Читать книгу A Secret Inheritance - B. L. Farjeon - Страница 12

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As I lay in this dreamy condition I became conscious that the music had ceased and that the players had departed. But I was not alone; Doctor Louis was with me.

These facts were made apparent by my inner sense, for I did not attempt to open my eyes. Indeed, without a determined effort I should not have succeeded. A wave of cold air passed over my eyelids; another; another. This did not proceed from an uncontrolled natural force; Doctor Louis had risen from his seat, and was now standing in close proximity to me. I did not pause to consider whether he had moved towards me stealthily, in order not to disturb me. I was content to accept certain facts without inquiry as to how they were produced. Again the wave of cold air across my eyelids; again; again.

"To seal them," was the expression of my thought. "So be it--but this learned doctor shall not quite succeed. He is endeavouring to magnetise me to his will, but my power is no less than his; it may be greater. Hidden force shall meet hidden force in friendly and amiable contest. He will not be aware that I am resisting him, and the advantage will be on my side. I will play with him as one skilled in fence plays with an apprentice. My dear doctor's power is the product of cultivation; he has learnt the art he practises. To me it is natural, born in my birth without a doubt. What matter how transmitted? That I am I is the potent fact; and being I, and of and in the world, I am, to myself, supreme. What to me would be the marvels of nature, the genius of centuries, the memorials of time from the first breath of creation, were I not in existence? Therefore am I, to myself, supreme. The present lives; the past is at rest. The future? A grey veil spreads itself before me, shutting out from my view the years of mortal life through which I have yet to pass. But I possess a talisman. I breathe upon the veil the form of a rose, white and most lovely, with just a tinge of creamy pink, and it dissolves into a vision of flowers, amidst which I walk, clasping a hand which, but that it is flesh and blood, might be the hand of an angel. It is an angel's hand--mine, and no other man's; mine, to gladden my hours, and to be for ever creative of joy, of peace, of beauty. How fair the view! I will have no other.

"I am not fearful that the doctor has evil intentions towards me; and truly I have none towards him. As regards our relations to each other, spiritual and temporal, nothing is yet fixed.

"I see him as he stands by my side waiting his turn. A grave, courteous, and kindly man, whose native instinct it must be to shrink from evil. Goodness and nobility are inherent in his nature. Not that he is devoid of cunning. Indeed, is he not practising it at the present moment? But it is cunning which must always be used to a just or good end. I do not unite the terms 'just' and 'good,' for the reason that they are sometimes at war with each other. What is a blessing to one man is frequently a curse to another. The doctor's cunning is just now weakened by the fact that it is as much the cunning of the heart as of the head that he is bringing to bear upon me. Mixed motives are rarely entirely successful. In enterprises upon which momentous issues hang, one dominant idea must be the supreme guide.

"He is not inimical to me, yet is he secretly disturbed--and I am the cause. Well, doctor, you picked me up in the woods and saved my life. Who, then, is the responsible one--you or I?

"Between us, for sympathy or repulsion, are a being and an influence which soon shall become resolved into a bridge or a chasm. I prefer that it shall be a bridge, but it may be that it will not depend upon me to make it this or that. Only, I will have my way. No power on earth shall mar the dearest wish of my heart.

"What being stands between you and me, dear doctor, to unite or sever? Ah, the fragrant air playing about my face, whispering of spring, of youth, of joy! Lying back in my chair, with eyes fast closed, I see the pink and white blossoms growing upwards into the clouds, kissing heaven. I am lifted heavenward. Delicious and most sweet! If death bear any resemblance to this state of beatitude, it were good to die. But I must live--I must live! A heaven awaits me in mortal life. Dear doctor, whom, unconscious to yourself, I am dominating even as you would dominate me, which is it to be--a bridge to join our hearts, or a chasm to hold them apart? The influence is Love, the being, Lauretta. You cannot quite see into my heart, nor can I quite see into yours, but the secret which includes love and Lauretta is yours for the asking. Also, for the asking, my resolve to win both love and her.

"But your inquisitiveness may travel beyond this point; you may seek to know too much, and I am armed to resist you. Nothing shall you glean from me that will be to my hurt, that will step between me and Lauretta. You shall obtain from me no pathognomonic sign which will enable you to lay your finger upon the secret of my midnight musings, and of my love for solitude. You shall not make me a witness against myself. True, I have heard silent voices and have seen invisible shapes. You would construe the bare fact to my disadvantage. You would be unable to understand that they are my slaves and have no power over me. All the dark thoughts they have suggested, all the temptings and instigations, will presently be slain by love, and will fall into a deep grave, to lie there for ever still and dead. I am as others are, human; my life, like the lives of other men, is imperfect. The purifying influence is at hand. I thank Thee, Creator of all the harmonies in the wondrous world, that Thou hast sent me Lauretta! Now, doctor, I am ready for you."

