Sea and Shore | Page 6

I will stand Beside her when she sings, And watch her fine and fairy hand Flit o'er the quivering strings! But shall I tell her I have heard, Though sweet her song may be, A voice where every whispered word _Was more than song to me_?
"'How shall I woo her? I will gaze, In sad and silent trance, On those blue eyes whose liquid rays Look love in every glance. But shall I tell her eyes more bright, Though bright her own may beam, Will fling a deeper spell to-night _Upon me in my dream_?'"
I hesitated. "Let me stop here, Major Favraud, I counsel you," I interpolated, earnestly; but he only rejoined:
"No, no! proceed, I entreat you! it is very beautiful--very touching, too!" Speaking calmly, and slacking rein, so that the grating of the wheels among the stems of the scarlet _lychnis_, that grew in immense patches on our road, might not disturb his sense of hearing, which, by-the-way, was exquisitely nice and fastidious.
"As you please, then;" and I continued the recitation.
"'How shall I woo her? I will try The charms of olden time, And swear by earth, and sea, and sky, And rave in prose and rhyme-- And I will tell her, when I bent My knee in other years, I was not half so _eloquent_; I could not speak--_for tears_!'"
I watched him narrowly; the spell was working now; the poet's hand was sweeping, with a gust of power, that harp of a thousand strings, the wondrous human heart! And I again pursued, in suppressed tones of heart-felt emotion, the pathetic strain that he had evoked with an idea of its frivolity alone:
"'How shall I woo her? I will bow Before the holy shrine, And pray the prayer, and vow the vow, And press her lips to mine-- And I will tell her, when she starts From passion's thrilling kiss, That memory to many hearts Is dearer far than bliss!'"
It was reserved for the concluding verse to unnerve him completely; a verse which I rendered with all the pathos of which I was capable, with a view to its final effect, I confess:
"'Away! away! the chords are mute, The bond is rent in twain; You cannot wake the silent lute, Or clasp its links again. Love's toil, I know, is little cost; Love's perjury is light sin; But souls that lose what I have lost, What have they left to win?'"
"What, indeed?" he exclaimed, impetuously--tears now streaming over his olive cheeks. He flung the reins to me with a quick, convulsive motion, and covered his face with his hands. Groans burst from his murmuring lips, and the great deeps of sorrow gave up their secrets. I was sorry to have so stirred him to the depths by any act or words of mine, and yet I enjoyed the certainty of his anguish.
I checked the horses beneath a magnolia-tree, and sat quietly waiting for the flood of emotion to subside as for him to take the initiative. I had no word to say, no consolation to offer. Nay, after consideration, rather did I glory in his grief, which redeemed his nature in my estimation, though grieved in turn to have afflicted him. For, in spite of all his faults, and my earlier prejudices, I loved this impulsive Southron man, as Scott has it, "right brotherly."
At last, looking up grave, tearless, and pale, and resuming his reins without apology for having surrendered them, he said, abruptly:
"All is so vain! Such mockery now to me! She was the sole reality of this universe to my heart! I grapple with shadows unceasingly. There is not on the face of this globe a more desolate wretch. You understand this! You feel for me, you do not deride me! You know how perfect, how spiritual she was! You loved her well--I saw it in your eyes, your manner--and for that, if nothing else, you have my heart-felt gratitude. So few appreciated her unearthly purity. Yet, was it not strange she should have loved a man so gross, so steeped in sensuous, thoughtless enjoyment--so remote from God as I am--have ever been? But the song speaks for me"--waving his gauntleted hand--"better than I can speak:
"'Away! away! the chords are mute, The bond is rent in twain.'"
"I shall never marry again--never! Miss Miriam, I know now, and shall know evermore, in all its fullness, and weariness, and bitterness, the meaning of that terrible word--alone! Eternal solitude. The Robinson Crusoe of society. A sort of social Daniel Boone. Thus you must ever consider me. And yet, just think of it, Miss Harz!"
"Oh, but you will not always feel so; there may come a time of reaction." I hesitated. It was not my purpose to encourage change.
"No, never! never!" he interrupted, passionately; "don't even suggest it--don't! and check me