 
          
“It’s
either a most exquisite piece of loverlike devotion or of consummate art. I
think it is the latter, for he knows you well, and repays great sacrifices by
graceful small ones, which touch and charm your woman’s heart.”

 
          
“You
wrong him, Evan, and aversion blinds you to the better traits I have learned to
see. An all absorbing love ennobles the most sinful man, and makes it possible
for some woman to forgive and cling to him.”

 
          
“I
have no right to ask, but the strange spirit that has taken possession of you
baffles and disquiets me past endurance. Tell me, Ursula, what you would not
tell before, do you trulv,
tenderly
love this man whom
you have married?”

 
          
The
question was uttered with
an earnestness
so solemn
that it forced a truthful answer, and she looked up at him with the old
frankness unobscured by any cloud, as she replied:

 
          
“But
for one thing I should long ago have learned to love him. I know this, because
even now I cannot wholly close my heart against the ardent affection that
patiently appeals to it.”

 
          
“And
that one thing, that cursed mystery which has wrecked two lives, when am I to
know it, Ursula?”

 
          
“Never
till I lie on my deathbed, and not even then, unless
— ”
She caught back the words hovering on her lips, but her eye glanced furtively
upon the solitary figure pacing there below, and Evan impetuously finished the
broken sentence:

 
          
“Unless
he is already dead — let it be so; I shall wait and yet prove his prophecy a
false one by winning and wearing you when his baleful love is powerless.”

 
          
“He
is my husband, Evan, remember that. Now come with me, I am going to him, for he
must not shiver there when I can give him the warmth his tropical nature
loves.”

 
          
But
Evan would not go, and soon left her plunged in a new sea of anxious
conjectures, doubts and dreads. Stahl awaited his wife’s approach, saving
within himself as he watched her coming under the gold and scarlet arches of
the leafv walk, w ith unwonted elasticity in her step, color on her cheeks and
smiles upon her lips: “Good! I have found the spell that turns my snow' image
into flesh and blood; I wdll use it and enjoy the summer of her presence while
I may.”

 
          
He
did use it, but so warily and well that though Ursula and Evan were dimlv
conscious of some unseen yet controlling hand that ruled their intercourse and
shaped events, they found it hard to believe that studious invalid possessed
and used such power. Evan came daily, and daily Ursula regained some of her
lost energy and bloom, till an almost preternatural beauty replaced the pale
loveliness her face had worn, and she seemed to glow and brighten w ith an
inward fire, like some brilliant flower that held the fervor of a summer in its
heart and gave it out again in one fair, fragrant hour.

 
          
Like
a watchful shadow Evan haunted his cousin, conscious that they were drifting
dow
n a troubled stream without a pilot, yet feeling
powerless to guide or govern his own life, so inextricably was it bound up in
Ursula’s. He saw that the vigor and vitality his presence gave her was absorbed
by her husband, to whom she was a more potent stimulant than rare winds, balmy
airs or costly drugs. He knew that the stronger nature subdued the weaker, and
the failing life sustained itself by draining the essence of that other life,
which, but for some sinister cross of fate, would have been an ever springing
fountain of joy to a more generous and healthful heart.

 
          
The
blind world applauded Felix Stahl’s success, and envied him the splendid wife
in whose affluent gifts of fortune, mind and person he seemed to revel with
luxurious delight. It could not see the secret bitterness that poisoned peace;
could not guess the unavailing effort, unappeased desire and fading hope that
each day brought him; nor fathom the despair that filled his soul as he saw and
felt the unmistakable tokens of his coming fate in hollow temples, wasting
flesh and a mortal w eariness that knew no rest; a despair rendered doubly
bitter by the knowledge of his impotence to prevent another from reaping what
he had sown w ith painful care.

 
          
Ursula’s
hard won submission deserted her when Evan came, for in reanimating the statue
Stahl soon felt that he had lost his slave and found a master. The heart which
had seemed slowly yielding to his efforts closed against him in the very hour
of fancied conquest. No more meek services, no more pity shown in spite
ot
pride, no more docile obedience to commands that wore the
guise of entreaties. The captive spirit woke and beat against its bars,
passionately striving to be free, though not a cry ^scaped its lips. Very soon
her recovered gaiety departed, and her life became a vain effort to forget, for
like all impetuous natures she sought oblivion in excitement and hurried from
one scene of pleasure to another, finding rest and happiness in none. Her
husband went with her everywhere, recklessly squandering the strength she gave
him in a like fruitless quest, till sharply checked by warnings which could no
longer be neglected.

 
          
One
night in early spring when winter gaieties were drawing to a close, Ursula came
down to him shining in festival array, with the evening fever already burning
in her cheeks, the expectant glitter already kindling in her eyes, and every
charm heightened with that skill which in womanlv women is second nature. Not
for his pride or pleasure had she made herself so fair, he knew that well, and
the thought lent its melancholy to the tone in which he said:

 
          
“Ursula,
I am readv, but so unutterably weak and weary that I cannot go.”

