A happy boyhood pa.s.sed in the society of this sweet playmate, then a young girl of his own age; a happy boyhood here in Holby, where they had always been inseparable, wandering hand in hand along the sh.o.r.e or over the hills; a happy boyhood where she was the one and only companion whom he knew or cared for--this was the sole legacy of his early life.
Leaving Holby he had left her, but had never forgotten her. He had carried with him the tender memory of this bright being, and cherished his undying fondness, not knowing what that fondness meant. He had returned to find her married, and severed from him forever, at least in this life. When he found that he had lost her he began to understand how dear she was. All life stood before him aimless, pointless, and meaningless without her. He came back, but the old intercourse could not be renewed; she could not be his, and he could only live, and love, and endure. Perhaps it would have been wiser if he had at once left Holby and sought out some other abode. But the discovery of his love was gradual; it came through suffering and anguish; and when he knew that his love was so intense it was then impossible to leave. To be near her, to breathe the same air, to see her face occasionally, to nurse his old memories, to h.o.a.rd up new remembrances of her words and looks--these now became the chief occupation of his hours of solitude, and the only happiness left him in his life.
One day he went up with a stronger sense of desolation in his heart than usual, going up to see her in order to get consolation from the sight of her face and the sound of her voice. Their former levity had given place to a seriousness of manner which was very different. A deep, intense joy shone in the eyes of each at meeting, but that quick repartee and light badinage which they had used of old had been dropped.
Music was the one thing of which they could speak without fear. Despard could talk of his Byzantine poets, and the chants of the Eastern Church, without being in danger of reawakening painful memories. The piano stood close by, and always afforded a convenient mode of distracting attention when it became too absorbed in one another.
For Mrs. Thornton did not repel him; she did not resent his longing; she did not seem forgetful of what he so well remembered. How was it with her who had given her hand to another?
"What she felt the while Dare he think?"
Yet there were times when he thought it possible that she might feel as he did. The thought brought joy, but it also brought fear. For, if the struggle against this feeling needed all the strength of his nature, what must it cost her? If she had such a struggle as he, how could she endure it? Then, as he considered this, he thought to himself that he would rather she would not love him than love him at such a cost. He was willing to sacrifice his own heart. He wished only to adore her, and was content that she should receive, and permit, and accept his adoration, herself unmoved--a pa.s.sionless divinity.
In their intercourse it was strange how frequently there were long pauses of perfect silence, during which neither spoke a word. Sometimes each sat looking at the floor; sometimes they looked at one another, as though they could read each other"s thoughts, and by the mere gaze of their earnest eyes could hold ample spiritual communion.
On one such occasion they stood by the window looking out upon the lawn, but seeing nothing in that abstracted gaze. Despard stood facing her, close to her. Her hand was hanging by her side. He stooped and took that little slender hand in his. As he did so he trembled from head to foot.
As he did so a faint flush pa.s.sed over her face. Her head fell forward.
Despard held her hand and she did not withdraw it. Despard drew her slightly toward him. She looked up into his face with large, eloquent eyes, sad beyond all description, yet speaking things which thrilled his soul. He looked down upon her with eyes that told her all that was in his heart. She turned her head away.
Despard clung to her hand as though that hand were his life, his hope, his joy--as though that alone could save him from some abyss of despair into which he was falling. His lips moved. In vain. No audible sound broke that intense stillness in which the beating and throbbing of those two forlorn hearts could be heard. His lips moved, but all sound died away upon them.
At last a stronger effort broke the silence.
"Teresa!"
It was a strange tone, a tone of longing unutterable, a tone like that which a dying man might use in calling before him one most dear. And all the pent-up feeling of years rushed forth in concentrated energy, and was borne to her ears in the sound of that one word. She looked up with the same glance as before.
"Little playmate," said he, in a tone of infinite sweetness, "have you ever forgotten the old days? Do you remember when you and I last stood hand in hand?"
His voice sounded like the utterance of tears, as though, if he could have wept, he would then have wept as no man wept before, but his eyes were dry through his manhood, and all that tears can express were shown forth in his tone.
As he began to speak her head fell again. As he ended she looked up as before. Her lips moved. She whispered but one word:
"Courtenay!"
She burst into a flood of tears and sank into a chair. And Despard stood, not daring even to soothe her, for fear lest in that vehement convulsion of his soul all his self-command should give way utterly.
At length Mrs. Thornton rose. "Lama," said she, at last, in a low, sad voice, "let us go to the piano."
"Will you sing the _Ave Maria_" he asked, mournfully.
"I dare not," said she, hastily. "No, anything but that. I will sing Rossini"s _Cujus Animam_."
Then followed those words which tell in lofty strains of a broken heart:
Cujus animam gementem Contristatam et flebentem Pertransivit gladius!
CHAPTER XXVII.
JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI.
