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  Straight through the one vulnerable point in the man’s pride went this appeal to the man’s pity. Indignation could not turn it aside, contempt blunt its edge, or wounded feeling lessen its force; and yet it failed: for in Adam Warwick justice was stronger than mercy, reason than impulse, head than heart. Experience was a teacher whom he trusted; he had weighed this woman and found her wanting; truth was not in her; the patient endeavor, the hard-won success so possible to many was hardly so to her, and a union between them could bring no lasting good to either. He knew this; had decided it in a calmer hour than the present, and by that decision he would now abide proof against all attacks from without or from within. More gently, but as inflexibly as before, he said —

  “I do put out my hand and offer you the same bitter draught of self-contempt that proved a tonic to my own weak will. I can help, pity, and forgive you heartily, but I dare not marry you. The tie that binds us is a passion of the senses, not a love of the soul. You lack the moral sentiment that makes all gifts and graces subservient to the virtues that render womanhood a thing to honor as well as love. I can relinquish youth, beauty, worldly advantages, but I must reverence above all others the woman whom I marry, and feel an affection that elevates me by quickening all that is noblest and manliest in me. With you I should be either a tyrant or a slave. I will be neither, but go solitary all my life rather than rashly mortgage the freedom kept inviolate so long, or let the impulse of an hour mar the worth of coming years.”

  Bent and broken by the unanswerable accusations of what seemed a conscience in human shape, Ottila had sunk down before him with an abandonment as native to her as the indomitable will which still refused to relinquish hope even in despair.

  “Go,” she said, “I am not worthy of salvation. Yet it is hard, very hard, to lose the one motive strong enough to save me, the one sincere affection of my life.”

  Warwick had expected a tempestuous outbreak at his decision; this entire submission touched him, for in the last words of her brief lament he detected the accent of truth, and longed to answer it. He paused, searching for the just thing to be done. Ottila, with hidden face, watched while she wept, and waited hopefully for the relenting sign. In silence the two, a modern Samson and Delilah, waged the old war that has gone on ever since the strong locks were shorn and the temple fell; a war which fills the world with unmated pairs and the long train of evils arising from marriages made from impulse, and not principle. As usual, the most generous was worsted. The silence pleaded well for Ottila, and when Warwick spoke it was to say impetuously —

  “You are right! It is hard that when two err one alone should suffer. I should have been wise enough to see the danger, brave enough to fly from it. I was not, and I owe you some reparation for the pain my folly brings you. I offer you the best, because the hardest, sacrifice that I can make. You say love can work miracles, and that yours is the sincerest affection of your life; prove it. In three months you conquered me; can you conquer yourself in twelve?”

  “Try me!”

  “I will. Nature takes a year for her harvests; I give you the same for yours. If you will devote one half the energy and care to this work that you devoted to that other, — will earnestly endeavor to cherish all that is womanly and noble in yourself, and through desire for another’s respect earn your own, — I, too, will try to make myself a fitter mate for any woman, and keep our troth unbroken for a year. Can I do more?”

  “I dared not ask so much! I have not deserved it, but I will. Only love me, Adam, and let me save myself through you.”

  Flushed and trembling with delight she rose, sure the trial was safely passed, but found that for herself a new one had begun. Warwick offered his hand.

  “Farewell, then.”

  “Going? Surely you will stay and help me through my long probation?”

  “No; if your desire has any worth you can work it out alone. We should be hindrances to one another, and the labor be ill done.”

  “Where will you go? Not far, Adam.”

  “Straight to the North. This luxurious life enervates me; the pestilence of slavery lurks in the air and infects me; I must build myself up anew and find again the man I was.”

  “When must you go? Not soon.”

  “At once.”

  “I shall hear from you?”

  “Not till I come.”

  “But I shall need encouragement, shall grow hungry for a word, a thought from you. A year is very long to wait and work alone.”

  Eloquently she pleaded with voice and eyes and tender lips, but Warwick did not yield.

