Читать книгу A Daughter Of Israel - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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On the incense-burdened air, odorous from Nature's spicy breathings, there floated a babble of melody, falling like a plummet from the heavens, as a lark sailing upwards brimmed over with the music of his soul. Like a wide-spreading sheet of glimmering jewels the sea stretched away into the faint, luminous distance, silent and lonely, save where the sun lingered on a far-off sail, and flushed it with a golden glory, or a white-winged gull flashed like a silver scimitar against the boundless blue. The tiny waves, curled in breaking upon the velvet sands, splashing the rocky sentinels, impervious to storm or tempest as they had been for generations. Seven years had been a brief day in their long lives. So quiet was it there that it seemed hard to believe in the smoking chimneys and roaring furnaces of Westport, only four miles away, except when you turned from the ocean contemplation inland to look towards the drifting pall behind.

It was so quiet and beautiful there on this perfect summer afternoon that one might have felt inclined to wonder that no one had chosen the fair seclusion of the hoary rocks for idle contemplation. But there were two people there gazing seaward and hidden from human ken, as was but natural, for they were lovers, and her head rested upon his shoulder, whilst his arm was round her waist. They seemed like someone we have seen before, alike and yet different, till we realize that seven years ago Hazael Abraham must have been younger than he looks now.

It was a handsome face in a bold fashion, such a people as Murello loved to delineate, dark and swarth, but bearing no trace of that greed, or avarice, or worldliness which manhood sometimes brings. His companion was slighter and more fair, with but little trace of her genealogy upon her features—all beautiful now from the lovelight in her eyes.

"I should like to know," said Hazael, at length, with the air of one who has taken up a broken thread, "where it is going to end, Aurora."

Aurora Meyer, for it was she, smiled dreamily. There was such an infinite content in the present; the world seemed so far off. 'Juliet,' when she pleaded with her lover for a few moments more, never more completely forgot the traditions of her race than this lovelorn damsel now.

"I don't know," she laughed; "I don't care. I have forgotten Westport, and I have you. I am intoxicated with the champagne of Nature; I cannot think."

"I have always been trained," Hazael pursued, didactically, "to hate certain persons, but I must have learnt my lesson badly. First of all, it is Sir Percival Decie and his son Victor. He and I are the best of friends. Then your people. It is certainly true that I don't like them."

"And I don't like yours," replied Aurora; "so there we are quits."

Hazael laughed, as in duty bound, and turned to contemplate his companion's glowing face. It was strange, he thought, that in spite of all his rigid training, with dislike and loathing so carefully inculcated, that he should be here now with the daughter of an hereditary foe by his side, and love for her in his heart. In idle speculation, now, he traced back the hours from the time when acquaintance had developed into friendship, and friendship into admiration. The secret meetings like this one now, stolen with a few bright hours from the leaden casket of Time, the brightest moments of youth and passion.

"They must know some time," he continued; "the question is, when? It will be a hard day for us, but I have friends who will help me. Besides, I shall have Miriam upon my side."

"Can you count upon her?" Aurora asked, with some eagerness. "For your sake will she ever care for me? It is years since we have spoken, but I have always admired your sister, Hazael. She has power?"

"She has more influence than anyone in the house; more, a great deal, than Abishai, in spite of his money. My—my father would have taken possession of everything if it had not been for her."

"She is very beautiful," Aurora answered; "but so stern."

"No; not that, but she is just. Sometimes I feel almost afraid of her; and yet she would do anything for me. If I were to tell her how we stand, that we are man and wife, she would look at me with those great scornful eyes of hers, but she would guard me from danger if she could."

Aurora shivered a little, conscious of some uneasy feeling. The lark had ceased his melody, and fallen sheer from the hazy sky; a thin track of cloud, gossamer as a bridal veil, had trailed across the sloping sun; a low moan came whispering over the silver sea.

"I hope there will be no danger," she said, quietly; "though I am afraid at times. You are a man, and cannot understand these things. But sometimes, when I have not seen you for a day or two, I get uneasy and restless, and then every sound makes my heart beat. Besides, I am afraid of Ruth."

"Poor Ruth!" Hazael laughed. With the unconscious audacity of youth, which sees nothing admirable in common things, the plain elder sister was always an object for languid pity. "Poor Ruth! And what have you need to fear with her?"

"I may be wrong," replied Aurora; "it may be fancy only; but I think she knows. I have watched her carefully."

"But she would say nothing for your sake. Surely, a sister——"

"Hazael, listen to me." She laid her hand upon his arm, a deep flush upon her face as she spoke. "I may be wrong in telling you what I am going to tell you now. In that book of poems you lent me I read of many things I was ignorant of before. There was a play called 'The Mourning Bride.' I liked that so well that I read it through. I was thinking of Ruth at the time, wondering what had come between us lately, when I came across a line which struck me strangely. Would you like to know?"

"If you will tell me—yes. But what has that to do with us?"

"Listen. The line was 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!'"