 
          
“I
can go without you. Be so good,” and quite unmoved by the suffering that rarely
found expression, she held her hand to him that he might clasp her glove. He
rose to perform the little service with that courtesy which never failed him,
asking, as he bent above the hand with trembling fingers and painful breath,

 
          
“Does
Evan go with you?”

 
          
“Yes,
he never fails
me,
he has neither weakness nor
weariness to mar my pleasure or to thwart my will.”

 
          
“Truly a tender and a wifely answer.”

 
          
“I
am
not tender nor
wifely; why assume the virtues which
I never shall possess? They were not set down in the bond; that I fulfilled to
the letter w hen I married you, and beyond the wearing of your name and ring I
owe you nothing. Do I?”

 
          
“Yes,
a little gratitude for the sincerity that placed a doomed life in your keeping;
a little respect for the faith I have kept unbroken through all temptations; a
little compassion for a malady that but for you would make my life a burden I
would gladly lav down.”

 
          
Time
was when words like these would have touched and softened her, but not now, for
she had reached the climax of her suffering, the extent of her endurance, and
turning on him she gave vent to the passionate emotion which could no longer he
restrained: “I should have given you much gratitude if in helping me to save
one life you had not doomed another. I should honestly respect the faith you
boast of if such costly sacrifices were not demanded for its keeping. I should
deeply pity that mortal malady if you had bravely borne it alone instead of
seeking a selfish solace in bequeathing it to another. I tell you, Felix, you
are killing me swiftly and surely by this dreadful life. Better end
me
at once than drive me mad, or leave me a strong soul
prisoned in a feeble body like yourself.”

 
          
For
the first time in his life Stahl felt the touch of fear, not for himself but
for her, lest that terrible affliction which so baffles human skill and science
should fall upon the woman whom he loved with a selfish intensity which had
tangled two lives and brought them to this pass.

 
          
“Hush,
Ursula,” he said, soothingly, “have patience, I shall soon be gone, and then —
what will you do then?”

 
          
The
question leaped to his lips, for at the word “gone” he saw the gloom lift from
her face, leaving an expression of relief that unmistakably betraved how
heavily her burden had oppressed her. Undaunted by the almost fierce inquiry
she fixed her eyes upon him, and answered steadily:

 
          
“I
shall put off my bridal white, wear widow’s weeds for a single year, and then”
— there she, too, paused abruptly; but words were needless, for as Evan’s step
sounded on the stair she turned and hurried towards him, as if love, liberty
and life all lav waiting for her there. Stahl watched them with a jealous pang
that pierced the deeper as, remembering Ursula’s taunt, he compared the young
man with himself; the one rich in the stature, vigor, comeliness that make a
manly man; the other, in sad truth, a strong spirit imprisoned in a ruined
body. As he looked he clenched his pale hand hard, and muttered low between his
set teeth:

 
          
“He
shall not have her, if I sell my soul to thwart him!”

 
          
To
Ursula’s intense surprise and Evan’s annoyance Stahl followed them into the
carriage, with a brief apology for his seeming caprice. No one spoke during the
short drive, but as they came into the brilliant rooms Ursula’s surprise
deepened to alarm, for in the utter change of mien and manner which had
befallen her husband she divined the presence of some newborn purpose, and
trembled for the issue. Usually he played the distasteful part of invalid with
a grace and skill which made the undisguisable fact a passport to the sympathy
and admiration of both men and women. But that night no vigorous young man bore
himself more debonnairly, danced more indefatigably, or devoted himself more
charminglv to the service of matron, maid and grateful hostess. Lost in
amazement, Ursula and Evan watched him, gliding to and fro, vivacious, blithe
and bland, leaving a trail of witty, wise or honied words behind him, and
causing many glances of approval to follow that singular countenance, for now
its accustomed pallor was replaced by a color no art could counterfeit, and the
mysterious eyes burned with a fire that fixed and fascinated other eyes.

 
          
“What
does it mean, Evan?” whispered Ursula, standing apart with her faithful shadow.

 
          
“Mischief,
if I read it rightly,” was the anxious answer, and at that moment, just before
them, the object of their thoughts was accosted by a jovial gentleman, who
exclaimed:

 
          
“God
bless me, Stahl! Rumor said you were dying, like a liar as she is, and here I
find vou looking more like a bridegroom than when I left you at the altar six
months ago.”

 
          
“For
once rumor tells the truth,
Coventry
. I am dying, but one may make their exit gracefully and end their
tragedy or comedy with a grateful bow! I have had a generous share of pleasure;
I thank the world for it; I make my adieu to-night, and tranquilly go home to
rest.”

 
          
Spoken
with an untroubled smile the words were both touching and impressive, and the
friendly
Coventry
was obliged to clear his voice before he
could answer with an assumption of cheery unbelief: