CHAPTER LXX.

THE MIDNIGHT WALK.

"I could not sleep, though I had seemed tranquil all the evening. Mr. Dennison, having been broken in his rest the night before, slumbered heavily, and this made my wakeful solitude unendurable. The moon shone brightly, and the cool air came through the window with enticing sweetness. All day long I had been cramped and restless in the house, which was growing hateful to me. Oh how I longed for that grand solitude which lies in space! A wild desire to escape from the deep breathing of my husband seized upon my mind. I dressed myself in noiseless haste, and gliding down-stairs, opened a French window, and fled through it breathlessly. I had no object in view, and all places were alike to me, so long as I could breathe freely, and cry aloud without fear of being overheard. But a footpath lay before me, and I followed it on and on till I came to the pond, or lake, which I had visited with Lawrence on the first day of his coming. It was perfectly beautiful that night. Here and there a ripple, as of ten thousand diamond chains tossed on the waters, followed some current, and died off in the shadows. The dusky green of the magnolia-tree was kindled up with gleams and touches of silver, while its sleeping flowers filled their great chalices of snow with moonlight, and bathed themselves in its dewy radiance. If my heart had not been sad before, the exquisite stillness of this scene would have rendered it so; the very ripple of the waters among the lily pads affected me like music, and the dark trailing of the mistletoe-boughs, which were strangling the great live-oak with ten thousand leafy caresses, made me almost afraid, they were so ghostly.

"I went into the black shadow of this grand old tree, sat down with my back against its trunk, and fell into a passion of bitter weeping. Why had I become all at once so unhappy? What sorrow, or cause of sorrow, had fallen upon me? I would not even attempt to answer this question, but asked it over and over again, as if the solution were not in my own heart reproaching me.

"All at once I heard a noise in the grass--the steady fall of a man's foot. I hushed my tears, and drew my shawl over the white dress that threatened to betray me, even buried as I was in deep shadows. A tall figure directly after appeared in the moonlight, standing by the lake. I knew it at once. He also had come out into the beautiful night, unhappy, perhaps, and restless as myself. He stood awhile motionless, then I saw him move away, and walk quickly up and down the shore, as if the beauty of the night filled him with irrepressible inquietude. Then I asked myself why he could not rest, and what feelings had driven him forth. My heart gave a reply which turned its sadness into excitement. Still I neither moved nor spoke, but watched his abrupt movements to and fro with breathless interest. Ah, he was wretched as myself--the thought of parting had driven him forth. I was sure of that, and the certainty was like a triumph.

"All at once Lawrence turned from the moonlight, and plunged into the black shadows of the oak, where he walked up and down like a disturbed spirit. I could hear broken words fall from his lips, as if he found it a relief to speak aloud in the solitude. There was passion and pathos in his voice, but I gathered no other meaning from the sounds that reached me.

"Perhaps I stirred, and by a movement of my shawl revealed the whiteness of my dress, for he came toward me, exclaiming,--

"'Great heavens! what is this?'

"I shrunk back against the body of the oak, and huddled the shawl around my person, hoping thus to escape his observations; but he came close to me, and said very quietly, though his voice trembled a little,--

"'Do not hide yourself, but come out into the moonlight. I felt that you would be here.'

"I arose, obedient as a little child, and walked by his side toward the magnolia-tree, where the moonlight fell in white radiance.

"'Why did you come out at this late hour?' he said, looking down upon me with gentle compassion in his eyes.

"'I could not sleep. I was so unhappy that the close air of the house stifled me.'

"'I understand,' he replied, almost mournfully. 'It is the old story. I too--but what matters that--the air of the house was oppressive. No matter, I shall quit it to-morrow.'

"'To-morrow,--and you will go?'

"'Yes; Dennison is an old friend--a dear old friend. I shall go to-morrow.'

"'To-morrow, and forever!' I cried, in a burst of passionate despair, which frightened me the moment it left my lips.

"He did not answer in words, but took my two hands between his, and bent his eyes upon me with a glance so searching, that I shrunk away from him, for the moonlight gave supernatural intensity to his face.

"'To-morrow, and I think forever; believe me, it is better so.'

"'Better? Forever! forever! Oh, these are terrible words!' I cried, scarcely caring to conceal the anguish which wrung such expressions from me.

"'They seem terrible to youth, I know,' he answered, sadly; 'but after a while you will learn that time softens even our ideas of eternity. Life is, and must be, one continued scene of parting.'

"'But parting is such pain,' I pleaded.

"'Pain does not last forever.'

"'Oh, it will; it must!' I cried out, in a passionate protest.

"The man smiled, and shook his head, sadly enough.

"'It seems so now; but you will know more of the world some day, and learn to cast deep feeling from you. It is a sad drawback in life.'

"'And you have learned this lesson?' I asked, half in tears, half angrily.

"He paused a moment, made a gesture as if he were casting some great restraint upon himself, and then answered:

"'Yes, I have learned the lesson. So must you.'

"'But I can not. God made me as I am. It is my nature to feel and suffer keenly.'

"'I think so. Yet in a little time how all this may change!'

"'Never!'