He spoke upon the instant.

"You and I have certain beliefs in common--as that we are not entirely creatures of chance. There is in all nature a design, down to its minutest point."

"So far as creation goes," I answered, "so far as this or that is brought into existence. There ends the design."

"Because the work is done," said Doctor Louis.

"Not so," I said. "Rather is it because nature's part is done. Then the true work commences, and man is the master."

"Nature can destroy."

"So can man; and, of the two, he is the more powerful in destruction. His work also is of a higher quality, because of the intelligence which directs it. He can go on or turn back. Nature creates forces which, apart from their creator, produce certain results--some beautiful and harmonious, some frightful and destructive. For these results nature is only indirectly responsible; the forces she creates work independently to their own end. When a great storm is about to burst, it is not in nature's power to will that it shall dissolve into gentleness. Hence, nature, all powerful up to a given point, is powerless beyond it."

"And man?"

"Is all powerful. He wills and executes. He aspires to win, and he works to win. He desires, and he schemes to gratify his desire." I paused, and as Doctor Louis did not immediately reply, continued: "If there is not perfect accord between us in large contentious matters upon which the wisest scientists differ, that is no reason why there should not be between us a perfect friendship."

"I am pleased to hear you say so; it means that you desire to retain my friendship."

"I earnestly desire it."

"And would make a sacrifice to retain it?"

"Sacrifice of what?"

"Of some wish that is dear to you," replied Doctor Louis.

"That depends," I said. "In entering upon a serious obligation it behoves a man to be specific. Doctor, we are drifting from the subject which occupies your mind. Concentration would be of advantage to you in any information you wish to obtain from me."

"The flower turns towards the sun," said Doctor Louis, after a pause, during which I knew that he was bringing himself back to the point he was aiming at, "and closes its leaves in the darkness. My view has been that man, though the highest in the scale, is not his own master; he is subject to the influences which affect lower grades of life. At the same time he has within him that with which no other form of life is gifted--discernment, and, as you have said, the power to advance or recede. It sometimes happens that an impulse, as noble as it is merciful, arrests his foot, and he says, 'No, I may bruise that flower,' and turns aside. You follow me?"

"Yes--but you are still generalising. Question me more plainly upon what you desire to know."

"You are a stranger among us?"

"I was; I do not look upon myself as a stranger now. Here have I found peace and fitness. Do not forget that, out of your goodness and generosity, you have treated me with affection."

"I do not forget it, and I pray that it may not lead to unhappiness."

"It is also my prayer--though you must remember that one man often enjoys at another man's expense."

"You have already told me something of yourself. Again I ask, what are you?"

"An English gentleman."

"Your father?"

"He was the same."

"Your mother?"

"A lady."

"Were you educated at a public school?"

"No; my studies were conducted at home by private tutors. We lived a life of privacy, and did not mix with the world."

"For any particular reason?"

"For none that I am aware of. It suited my parents so to live; it suited me also. Since the death of my parents I have seen much of the world, and derived but small enjoyment from it until destiny led me to Nerac."

"Destiny?"

"It is the only word, doctor, by which I can express myself clearly."

"During your illness you gave utterance to sentiments or ideas which impel me now to inquire whether, in the lives of either of your parents, there was that which would cause an honourable man to pause before he yields to a temptation which may draw an innocent being to destruction?"

"I would perish rather than destroy the flower in my path."

"You adopt my own figure of speech, but you do not answer my question--which proves that I have not complete power over you. Your sense of honour will not allow you to commit yourself to anything distinctly untruthful. Say there is that in your inner life which warns you that to touch would be to wither, would you stoop to gather the flower which it may be awaits your bidding?"

A glow of ineffable delight warmed my heart. "Do you know," I asked, "that it awaits me?"

"I know nothing absolutely. I am striving to perform a duty. An ordinarily wise man, foreseeing a storm, prepares for it; and when that storm threatens one who is dearer to him than life itself, he redoubles his precautions."

"As you are doing."

"As I am doing--though I am sadly conscious that my efforts may be vain."

"You are not my enemy?"

"On the contrary. I recognise in you noble qualities, but there is at the same time a mystery within you which troubles me.

"May you not be in error there?"

"It is possible. I speak from inward prompting, based upon observation and reflection."