  “If the test be tried at all it must be fairly tried. We must stand entirely apart and see what saving virtue lies in self-denial and self-help.”

  “You will forget me, Adam. Some woman with a calmer heart than mine will teach you to love as you desire to love, and when my work is done it will be all in vain.”

  “Never in vain if it be well done, for such labor is its own reward. Have no fear; one such lesson will last a lifetime. Do your part heartily, and I will keep my pledge until the year is out.”

  “And then, what then?”

  “If I see in you the progress both should desire, if this tie bears the test of time and absence, and we find any basis for an abiding union, then, Ottila, I will marry you.”

  “But if meanwhile that colder, calmer woman comes to you, what then?”

  “Then I will not marry you.”

  “Ah, your promise is a man’s vow, made only to be broken. I have no faith in you.”

  “I think you may have. There will be no time for more folly; I must repair the loss of many wasted days, — nay, not wasted if I have learned this lesson well. Rest secure; it is impossible that I should love.”

  “You believed that three months ago and yet you are a lover now.”

  Ottila smiled an exultant smile, and Warwick acknowledged his proven fallibility by a haughty flush and a frank amendment.

  “Let it stand, then, that if I love again I am to wait in silence till the year is out and you absolve me from my pledge. Does that satisfy you?”

  “It must. But you will come, whatever changes may befall you? Promise me this.”

  “I promise it.”

  “Going so soon? Oh, wait a little!”

  “When a duty is to be done, do it at once; delay is dangerous. Good night.”

  “Give me some remembrance of you. I have nothing, for you are not a generous lover.”

  “Generous in deeds, Ottila. I have given you a year’s liberty, a dear gift from one who values it more than life. Now I add this.”

  He drew her to him, kissed the red mouth and looked down upon her with a glance that made his man’s face as pitiful as any woman’s as he let her lean there happy in the hope given at such cost. For a moment nothing stirred in the room but the soft whisper of the wind. For a moment Warwick’s austere life looked hard to him, love seemed sweet, submission possible; for in all the world this was the only woman who clung to him, and it was beautiful to cherish and be cherished after years of solitude. A long sigh of desire and regret broke from him, and at the sound a stealthy smile touched Ottila’s lips as she whispered, with a velvet cheek against his own —

  “Love, you will stay?”

  “I will not stay!”

  And like one who cries out sharply within himself, “Get thee behind me!” he broke away.

  “Adam, come back to me! Come back!”

  He looked over his shoulder, saw the fair woman in the heart of the warm glow, heard her cry of love and longing, knew the life of luxurious ease that waited for him, but steadily went out into the night, only answering —

  “In a year.”

  CHAPTER II.

  WHIMS.

  “Come, Sylvia, it is nine o’clock! Little slug-a-bed, don’t you mean to get up to-day?” said Miss Yule, bustling into her sister’s room with the wide-awake appearance of one to whom sleep was a necessary evil, to be endured and gotten over as soon as possible.

  “No, why should I?” And Sylvia turned her face away from the flood of light that poured into the room as Prue put aside the curtains and flung up the window.

  “Why should you? What a question, unless you are ill; I was afraid you would suffer for that long row yesterday, and my predictions seldom fail.”

  “I am not suffering from any cause whatever, and your prediction does fail this time; I am only tired of everybody and everything, and see nothing worth getting up for; so I shall just stay here till I do. Please put the curtain down and leave me in peace.”

  Prue had dropped her voice to the foreboding tone so irritating to nervous persons whether sick or well, and Sylvia laid her arm across her eyes with an impatient gesture as she spoke sharply.

  “Nothing worth getting up for,” cried Prue, like an aggravating echo. “Why, child, there are a hundred pleasant things to do if you would only think so. Now don’t be dismal and mope away this lovely day. Get up and try my plan; have a good breakfast, read the papers, and then work in your garden before it grows too warm; that is wholesome exercise and you’ve neglected it sadly of late.”

  “I don’t wish any breakfast; I hate newspapers, they are so full of lies; I’m tired of the garden, for nothing goes right this year; and I detest taking exercise merely because it’s wholesome. No, I’ll not get up for that.”

