CHAPTER XLIV.
DAUGHTER OF THE GODS.
"Soft was the breath of balmy spring
In that fair month of May"
—GEO MURRAY.
Time flew brightly for some days, as an early spring, having poured its thousand rivulets out of the melting snows, began to dry the soil and instil into the willows and birches the essences that soon cover them with refreshing green, and earth suddenly teems with leafing and flying life, with odor of buds and laughing variety of shade and sun.
I, as is my nature, was deeply under the spell.
"Rossignolet du bois joli,
Emporte-moi-t-une lettre!"
Alexandra was coming home!
St. Helen's Island, named affectionately by Champlain after his fair young wife, Hélène, stretches its half-mile of park along the middle of the River opposite the city of Montreal. It is at all times a graceful sight; in summer by the refreshing shade of its deep groves beheld from the dusty city; in winter by the contrast of its flowing purple crest of trees with the flat white expanse of ice-covered river. The lower end, towards which the outlines of its double hill tend, is varied by the walls and flagstaffs of a military establishment, comprising some grey barracks, a row of officers' quarters, and a block-house, higher on the hill. In former times, when British redcoats were stationed here, and military society made the dashing feature in fashionable life, when gay and high-born parties scattered their laughter through the trim groves, improved and kept in shape by labor of the rank and file, and "the Fusileers and the Grenadiers" marched in or out with band and famous colors flying, and the regimental goat or dog, and shooting practice, officers' cricket and football matches, and mess dinners, kept the island lively and picturesque, St. Helen's was a theatre of unceasing charm to the citizens.
"Is she here yet?" I asked, eagerly grasping the hand of Grace, who, more exceedingly pretty than ever, had invited all their friends to meet them on the island, in the grove, "I am delighted to see you back. It is almost worth the absence."
"And I welcome you as Noah the dove, after the waste of waters," exclaimed she, laughing. "But I must answer your first question before it is repeated. No, mon frère, I am afraid she is not to be here to day. She is a little ill with fatigue."
"O my poor friend!" I exclaimed, and led Grace down the avenue of leafing trees in which we were; for this grove had been planted in regular walks by the garrison forty years before, and the turf had been sown with grass that sprang up at that season a vivid green. The dell had been a theatre of the gaieties of days past. To me it was deserted loveliness—a scene prepared and not occupied.
"Is she very ill?"
"No; merely tired. You see she is a thousand times more industrious than I. Nothing could content her over there unless she was putting out her utmost. She said it was her ambition to improve, like the great men and women; that she was strong and ought to make up for some of her imperfections by greater diligence. I never saw anyone so anxious to do a thing perfectly. The great Bertini in Florence said of her—'She will certainly be greater than Angelica Kauffman.' … 'Alexandra,' he said, 'will rank with men.' The egotism of the creature! You see there are others who admire her besides yourself."
"None more passionately."
"I thought so.—But look this way, Tityrus," said she, wheeling quickly and stepping forward. "How do you do, Alexandra!"
There she stood, pale and ill, but proud of carriage as ever.
"So you came after all? Here is Mr. Haviland, gladder even than I to see you!"
I saw Grace, in a moment, the duties of hostess being temporarily undertaken by Annie, walking down a path with soldierly Lockhart Mackenzie, who had come over from the "quarters" in his uniform.
Alexandra and I found ourselves wandering into the wood and climbing the hillside at the loftiest point of the Island, where, on the summit, the trees permitted us a wide view of the St. Lawrence, its islands and ships and the open country; while the afternoon sunlight fell brokenly upon the faint colors of her face and her golden hair.
"Do you admire distant landscapes?" I asked constrainedly.
"They remind me of high aims and the broad views of great minds," returned she, looking outward.
"You favor aiming high," I said, "I always thought so of you."
She turned her glance for a moment to me, and asked seriously: "How can people aim low? Do you know the lines of Goëthe:"
"Thou must either strive and rise,
Or thou must sink and die."
Daughter of the immortals!
"I wonder what you will say of my aims," I stammered.
"May you tell them? I should like very much to hear." And as she seemed to bend from a queen into a womanly companion, I noticed my gift, the brooch of Roman mosaic, on her breast.
While she listened, for I told her fully the story of my quest for the highest things, its strange solution, and my present purposes, I was surprised to discover that her intelligence was master of the whole without effort. "O, I have often talked philosophy with Mr. Quinet," she explained. Her spiritual eyes glistened with profound beautiful depths as she looked down into the forest-shades before us. A color had suffused itself over her face so lovely that the glorified creature beside me seemed to surpass my intensest ideal.
"It is the Voice of the Universe," she said, and her cheeks flushed,
"I once heard the Spirit of All, called, 'Heart of Heaven, Heart of
Earth,' and I added 'Heart of Man.' Obey it, obey your best thoughts."
She looked at me with such a glance of sacred sympathy, that—O joy, the
first words filling life with fragrance have been spoken!
* * * * *
It was short, our sweet bridal and few days of united life, and of bliss at the old château d'Esneval. Gravely ill,—worse,—recovering,—then DEAD. O God, was it possible?
Yes; I saw her lying amid garlands of evergreens and white robes, in a low-lighted chamber of the château, still and transfigured into a changed, unearthly beauty, the alas! so thin lips lightly parted in a smile, the abundant golden hair I used to admire brushed neatly away from her forehead, the darkened eyelids that told of long exhaustion peacefully closed as if on visions of heaven—as if she saw God, being pure in heart. Supernaturally lovely as her soul had been through life the wearied sufferer lay in death, white tuberoses pressing her poor thin cheek—one purity affectionate to another. Ah, it was a vision. I never saw one on whom Heaven loved so constantly to breathe sweetness. Neither health could roughen her beauty nor sickness drive it away: for the soul, after all, will shine through the body, will lift it up, and if glorious will leave it worthy of itself.
* * * * *
Alas, ungovernable, passionate grief! Alas the sight of heart-broken friends and painful rites of burial, the anguish of bereavement, the irresistible longing to die and be with her;—and Quinet's grief also; for then he had confessed that he had loved her too.
* * * * *
And now we who knew her recognise that she was sent into this world for a season, and tenderly watched and favored of heaven for high purposes—for the stirring example and strong influence of a short but lofty life.
In moments of weakness the irresistible longing to go to her returns upon me, but it is she whose Athênê vision impels to throw it off, to stand ground firmly and push forward with determination towards the years which must be endured, and the glorious work which calk to be achieved. Canada, beloved, thy cause is led by an angel!
* * * * *
What of Quinet? Noble friend, when I gave way unlike a man (though that is with God, who knows how much hearts can bear); he it was who held his own despair sternly back and put out efforts to solace and quiet mine. In these years he has grown stronger, but become ascetic towards the outer world—an Ishmaelite who cares not to own himself a son of Abraham, but lives wild in the deserts of philosophy on locusts and wild honey. He will never marry, but has devoted himself to the problems of the Secret of the World, in which he too believes, though his studies have led him far more scientifically than me; and yet in his hours of thought, I know that a vision of beauty and a sweet voice will often startle him, and he rises then into scenes of his loftiest, grandest life. O, Alexandra! Alexandra!