"Dear doctor," I said, with a sense of satisfaction at the conviction that I was successfully probing him, "if I thought that my touch would blast the flower you speak of, I would fly the spot, and carry my unhappiness with me, so that only I should be the sufferer. But no need exists. Nothing lies at my door of which I am ashamed. No man, so far as I am aware, is my enemy, and I am no man's. I have never committed an act to another's hurt. You speak of my inner life. Does not every human being live two lives, and is there not in every life something which man should keep to himself. Were we to walk unmasked, we should hate and loathe each other, and saints would be stoned to death. We are maculate, and it is given to no man to probe the mystery of existence. There are pretenders, and you and I agree upon an estimate of them. If in private intercourse we were absolutely frank in our confession of temptations, gross thoughts, and uncommitted sins, it would inspire horror. The joys of life are destroyed by seeking too far. We are here, with all our imperfections. The wisest and truest philosophy is to make the best of them and of surrounding circumstances. Therefore when I see before me a path which leads to human happiness, I should be mad to turn from it. Will you not now ask questions to which I can return explicit answers?"

"You love?"

"Yes."

"Whom?"

"Lauretta."

"In honour?"

"In perfect honour. So pure a being could inspire none but a pure passion."

"You would make a sacrifice to render her happy?"

"I can make her happy without a sacrifice."

"But should the need arise?"

"If I were convinced of it, I would sacrifice my life for her. It would be valueless to me without her; it would be valueless with her did not her heart respond to the beating of mine."

"You have not spoken to her?"

"Of love? No."

"You will not, without my consent?"

"I cannot promise."

"You believe yourself worthy of her?"

"No man can be worthy of her, but I as much as any man."

"She is young for love."

"Those words should be addressed to nature not to me."

"Aspiring to win her, you would win her worthily?"

"It shall be my endeavour."

"I do not say she is easily swayed, but she is simple and confiding. She must have time to question her heart."

"What is it you demand of me?"

"That you should not woo her hastily. I am her father and her natural guardian. It would not be difficult for me to keep you and her apart."

"Do you contemplate an act so cruel?"

"Not at the present moment seriously, but it has suggested itself to me as the best safeguard I could adopt to save an inexperienced child from possible unhappiness."

"She would suffer."

"Less now than at some future time, when what is at present a transient feeling may become a faith, from which to tear her then would be to tear her heartstrings. You are, or would be, her lover; I am her father. Were you in my place and I in yours, you would act towards me as I am acting towards you. I repeat, you are a stranger among us; you must give us time to know more of you before I can take you by the hand and welcome you as a son. You must give my daughter time to know more of you before you ask her to take the most important step in a woman's life. It is in my power to-day to make my conditions absolute, and I intend to use my power.

"You require a guarantee from me?" I said.

"Yes."

"And if I give it, will it be the means of separating me from Lauretta?"

"No."

The fears which had begun to agitate me vanished. What guarantee could Doctor Louis demand which I would refuse to give, so long as I was permitted to enjoy Lauretta's society?

"State what you require," I said.

"I require a sacred promise from you, to be repeated when you are in full possession of your faculties, that, until the expiration of twelve months from this day, you will not seek to obtain from my daughter any direct or indirect pledge of love by which she will be likely to deem herself bound."

"On the understanding that I am a free agent to stay in Nerac or leave it, and that you will not, directly or indirectly, do anything to cause Lauretta and me to be separated, I give you the promise you demand."

"I am satisfied," said Doctor Louis.

"A moment," I said, a sudden vague suspicion disturbing me; "there is something forgotten."

"Name it."

"You will bind yourself not to use your parental authority over Lauretta to induce her to enter into an engagement with, or to marry, any other man than me."

"I willingly bind myself; my desire is that she shall be free to choose."

Those were the last words which passed between us on that occasion; and soon afterwards Doctor Louis left me to my musings. They were not entirely of a rosy hue. At first I was in a glow of happiness at what it seemed to me I had learnt from between the lines of Doctor Louis's utterances. If he had not had good reason to suppose that Lauretta loved me, he would not have sought the interview. What had been said was like a question asked and answered, a question upon which the happiness of my life depended. And it had been answered in my favour. Lauretta loved me! What other joys did the world contain for me? What others were needed? None. Blessed with Lauretta's love, all sources and founts of bliss were mine. It did not immediately occur to me that the probation of twelve months' delay before heart was joined to heart was a penance, or that there was danger in it. But certain words which Doctor Louis had uttered presently recurred to me with ominous significance: "My desire is that she shall be free to choose." To choose! Were there, then, others who aspired to win Lauretta? The thought was torture.

To debate the matter with myself in hot blood I felt would be unwise; therefore I schooled my mind to a calmer mood, and then proceeded to review the position in which I stood with respect to the being who was all the world to me.

It was not to be supposed that Lauretta had grown to womanhood without forming friendships and acquaintances, but I had seen nothing to lead to the belief that her heart had responded to love's call before I appeared. She was sweet and tender to all, but that it was in her nature to be, and I had allowed myself to be strangely self-deceived if the hope and the belief were false that in her bearing towards me there was a deeper, sweeter tenderness than she exhibited to others. That she was unconscious of this was cause for stronger hope. But did it exist, or was it simply the outcome of my own feelings which led the word of promise to my ear?

