CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BLOOMING OF THE LILY.

Muriel, in the meantime, had returned from her walk, and had a tender and happy hour with Emily. Emily was glorious that morning in her beauty, for the Valley of Humiliation had burst and flamed into roses of life and love, and the Valley of the Shadow lay far withdrawn in radiance upon the verge of life. There were soft showers still in the summer of her sky, but those were tears of contrite gratitude to Muriel. There were mellow thunders rolling in the summer of her sky, but those were words of rich anger and scorn for Witherlee. Muriel had guessed aright. The good Fernando had poisoned Emily’s mind against Wentworth, and the deed was done on the evening he had spent with her after her parting with her lover. It would not have appeared at all surprising to a Court of Love that Emily, in blaming Wentworth for his supposed desertion of her, never imputed that desertion to her treatment of him. Quite overlooking her own conduct, she had taken his as proof of Witherlee’s assertions regarding him. But now the films had dropped from her eyes, and in her talk with Wentworth the night before, which had lasted late and long, she had awakened to the perception of the game that had been played upon her by the good Fernando. How she raved at him! But Muriel laughed her angers down as they rose, till what might have been sheeting bursts were only momentary jets of flame. For Muriel was optimist and socialist, and, referring the faults of people to mal-organization, mis-education, and the play of adverse influences upon them, her golden charity spread even over Witherlee.

Breakfast came, and after breakfast Wentworth. Another tender and happy hour between the three, in which Wentworth made some revelations, poured out his soul in affection and gratitude to his dear fairy prince, as he called her, and lightened his scorn upon the good Fernando. Then Muriel having, in turn, toned down his meteor wrath, he and Emily set off together to Cambridge to announce their engagement to her parents, who were friends of his family, and very fond of him. They were to return the following day, and Emily was to continue her stay with Muriel.

A little while after they left, Mrs. Eastman went out to spend that day and night at a relative’s in Milton, a few miles from Boston, and Muriel was left alone.

No work that day for Muriel; no study, no visiting, no occupation of any kind. She summoned Patrick, and bade him deny her to every one that called, and then shut herself up in the library to pass the day alone.

And all the long bright day—the sweet and beautiful deep-breathing sacred day—while the soft and opulent effulgence of the sun flooded the chamber with a mist of violet and gold, she lay at rest, or glided to and fro, lovely as some incarnate angel from a more ethereal star than ours, and with a mystic change upon her loveliness. For the summer of her life had come to her, and all its virginal and dewy lilies were in bloom. Summer languors filled her; Eden tremors melted through her; and floating in light and perfume through the tender-litten land of reverie and dreams, she heard the impassioned melodies of Paradise. A more bewildering grace had fallen around her form, and every negligent and flowing curve, veiled in the soft and snowy drapery of the robe she wore, seemed rounded to a contour more nobly and magically fair. Faint with excess of happiness, dreaming upon the sweet and secret purpose of her heart, and musing in a dim oblivion of tenderness on all that had been, and was, and was to be, while ever on and on the lilies of her love grew glowing into magic roses of red hymeneal joy—so passed the cloistered day, and evening fell.

She rose from the couch on which she had sat, half reclining. The sunset light lay within the library, and rested on the luxuriant symmetry of her figure, as she stood with her hands crossed upon her bosom and her exalted face upturned.

“You were right, my Emily,” she fervently murmured, “life is indeed life in the greatness and sweetness of love, but life is truliest life in loving and being beloved. And yet had I asked love, could I have felt this stainless flame of joy! Sweet, sweet when the two souls give the mutual undemanding love—sweet, sweet as the sweetness of Paradise! Oh, I am happy, happy!”

She clasped her hands in a calm transport of joy, and with her head bowed upon her bosom, like a flower drooping with its wealth of bloom, she remained still and silent for a little while.

“Ah, lovers who sadden without love, I think of you,” she said again, lifting a gay and radiant face, and speaking with tender playfulness. “For you, poor lovers, you who bear love’s cross, and may not wear love’s crown—for you I pray! Oh, doleful company, would that I could make you happy, too!”

Laughing a little to herself, she let her clasped hands fall, and with a slow, harmonious movement, glided, musing, from the room.

She went up-stairs to the studio, and sitting by her desk, wrote these lines to Harrington.

“Flos equitum!—flower of chevaliers! Be sure to come this evening. A matter of the greatest importance, so do not fail. This is a vermilion edict. Hear and obey!

MURIEL.”

“Good!” said she, laughing softly, as she folded the note. “A piebald epistle truly. But, like Mercutio’s wound, it is enough. And now for some dinner, for no beautifulest poet, as Carlyle says, but must dine, and lovers are subject to the same condition. Indeed, I think love gives one an appetite, for I am quite famished.”

Gaily talking to herself in this way, she went down-stairs, dispatched Patrick with the note, and sat down to her solitary dinner, which she had ordered to be served at this hour.

It was well that she had written to Harrington, for the young scholar, his mysterious trepidation increasing as the hour drew near when he was to convey Antony to Temple street, had decided, when the note reached him, to send Captain Fisher with the fugitive instead. Of course he revoked his decision, when he read the missive, and quaking at heart, and wondering what the “matter of the greatest importance” could be, he set out about half-past eight o’clock, with Antony.

He had previously told the poor man that he knew his brother, and was going to take him to him that evening, and Antony was lost between utter astonishment and delighted expectation. To his simple mind, this strong, beautiful, friendly, masterful Harrington, who lived in a house full of books, who treated him as he had never dreamed even of being treated by a white man, and who completed his wonderful benefactions by taking him to see his brother, was little less than a god. Regarding him with actually servile reverence, Antony thought he knew everything and could do anything, and that he was the greatest man in the world.

Arrived at the house, they were let in by Patrick, who, though he had been forewarned of the arrival of another colored man that evening, looked a little frightened as he caught a glimpse under the hall-light of the black cheek-bones and ghastly, hollow eyes of the fugitive. Nothing more could be seen of his face, for Harrington had taken the precaution to muffle it almost to the eyes, and the black felt hat which the fugitive wore, he had bade him keep on till he saw his brother. Assisting his charge, who was still weak, up into the library, Harrington left him sitting there in the dark room, lighted only by the moon, and went up-stairs to announce his arrival to Roux. Returning in a few minutes, he conducted the trembling fugitive up to the door of the room where Roux was, which was ajar, and bidding him push it open, and enter, he retreated.

On the stairs he heard, with a thrill, the rush, the cry, of that meeting, followed by the shrill laughter and hilarious breakdown of Tugmutton. He did not pause, but ran lightly down into the library, and flinging himself into a corner of a cushioned couch, he covered his burning eyes with his hand, and sat still, his heart swelling with compassionate emotion. Harrington had none of those imperfect sympathies of which Charles Lamb speaks with such gentle humor; and the meeting, after so many years of separation, of those two poor black, uncomely brothers of a despised race, touched his heart as much as if they had been the most beautiful and elegant people in the world.

Recovering in a few moments, he looked up, and the former feeling of mingled anxiety and trepidation flowed back upon his heart. Patrick had said Miss Eastman wished him ushered into the library, but had he not mistaken his instructions?—for the library was unlighted. Still there was light enough for conversation, for the curtains were withdrawn, and the pale moonlight streamed into the apartment. He watched it for a few minutes wanly glimmering on the glass cases, filled with books, which lined the chamber; on the dim busts of bronze which stood above them; the pictures on the walls; the statuettes of metal and marble on brackets and pedestals; the various ornaments here and there; the dark shapes of the rich furniture, all softly salient in the dim light and vague shadows of the perfumed air. Gradually his mind lost its interest in the phantasmal effects before him, and feeling weary and sad at heart, he leaned his elbow on the arm of the couch, and covering his closed eyes with his hand, sat without moving for a long time.

How still the room was! Dropping his hand from his eyes, as a ghostly sense of its intense stillness crossed his mind, he saw, with a sudden thrill of surprise, the figure of Muriel in the moonlight before him. She stood serene and motionless, with a certain grave majesty of mien which awed him—her beautiful bare arms lightly laid one upon another, and her white robe falling softly around the perfect outlines of her tall and stately form. The moonlight rested on the shadowy amber of her hair, and on her face, grave and sweet, from which her dimly shining eyes looked calmly upon him. A little surprised at the suddenness of her appearance, as by her mystic beauty he sat for a moment gazing at her.

“Do not rise,” she said, quietly, as he made a movement to leave his seat. “Remain where you are. I have sent for you this evening, John, to converse with you on a matter of moment to both of us.”

Her voice had never seemed so serenely sweet as now. It thrilled him like the low tones of some exquisite musical instrument. But wondering what she could mean, and filled with strange wonder at her manner, he sat breathlessly gazing at her.

“What is it, Muriel?” he said at length, in a hushed voice.

“It is this, John,” she replied, still remaining motionless. “You have not seen Wentworth since I saw you last?”

“I have not, Muriel.”

“Nor Emily?”

“No.”

“I thought not,” she said, after a pause. “John, I talked with Wentworth this morning, and he told me of a conversation that passed recently between Mr. Witherlee and your master-at-arms—Monsieur Bagasse. Wentworth, for certain reasons which he will explain to you to-morrow, told you only a portion of that conversation as it was reported to him. There is a part which I want to tell you now.”

Harrington, who thought when she mentioned that she had spoken with Wentworth, that she was about to tell him the meaning of the strange speech the young artist had flung at Emily, looked at her, utterly puzzled to know what possible importance could attach to the conversation between Bagasse and Witherlee.

“The part I want to tell you, relates to you, John,” she continued. “Mr. Witherlee had led the fencing-master to suppose that you loved a lady whom he described as wealthy, of high social position, and much personal beauty.”

“Oh, yes,” interrupted Harrington, quietly. “I heard that Witherlee has represented me as Emily’s lover.”

“No,” said Muriel, serenely, “it was not Emily he mentioned. It was another lady.”

Harrington’s heart leaped convulsively, and, even in the shadow where he sat, Muriel saw the color rush to his face.