Hazael glanced into Aurora's flushed face with a look of purest astonishment.

For a time he failed to grasp the spirit of the words. Then, as it flashed upon him, the scarlet in Aurora's features was reflected in his own.

"Impossible!" he cried. "She never sees me. I have not spoken to her for years."

"Nevertheless, I am right. You do not know Ruth as I do; how passionate she is, and what headstrong fancies she takes. I do not think she could love purely and suffer for love's sake. It would rather be a blind, wilful passion."

"But, consider, dearest, what you are saying. In the first place, we are strangers, though we have many kindred ties. Oh! it is impossible."

"I may as well tell you all," said Aurora, with some hesitation. "I have become so accustomed to deceit now that I am constantly looking for it in others. And this fancy has taken such a hold upon my imagination that I felt bound to try it. When Ruth and I are alone together I talk of you—I mention your name suddenly. Ah! you should see the effect it has. One night, in her sleep, she spoke your name, 'Hazael,' softly, just like this. I am mistaken? Would that I could think so."

"It is flattering enough, no doubt, but somewhat alarming, too," said Hazael, ruefully. "In my wildest dreams I never expected this. But, after all, she is your sister; and, besides, if she has taken a fancy for me, she will doubtless act the part of the self-denying heroine of the story book."

"Unfortunately Ruth is not a story book heroine, but a hot-blooded, passionate woman," Aurora replied, cynically. "All our lives we have not been drawn together as sisters usually are; there are few ties of sympathy between us."

"But do you think Ruth actually suspects?"

"I am afraid so; I am afraid of being followed and discovered. Every day it seems to be harder for me to get away—some obstacle is placed in the way. Oh, Hazael, cannot you see some way out of the difficulty?"

Hazael calmed these rising fears, chasing the shadows away by soothing words and caresses, sweet and fresh enough in themselves, but the same for all times and ages. Not that he felt too easy in his own mind, for, say as you will, stolen pleasures have a certain bitter mingled with the sweets.

"I suppose Abishai would not help you?" Aurora asked, doubtfully.

"For value received, perhaps,"—with a faint sneer; "only, unfortunately, I have nothing of value to tender for his services. I don't think it would be any exaggeration to say that Abishai would do anything for money. It is a nice reputation for a young man he has—the Westport miser. It seems hard that I should be so poor, and he worth thousands. Speedwell, again——"

"I hate that man!" Aurora exclaimed, with a shiver. "I often wonder if he has any heart. What Miriam can see in him——"

"Much the same that we do," Hazael answered, dryly. "You don't suppose she cares for the fellow; not but what he would do anything for her, but she is meet for better men than he."

There was a long silence again. The waves came rolling in close to the giant rocks, throwing foamy wreaths of spray over the brown seaweed, which swayed in the translucent water like a tangle of snakes at play. The sun slanted over the distant waters far away behind a glowing tract of rose pink and deep orange gold, save where a sail had crossed the shining pathway, where it lingered, a dull, blood-red spot, upon the radiant glory. From the sloping cornlands behind came a faint wailing call as the glossy crows whirled up wildly from the fields of emerald grain.

There was with it all a stillness which invited sympathy and confidence; the hour and time when heart goes out to heart, and all things artificial are forgotten.

The sun lay full upon Aurora's face, bathing it in a flood of light till it seemed something etherial and almost holy.

"It cannot last like this," she said, partly to herself.

"I know it," Hazael answered, practically. "But what can I do? My employers at the bank might raise my salary, particularly if Mr. Lockwood would say a good word for me. Perhaps I have never told you that it is a rule with them that a clerk shall not marry until his income reaches a hundred and fifty pounds a year. I fear sometimes that we have been too hasty, Aurora. We might have been more patient."

"I would have waited," the girl answered, with a drooping lip. "Remember, that is what I asked for. You are not sorry?"

"No, no," Hazael hastened to reply; "surely not. I am blaming myself for the selfishness I have shown. My darling, I would not undo it if I could."

Aurora's face lightened with a pleased smile. The sun was still upon her, but now the golden flush was tinged with a faint pink hue. For a moment she hesitated, as if about to speak in spite of failing courage.

"I am glad to hear you say that," she murmured, "because it gives me confidence. Hazael, have you never wondered, have you never anticipated anything beyond our own happiness—nothing else, but love?"

"And a cottage, as the man says in the play, with bread and cheese to commence with. Is that what you mean?"

"A cottage, yes. And did it never strike you that in our home, when it does come, that we shall not always be alone?"

"Go on," said Hazael, quietly. His words were low, but there was something in his throat which seemed to rise up and choke him. "But tell me all."

"I would not tell you that until I was certain. Now I know. If we were together and could face the world, it would make me happy, but I cannot tell what to do now. Two months is not long."

Hazael made no reply. He watched the sun's red rim dip below the golden waters, and die in a bath of glory, but he saw nothing there. Aurora never took her eyes from his face, striving to read something of comfort or seeing sympathy.