  “Then stay in the house and draw, read, or practise. Sit with Mark in the studio; give Miss Hemming directions about your summer things, or go into town about your bonnet. There is a matinée, try that; or make calls, for you owe fifty at least. Now I’m sure there’s employment enough and amusement enough for any reasonable person.”

  Prue looked triumphant, but Sylvia was not a “reasonable person,” and went on in her former despondin
gly petulant strain.

  “I’m tired of drawing; my head is a jumble of other people’s ideas already, and Herr Pedalsturm has put the piano out of tune. Mark always makes a model of me if I go to him, and I don’t like to see my eyes, arms, or hair in all his pictures. Miss Hemming’s gossip is worse than fussing over new things that I don’t need. Bonnets are my torment, and matinées are wearisome, for people whisper and flirt till the music is spoiled. Making calls is the worst of all; for what pleasure or profit is there in running from place to place to tell the same polite fibs over and over again, and listen to scandal that makes you pity or despise your neighbors. I shall not get up for any of these things.”

  Prue leaned on the bedpost meditating with an anxious face till a forlorn hope appeared which caused her to exclaim —

  “Mark and I are going to see Geoffrey Moor, this morning, just home from Switzerland, where his poor sister died, you know. You really ought to come with us and welcome him, for though you can hardly remember him, he’s been so long away, still, as one of the family, it is a proper compliment on your part. The drive will do you good, Geoffrey will be glad to see you, it is a lovely old place, and as you never saw the inside of the house you cannot complain that you are tired of that yet.”

  “Yes I can, for it will never seem as it has done, and I can no longer go where I please now that a master’s presence spoils its freedom and solitude for me. I don’t know him, and don’t care to, though his name is so familiar. New people always disappoint me, especially if I’ve heard them praised ever since I was born. I shall not get up for any Geoffrey Moor, so that bait fails.”

  Sylvia smiled involuntarily at her sister’s defeat, but Prue fell back upon her last resource in times like this. With a determined gesture she plunged her hand into an abysmal pocket, and from a miscellaneous collection of treasures selected a tiny vial, presenting it to Sylvia with a half pleading, half authoritative look and tone.

  “I’ll leave you in peace if you’ll only take a dose of chamomilla. It is so soothing, that instead of tiring yourself with all manner of fancies, you’ll drop into a quiet sleep, and by noon be ready to get up like a civilized being. Do take it, dear; just four sugar-plums, and I’m satisfied.”

  Sylvia received the bottle with a docile expression; but the next minute it flew out of the window, to be shivered on the walk below, while she said, laughing like a wilful creature as she was —

  “I have taken it in the only way I ever shall, and the sparrows can try its soothing effects with me; so be satisfied.”

  “Very well. I shall send for Dr. Baum, for I’m convinced that you are going to be ill. I shall say no more, but act as I think proper, because it’s like talking to the wind to reason with you in one of these perverse fits.”

  As Prue turned away, Sylvia frowned and called after her —

  “Spare yourself the trouble, for Dr. Baum will follow the chamomilla, if you bring him here. What does he know about health, a fat German, looking lager beer and talking sauer-kraut? Bring me bona fide sugar-plums and I’ll take them; but arsenic, mercury, and nightshade are not to my taste.”

  “Would you feel insulted if I ask whether your breakfast is to be sent up, or kept waiting till you choose to come down?”

  Prue looked rigidly calm, but Sylvia knew that she felt hurt, and with one of the sudden impulses which ruled her the frown melted to a smile, as drawing her sister down she kissed her in her most loving manner.

  “Dear old soul, I’ll be good by-and-by, but now I’m tired and cross, so let me keep out of every one’s way and drowse myself into a cheerier frame of mind. I want nothing but solitude, a draught of water, and a kiss.”