“Monsieur Bagasse,” she continued, “expressed his satisfaction that you were to marry so fine a lady, whereat Witherlee told him he was mistaken, that the lady would as soon marry a man out of the poorhouse, and that it was very odd that he should think a lady who belonged, as he said, to our first society, would wed a man who wears such a plain coat as you do.”

Harrington, astonished beyond measure, sat in silence, wondering what object Muriel could have in telling him this, all his being, meanwhile, one burning flush of grief and pain.

“To which,” pursued Muriel, “Monsieur Bagasse replied in his French _patois_ to this effect: ‘Why is it odd that a rich and beautiful lady should love Mr. Harrington. Is it odd because he wears an old coat? Ah, Mr. Witherlee, there are duchesses that love the old coat because it covers the nobility of heart they also love! Listen,’ said Monsieur Bagasse, ‘to what I would do if I were a beautiful, rich lady, and knew that Mr. Harrington loved me. I would say—you good, gallant, noble man, so like the knightly gentlemen of the heroic time, I know that you love me, and I love you for all you are. I love you with your old coat—I love your old coat because it has covered you. Take me to your heart—take me to your life—share my home, my wealth—I am yours forever! That,’ said Monsieur Bagasse, John, ‘that is what I would say to Mr. Harrington if I were a beautiful, rich lady, and knew that he loved me.’”

Her voice, in saying all this, was so even, so low and clear and sweet, so calm and unimpassioned, and she stood so motionless in her mystic beauty, with her arms serenely laid upon each other, that Harrington, sadly listening, and gazing at her seraphic face and gem-like eyes, as she bloomed before him in the tender moonlight, had no sense of the climax to which her soul was rushing, no hint of the meaning which her recital concealed. But suddenly a thrill stirred his pulses, for she stepped a pace forward, and her arms fell.

“Hear me, my Paladin,” she said, and her voice rose into fuller melody, and a proud and glorious smile kindled her features—“your Frenchman’s speech was the voice of a manly heart, and the lady of whom Witherlee spoke, responds to its every word. Knowing that you love her, and hoping she is worthy of a love like yours, she has said—you, in whose frame beat the pulses of gentlemen and chevaliers—you, in whose soul the spirit of the antique chivalry lives anew—take me, for I love you, and I have loved you long. Take me to your heart—take me to your life—for I am yours forever!”

He sprang to his feet, and stood in the moonlight, dilated, his eyes resplendent, and his features still and pallid as the features of the dead. Her arms were stretched toward him, and with all his being yearning to her, he could scarcely restrain the impulse that bade him whirl every consideration to the winds, and clasp her to his heart. But no: there was some mystery here to be made plain; he must be sure that some sudden passion had not made her forgetful of her plighted faith to another; he must not wrong his friend. The thought quelled the tumult of his spirit, and held his struggling heart as a giant holds a giant.

“Oh, I read you well,” she exclaimed, her arms sinking slowly, while she still looked at him with her proud and glorious smile. “My soul is clairvoyant to-night, and I read you well. Love is strong, but it is chained by honor. You think me the betrothed of Wentworth. Ah, no! Emily is the betrothed of Wentworth, and when he told you otherwise, it was his hasty blunder—no more. John!” she faltered, and her voice grew sweet and low—“you asked me once to tell you of the fairy prince I was to follow through all the world, and I told you I would tell you of him when I found him. I have found him—here!”

The word rang from her lips in a fervent and adoring cry, and she was in his arms. One wild, delirious instant, and then the tumult of his joy mounted to his brain, and spread into the stillness of a blissful dream. O solemn ecstasy of prayer and peace! O mystic passion of true love unveiled! The moonlight rested on the noble beauty of their forms, with the dark and rich phantasmal room around them. They saw it not—they knew not where they were. Tranced in the temple of the night, they stood, silent, motionless, filled with ethereal light, as if a rosy star had burst within their being, filled with an all-pervading, holy tenderness. Ended now the strange delusion—the restlessness and pain, the hopeless yearning, the generous grief, the alternate hope and doubt and fleeting joy, the sad renunciation, the selfless and submissive sacrifice, were ended; they had passed away like clouds, and the sweet heavens of love remained.

Slowly her head drooped back, and clinging to him yet, her noble face, tranquil and wet with tears, gazed fondly into his.

“Beloved Muriel,” he said, and his deep voice was tremulous and low, “I came here sad and dark, and you have filled me with light and life and joy. What am I that I should invoke a love like yours—what am I that it should descend to me so rich in blessing?”

“Not so, not so,” she fervently replied. “It is I that am bold, for I have chosen you for my beloved from all living men I know. But I love you. Oh, should I not love you—for you made life sweet to me, you taught me to make life noble! Dear friend so long—my husband now—still help me to make life noble, for I could not love you so much if I did not love the world you live for more. Come; we have much to talk of. Sit here by me.”

She sank upon the couch near by, and he took a seat by her side. Silent a little while before their talk began, they sat folded in each other’s arms, the hour of wonder sinking slowly like a subsiding sea, and the moonlight resting peacefully upon them.