A Beautiful Alien Part 10

Noel knew the little song well, and in his fancy the full, pathetic voice gave it a sound and meaning that his longing heart desired to hear in it. The thrilling voice sang on, low and deep and full:

"The stream in its flowing, its flowing, Shall bear us adown to the sea.

I am weary with rowing, with rowing, I yield me to love and to thee.

I can struggle no longer, no longer, Here in thine arms let me lie, In thine arms which are stronger, are stronger Than all on the earth, let me die."

The sweet voice trembled as the song came to an end, and Christine, with a swift, impulsive movement, put her elbows on the keys of the piano, making a harsh discord of sound, and dropped her face in her hands. She remained so, without moving, for several minutes, while Noel, thrilling in all his senses to the power of that subtly sweet song, kept also profoundly still. He felt it was his only safety. If he had moved, it must have been to clasp her in his arms.

At last she rose to her feet and began to put the music in order. It was a moment when life, for each of them, seemed very hard. And yet, to one who looked and saw them so, it seemed as if the best that earth could offer might be theirs, and that they were made and fashioned to have and to enjoy it.

The pretty room was a soft glow of firelight and lamplight mingled. The rich harmonies of dark color made by carpets, hangings and furniture were lighted here and there by an infinite number of the charming little things that are the perfecting touches of a tasteful room. A bunch of freshly-gathered autumn leaves was ma.s.sed under the light from the shaded lamp. Near by sat Christine. She had taken up a strip of gorgeous embroidery in her hands, and was bending above it and trying hard to put her st.i.tches in with care. To-night there was a steady flush in her cheeks that made her look more beautiful than he had ever seen her. He advanced a step or two, and stood, unseen, at a little distance from her, making unconsciously a complement to the picture. He took a step forward--and she heard the sound and lifted her head. He came nearer and his voice was sweet and thrilling as he said her name:

"Christine."

She raised her eyes and looked at him; but they dropped before his steady gaze, and she did not answer.

"Let me speak to you a little, dear Christine," he went on, taking a seat near her. He had himself well in hand and was determined not to blunder. Christine sat opposite and drew her needle through and through, saying neither yes nor no. "I want to be very careful not to hurt you,"

Noel went on, "but I have had it on my mind a long, long time to talk to you about yourself. Do you intend to lead always, without change or variation, the isolated, dull, restricted life you are leading now?"

"Oh, don't speak to me of any change!" she said entreatingly. "You have been so good to me. Be good to me still. Let me stay here, as I am, in this heaven of rest and peace. Mrs. Murray will keep me. She is not tired of me. She loves to have me, and it is my one idea of blessedness and comfort and rest."

Her voice was agitated almost to tears, and she had dropped her work and clasped her hands together with a piteousness of appeal.

"No one will hinder you, Christine," he said. "Mrs. Murray is made better and brighter and happier by your presence every day, and it would be only the greatest grief to her to part with you. This is your sure and safe and certain home as long as she lives, unless, of your own choice, you should choose to change it."

Christine shook her head with a denial of the thought that was almost indignant.

"Never," she said, "oh, never, never! I only ask to stay here, as I am, until I die."

"Christine," he said, and she could feel his strong gaze on her, through her lowered lids, "try to be honest with your own heart. Listen to its voice and you will have to own you are not happy."

"Happy! How could I ever expect to be? It would be a shame to me even to think of it. Oh, you do not know a woman's nature, or you could not talk to me of happiness."

"I know your woman's nature, Christine--well enough to reverence it and kneel to it, and I am not afraid to tell you you are outraging and wronging it, by shutting out happiness from your heart. What is there to hinder you from being happy? And oh, Christine, I know at least, there is no happiness but love."

A silence, solemn and still as death, followed these fervent, low-toned words. He could see the fluttering of her breath, and the look of deep, affrighted pain upon her face made his heart quiver.

"Christine," he murmured in a voice grown softer and lower still, "try not to be frightened or distressed. I cannot hold back my heart any longer. I love you--dear and good and n.o.ble one. If you could only love me a little, in return, I could make you so happy. I know I could, Christine, and as for me--why my life, if you refuse me your love, is worthless and wasted and dead. Oh, Christine, you are the very treasure of my heart, whether you will or no. Be my wife. You can make my happiness, as surely as I, if you will let me, can make yours."

He would not venture to take her hand, but he held out his to her, saying in a voice that had sunk to a whisper:

"Only put your hand in mine, Christine, in token that you will try to love me a little, and I will wait for all the rest."

He had bent very close to her, and she felt his breath against her hair as his pa.s.sionate whisper fell upon her ear. Her heart thrilled to it, but she got up stiffly to her feet, bending her body away from him and covering her eyes, for a moment, with her hand.

Noel, who had risen too, stepped backward instantly. He saw her lips compressed convulsively as if in pain, and, for her sake, he thrust down into his heart its great longing, and forced himself to think of her alone. It cut him like a knife to see that she drew away from him.