"'Ah, yes; and when that change comes--when you are brilliant, careless, a beautiful coquette, perhaps we can meet again, and play with the foam of life pleasantly, as it is tossed to our feet by the waves of society; but deep waters are treacherous; we must not trust to them.'

"'You talk strangely,' I said, feeling an angry fire kindling against him in my bosom.

"'I talk honestly, as you will admit some day.'

"I turned from him, angry with the tone of protection and superiority which he had assumed. Surely I was no school-girl to be thus adroitly put upon my good behavior.

"'You are angry with me?'

"'Yes; I have cause. You seem to speak from premises which I do not understand. What have I done that you should lecture me so?'

"My anger seemed to amuse him. His eyes flashed, and he laughed a low, sweet laugh, that the rippling wind carried off in its murmurs.

"'What have you done, child? Why, wandered off here, at the peril of your health, when you should have been quietly sleeping!'

"'But you have done the same thing!'

"'Yes; but nothing harms me. Being a man, I know how to take care of myself.'

"'Is it a part of manhood to be without feeling?'

"'And you charge me with that?'

"'Yes, I do, or you would never speak of me with an idea that I could become a brilliant coquette.'

"'Indeed! Why, are you not a woman?'

"I turned to move away. There was something bitter in his utterance of the last word that irritated me.

"He followed me.

"'You did not hear me out,' he said;--'and a beautiful woman--can such rare beings escape admiration?'

"Still I walked on, leaving the live-oak and magnolia-tree behind. His last speech seemed hollow and conventional. Did he think to appease me by commonplace flattery like that?

"He walked by my side in silence some minutes, looking earnestly in my face when it turned to the moonlight. All at once he broke out earnestly, passionately, throwing off all the constraint that had made him seem so artificial.

"'Let us be frank with each other,' he said. 'You are my friend's wife. I go from his house to-morrow, because I am afraid of loving you more than an honorable man should. Is this honest? Are you angry with me?'

"My face was lifted to his; my hands unconsciously clasped themselves. I trembled in every limb; but it was neither with anger nor pain.

"'Am I not right?' he demanded, turning his face away.

"I did not answer, for I knew well that, right or wrong, his going would leave me miserable.

"'I thought myself stronger and wiser,' he continued, without seeming to heed my silence; 'but that day when you were in such peril I learned how deep was the impression your beauty and loveliness had made upon me. Since then I have been resolved to go--my honor and my happiness demand it.'

"Still I was silent, partly from a wild sense of triumph, partly from terror lest he should guess at the feeling.

"'You will not answer me; my frankness offends you.'

"He seemed touched and hurt by the silence, which I could not force myself to break. All at once I was sobbing. He took my hand gently in his, and led me back along the path we had been walking. I cannot repeat all that he said to me. It was himself on whom all blame rested. This was the spirit of his conversation. Not for one moment did he hint that I could have been interested in anything he did, save as the hospitable lady of a mansion in which he was a guest. Was he deceived? I cannot tell; but this I do know, every word he uttered was full of loyal respect for my husband. He did not seem to understand or notice the tears I was shedding, but quietly led me toward the house. At last he stopped, took my hand, pressed it to his lips, and left me standing alone within sight of my dwelling.

"Lawrence left the next morning at daylight. I had been dreaming on my sleepless pillow that scene by the lake over and over again. Every word that man had uttered passed through my brain, and made a sweet lodgment in my heart. How careful he had been to save my pride while confessing his own weakness. If he had been masterful, and treated me like a child, no word of his had conveyed a suspicion that I too was in danger. His delicacy enthralled me more by far than persuasion could have done. He spoke only of his own struggles and his own danger, never hinting that I might share in one or the other. How magnanimous, how self-sacrificing he was--and this man loved me!

"All at once I heard a noise of wheels in front of the house. A sharp apprehension broke up my dreams. I sprang out of bed, lifted the lace curtain, and saw my husband's light buggy drawn up on the carriage-drive. While Tom was packing a valice under the seat, Mr. Lawrence stood near drawing on his gloves.

"He was going without one word of farewell. The thought made me wild. I flung up the window with a violence that tore the valenciennes from the sleeve of my night-dress, and called out,--

"'Not yet, not yet!'

"He did not hear me, or perhaps would not. That instant he sprang into the buggy, snatched the reins from Tom, and drove off. As he passed a curve in the road, he drew up and looked back at the house, as if unable to leave it without a farewell-glance. I was still at the window, half shrouded by the curtains, but leaning out, with wild unconsciousness of my position. He waved one hand, drew his horse up with the other so sharply that the buggy was half wheeled across the road; the next instant the horse made a plunge forward, seemingly unmanageable, and in an instant bore him out of sight.

"I knelt by the window a long time, looking upon the spot where he had disappeared in blank despair. In one minute my life seemed to have become a barren waste. Points in the landscape that had been so beautiful over-night, struck me with a dreary appearance of change. My eyes grew hot and ached with the pain of my sudden desolation. I could neither weep nor cry out, but knelt there with a dull sense of sorrow and utter loneliness creeping over me. Burdened with these wretched feelings, I crept back to my couch, and burying my face in the pillows, suffered silently."