  Prue was mollified at once, and after stirring fussily about for several minutes gave her sister all she asked, and departed to the myriad small cares that made her happiness. As the door closed, Sylvia sighed a long sigh of relief, and folding her arms under her head drifted away into the land of dreams, where ennui is unknown.

  All the long summer morning she lay wrapt in sleeping and waking dreams, forgetful of the world about her, till her brother played the Wedding March upon her door on his way to lunch. The desire to avenge the sudden downfall of a lovely castle in the air roused Sylvia, and sent her down to skirmish with Mark. Before she could say a word, however, Prue began to talk in a steady stream, for the good soul had a habit of jumbling news, gossip, private opinions and public affairs into a colloquial hodge-podge, that was often as trying to the intellects as the risibles of her hearers.

  “Sylvia, we had a charming call, and Geoffrey sent his love to you. I asked him over to dinner, and we shall dine at six, because then my father can be with us. I shall have to go to town first, for there are a dozen things suffering for attention. You can’t wear a round hat and lawn jackets without a particle of set all summer. I want some things for dinner, — and the carpet must be got. What a lovely one Geoffrey had in the library! Then I must see if poor Mrs. Beck has had her leg comfortably off, find out if Freddy Lennox is dead, and order home the mosquito nettings. Now don’t read all the afternoon, and be ready to receive any one who may come if I should get belated.”

  The necessity of disposing of a suspended mouthful produced a lull, and Sylvia seized the moment to ask in a careless way, intended to bring her brother out upon his favorite topic, —

  “How did you find your saint, Mark?”

  “The same sunshiny soul as ever, though he has had enough to make him old and grave before his time. He is just what we need in our neighborhood, and particularly in our house, for we are a dismal set at times, and he will do us all a world of good.”

  “What will become of me, with a pious, prosy, perfect creature eternally haunting the house and exhorting me on the error of my ways!” cried Sylvia.

  “Don’t disturb yourself; he is not likely to take much notice of you; and it is not for an indolent, freakish midge to scoff at a man whom she does not know, and couldn’t appreciate if she did,” was Mark’s lofty reply.

  “I rather liked the appearance of the saint, however,” said Sylvia, with an expression of naughty malice, as she began her lunch.

  “Why, where did you see him!” exclaimed her brother.

  “I went over there yesterday to take a farewell run in the neglected garden before he came. I knew he was expected, but not that he was here; and when I saw the house open, I slipped in and peeped wherever I liked. You are right, Prue; it is a lovely old place.”

  “Now I know you did something dreadfully unladylike and improper. Put me out of suspense, I beg of you.”

  Prue’s distressful face and Mark’s surprise produced an inspiring effect upon Sylvia, who continued, with an air of demure satisfaction —

  “I strolled about, enjoying myself, till I got into the library, and there I rummaged, for it was a charming place, and I was happy as only those are who love books, and feel their influence in the silence of a room whose finest ornaments they are.”

  “I hope Moor came in and found you trespassing.”

  “No, I went out and caught him playing. When I’d stayed as long as I dared, and borrowed a very interesting old book —

  “Sylvia! did you really take one without asking?” cried Prue, looking almost as much alarmed as if she had stolen the spoons.

  “Yes; why not? I can apologize prettily, and it will open the way for more. I intend to browse over that library for the next six months.”

  “But it was such a liberty, — so rude, so — - dear, dear; and he as fond and careful of his books as if they were his children! Well, I wash my hands of it, and am prepared for anything now!”

  Mark enjoyed Sylvia’s pranks too much to reprove, so he only laughed while one sister lamented and the other placidly went on —

  “When I had put the book nicely in my pocket, Prue, I walked into the garden. But before I’d picked a single flower, I heard little Tilly laugh behind the hedge and some strange voice talking to her. So I hopped upon a roller to see, and nearly tumbled off again; for there was a man lying on the grass, with the gardener’s children rioting over him. Will was picking his pockets, and Tilly eating strawberries out of his hat, often thrusting one into the mouth of her long neighbor, who always smiled when the little hand came fumbling at his lips. You ought to have seen the pretty picture, Mark.”