To arrive at a correct conclusion it was necessary that I should become better informed with respect to the social habits of Doctor Louis's family. I had been until this day confined to a sick room, but I was growing strong, and I had looked forward with tranquil satisfaction to the prospect of recovering my usual health by slow stages. This was no longer my desire. I must get well quickly; I would will myself into health and strength. I was sure that even now I could walk unaided. By a determined effort I rose to my feet, and advancing three or four steps forward, stood upright and unsupported. But I had overtaxed myself; nature asserted her power; I strove to retrace my steps to the chair, staggered, and would have fallen to the ground had it not been that a light form glided to my side and held me up. Lauretta's arm was round me.

"Shall I call my father?" she asked in alarm.

"No, no; do not speak, do not move; call no one; I shall be well in a moment. I was trying my strength."

"It was wrong of you," she said, in a tone of sweetest chiding. "Strength! You have none. Why, I could vanquish you!"

"You have done so, Lauretta."

She gazed at me in innocent surprise, and I equivocated by asking,

"You are not angry at my calling you Lauretta?"

"No, indeed," she replied; "I should feel strange if you called me by any other name. Lean on me, and I will guide you to your chair. You will not hurt me; I am stronger than you think."

Her touch, her voice with its note of exquisite sympathy, made me faint with happiness, I sank into the chair, and still retained her hand, which she did not withdraw from me.

"Do you feel better?"

"Much better, Lauretta, thanks to your sweet help. Remain with me a little while."

"Yes, I will. It was fortunate my father sent me to you, or you might have fallen to the ground with your rash experiment."

"Your father sent you to me, Lauretta?"

"Yes."

This proof of confidence, after what had passed between us, did wonders for me. A weight was lifted from my heart, a cloud from my eyes. I would prove myself worthy of his confidence.

"The colour has come back to your face," said Lauretta. "You are better."

"I am almost quite well, Lauretta. I have been so great a burden to you and your good parents that I thought it was time to give up my idle ways and show I was capable of waiting upon myself."

"It was very, very wrong of you," she repeated. "And as wrong to say you are a burden to us. It is almost as if you believed we thought you were. I must tell my dear mother to scold you."

"No, do not tell her, Lauretta; it might pain her. I did not mean what I said. Let it be a secret between us."

"A secret!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to my face. "I never had one; but there is no harm in this."

"You have no secrets, Lauretta?"

"Not one," she replied, with guileless frankness; "and I will promise that my mother shall not chide you if you will promise not to try to force yourself into strength. The wisest and cleverest man cannot do that. But perhaps you are weary of us, and wish to run away?"

"I should be content to remain here for ever, Lauretta."

"Well, then," she said gaily, "be patient for a few days, and, as my dear father would say, do not be inconsistent." She uttered the last four words in playful imitation of her father's voice, and I was enchanted with this revealment of innocent lightness in her nature. "But I am losing sight of his admonition."

"He bade you do something?"

"Yes; he said you might like me to read or play for you. Which shall I do?"

"Neither, Lauretta."

"Can I do nothing?"

"Yes; talk to me, Lauretta."

I was never tired of uttering her name. It was the sweetest word in all the languages.

"Well, then," she said, clasping her hands in her lap, she had gently withdrawn the hand I held, "what shall I talk about?"

"About your friends. When I am strong, I shall want to know them. Introduce me to them beforehand."

"I introduce you, then," she said with tender gravity, without losing touch of her lighter mood, "to everybody."

"Is everybody your friend, Lauretta?"

"Yes, everybody--truly! and it makes me very glad to know it."

"But there are special ones, Lauretta."

"Of course there are special ones. First, my dearest."

"Your parents?"

"Yes, they are the first, the best, the dearest. It is well known; my mother is an angel."

"I honour them, Lauretta."

"All do. That is why people like me; because I belong to them, and they to me."

"You are loved for yourself, Lauretta."

"No," she said, with pretty wilfulness, "because of them. Then there is Father Daniel, a saint, my mother says; then Eric and Emilius--and that is all, I think, who can be called special."

"Eric and Emilius?" I said, in the form of a question.

"Yes, they are brothers, handsome, brave, and strong. You will like them, I am sure you will."

Handsome, brave, and strong! I gave Lauretta a searching look, and she returned it smilingly. There was no blush, no self-consciousness. Why, then, should I feel disturbed? Why should Eric and Emilius become established in my mind as barriers to the happiness for which I yearned. I did not dare to trust myself to ask for information of these friends of Lauretta, so handsome, brave, and strong--I was fearful that my voice might betray me; and as I could converse on no other topic with ease, I remained silent while Lauretta chatted on sweetly and artlessly.