"Don't shrink from me, Christine," he said. "If it distresses you for me to speak I can be silent. I was obliged to tell you, but there it can stop. I have laid the offering of my love and life before you and there it is for you to take or leave. Perhaps I have startled you. If you will only think about it and try to get used to the idea--"

But Christine had found her voice.

"I cannot think of it!" she cried. "I utterly refuse to think of it. Oh, I am more miserable than ever I have been yet! If I am to make you unhappy--if I am to spoil your life--"

"You have beautified and glorified and crowned it with love, Christine.

I should have gone to my grave without it, if you had not given it to me. It is a G.o.dlike thing to feel what I feel for you. Come what may I shall never be sorry for it. You have nothing to reproach yourself with."

Christine was very pale. She felt herself trembling as she sank into a chair and clasped her hands about her knee. Noel too sat down, but farther away from her than he had been before.

"I entreat you not to be distressed--" he began, but she interrupted him.

"Oh, I feel--I cannot tell you what I feel," she said. "Was ever a woman at once so honored and so shamed? How could I give to any man a ruined life like mine, and yet G.o.d knows how it is sweet to me to know you have this feeling for me--to know that I may still arouse in such a heart as yours this highest, holiest, purest, best of all the heart can give. Oh, I pray G.o.d to let you feel and know the joy it is to me--and yet I'd rather cut off my right hand than listen even to the thought of marrying you."

Noel could not understand her. The look in her face completely baffled him.

"Christine," he said, "there is but one thing to do. On one thing alone the whole matter rests. Look at me."

His voice was resolute, though it was so gentle, and in obedience to its bidding Christine raised her eyes to his.

"Answer me this, Christine. Do you love me?"

And looking straight into his eyes she answered:

"No."

Noel rose from his seat and crossed over to the fire, where he stood with his back toward her. He did not see the pa.s.sionate gesture with which she strained her clasped hands to her breast a moment and then stretched them out toward him. In a second she withdrew them and let them fall in her lap. Her heart reproached her for the falseness of her tongue, and this had been a pa.s.sionate impulse of atonement to him for the wrong that she had done. But stronger than her heart was the other voice that told her to make her utmost effort to keep up the deceit, for in the moment that the knowledge came to her that her heart, for the first time, was possessed by a true and mighty love an instinct stronger than that love itself compelled her to deny it--to give any answer, go any length, do anything sooner than make an admission by which she might be betrayed into doing a great and ineradicable wrong to the man she loved. Yes, the man she loved! For one second's s.p.a.ce she let the inward flame leap up, and then she forced it back and smothered it down, with all the power that was in her.

When Noel turned, his face was calm and he spoke, too, in a controlled and quiet voice.

"We will not be the less friends for this, Christine," he said; "the best that is left to me is to be near you when I can. You will not forbid me this?"

He saw that her eyes consented. To save her life she could not deny him this--or deny herself. Which was it that she thought of first?

"I think it best that Mrs. Murray should not know of it," he said, and again she consented without speaking.

"I shall come as usual," he went on, "and, Christine, never reproach yourself. Never dream but that it is more joy than I could ever have had in any other way, only to come and see you and be near you and hear you speak sometimes. Good-night," he added, taking her cold, little hand in a gentle clasp. "It is the last time. You will see how faithful I will be. But once for all--Christine, Christine, Christine!--let me tell you that I love you with as great and true and strong a love as ever man had for woman. You seem to me a being between earth and Heaven--better than men and women here, and only a little below the angels."

She felt the hand that held hers loose its hold, the kind voice died away, a door far off shut to, and Christine, rousing herself, looked about her and found that she was alone.

XIV.

Two evenings later Noel called again, finding Mrs. Murray recovered and able to join the group around the table as usual. There was no consciousness expressed in the eyes of either Christine or himself as they met. At first she was very grave and silent, but under the influence of his easy talk her manner became perfectly natural, and at the close of the evening she found herself wondering if the exciting occurrences of their last meeting could be reality. Noel read aloud most of the evening an agreeable, unexciting book, and Christine thanked him from her heart that he did not ask, as usual, for music.

As for Mrs. Murray, as the days went on she found herself continually wondering that such a state of things could last. She was perfectly sure of Noel's feeling, and she thought its continued entire suppression very strange. She was often tempted to make some excuse to leave them alone, but a fear of the consequences held her back, for she was absolutely unable to calculate upon Christine. She had not the courage to lift a finger in the matter.

Almost imperceptibly a change was coming over Christine, and by degrees Mrs. Murray became aware of it. She grew more silent and fond of being alone. She even went out now and took long, companionless walks, coming home exhausted and preoccupied. "Poor girl!" thought her kind, old friend. "She is very unhappy, and for a little while, in her deliverance from a worse unhappiness, she had managed to forget it partly."