When Mrs. Thornton saw Despard next she showed him a short note which she had just received from her brother, accompanying his journal. Nearly two years had elapsed since she had last heard from him.
His journal was written as before at long intervals, and was as follows:
Halifax, April 10, 1847.--I exist here, but nothing more. Nothing is offered by this small colonial town that can afford interest. Life goes on monotonously. The officers and their families are what they are every where. They are amiable and pleasant, and try to get the best out of life. The townspeople are hospitable, and there is much refinement among them.
But I live for the most part in a cottage outside of the town, where I can be secluded and free from observation. Near my house is the Northwest Arm. I cross it in a boat, and am at once in a savage wilderness. From the summit of a hill, appropriately named Mount Misery, I can look down upon this city which is bordered by such a wilderness.
The winter has pa.s.sed since my last entry, and nothing has occurred. I have learned to skate. I went out on a moose-hunt with Colonel Despard.
The gigantic horns of a moose which I killed are now over the door of my studio. I have joined in some festivities, and have done the honors of my house. It is an old-fashioned wooden structure which they call the Priory.
So the winter has pa.s.sed, and April is now here. In this country there is no spring. Snow is yet on the ground. Winter is transformed gradually till summer. I must keep up my fires till June, they say.
During the winter I have guarded my treasure well. I took a house on purpose to have a home for her. But her melancholy continued, and the state of mind in which I found her still endures. Will it ever change?
I gave out here that she was a relative who was in ill health. But the winter has pa.s.sed, and she remains precisely the same. Can she live on long in this mood?
At length I have decided to try a change for her. The Holy Sisterhood of Mercy have a convent here, where she may find a higher and purer atmosphere than any where else. There I have placed her. I have told nothing of her story. They think she is in grief for the death of friends. They have received her with that warm sympathy and holy love which it is the aim of their life to cherish.
O mater alma Christ! carissima, Te nunc flagitant devota corda et ora, Ora pro n.o.bis!
August 5, 1847.--The summer goes on pleasantly. A bracing climate, a cool sea-breeze, fishing and hunting in the forests, sailing in the harbor--these are the amus.e.m.e.nts which one can find if he has the leisure.
She has been among the Sisterhood of Mercy for some months. The deep calm of that holy retreat has soothed her, but only this much, that her melancholy has not lessened but grown more placid. She is in the midst of those whose thoughts are habitually directed to that work which she longs after. The home from which she has been exiled is the desire of their hearts. They aim after that place for which she longs with so deep a longing. There is sympathy in all those hearts with one another. She hears in their chants and prayers those hopes and desires, and these are but the utterances of what she feels.
Here they sing the matchless Rhythm of Bernard de Morlaix, and in these words she finds the highest expression that human words can give of the thoughts and desires of her soul. They tell me that the first time they sang it, as they came to this pa.s.sage she burst into tears and sank down almost senseless:
O bona patria! lumina sobria te speculantur, Ad tua nomina sobria lumina collacrimantur: Et tua mentio pectoris unctis, cura doloris, Concipientibus aethers mentibus ignis amoris.
November 17.--The winter must soon be here again.
My treasure is well guarded by the Holy Sisterhood. They revere her and look upon her as a saint. They tell me wonderful things about her which have sunk into my soul. They think that she is another Saint Cecilia, or rather Saint Teresa, the Saint of Love and Longing.
She told them once that she was not a Catholic, but that any form of worship was sweet and precious to her--most of all, the lofty utterances of the prayers and hymns of the Church. She will not listen to dogmas, but says that G.o.d wishes only love and praise. Yet she joins in all their rites, and in this House, where Love is chiefly adored, she surpa.s.ses all in the deep love of her heart.
January 2, 1848.--I have seen her for the first time in many months. She smiled. I never saw her smile before, except once in the ship, when I told my name and made her mother take my place in the cabin.
She smiled. It was as if an angel from heaven had smiled on me. Do I not believe that she is one?
They all say that she is unchanged. Her sadness has had no abatement. On that meeting she made an effort for my sake to stoop to me. Perhaps she saw how my very soul entreated her to speak. So she spoke of the Sisterhood, and said she loved them all. I asked her if she was happier here than at my house. She said "No." I did not know whether to feel rejoiced or sorrowful. Then she told me something which has filled me with wonder ever since.
She asked me if I had been making inquiries about her family, for I had said that I would. I told her that I had. She asked what I had heard. I hesitated for a moment, and at last, seeing that she was superior to any sorrow of bereavement; I told her all about the sad fate of her brother Louis, which your old friend Courtenay Despard had communicated to his uncle here. She listened without emotion, and at last, looking earnestly at me, said,
"_He is not dead!_"
I stood amazed. I had seen the very newspapers which contained an account of his death, I had read the letters of Courtenay Despard, which showed how painstaking his search had been. Had he not traveled to every place where he could hear any thing of the Brandons? Had he not written at the very outset wherever he could hope to hear any thing? I did not know what to say.