And so saying, she drew her shawl around her, and strolled lazily towards the house, while the Captain, selecting another cheroot, sat himself down in a snug spot in the arbor to muse, and meditate, and moralize after his fashion. Had any one been there to mark him as he gazed upwards at the starry sky, he might readily have deemed him one lost in heavenly contemplation, deep in that speculative wisdom that leaves the frontier of this narrow life far, far behind, and soars to realms nobler, vaster, grander. But not so were his thoughts; they were earthy of the earthiest, craft and subtlety crossed and recrossed them, and in all their complex web not one chord was to be found which could vibrate with an honest wish or a generous aspiration. There was not, nevertheless, a ruddier complexion, a brighter eye, a merrier voice, or a better digestion than his in Christendom.
CHAPTER XXXIX. FROM CLARA
It was just as Alfred Layton stepped into the boat to row out to the “Asia,” bound for New York, that a letter from Clara was placed in his hands. He read it as they rowed along,—read it twice, thrice over. It was a strange letter—at least, he thought so—from one so very young. There was a tone of frankness almost sisterly, but there was, in alluding to the happy past, a something of tenderness half shadowed forth that thrilled strangely through his heart. How she seemed to love those lessons he had once thought she felt to be mere tasks! How many words he had uttered at random,—words of praise or blame, as it might be; she had treasured all up, just as she had hoarded the flowers he had given her. What a wondrous sensation it is to feel that a chance expression we have used, a few stray words, have been stored up as precious memories! Is there any flattery like it? What an ecstasy to feel that we could impart value to the veriest commonplace, and, without an effort, without even a will, sit enthroned within some other heart!
What wisdom there was in that old fable of the husbandman, who bequeathed the treasure to his sons to be discovered by carefully turning over the soil of their land, delving and digging it industriously! How applicable is the lesson it teaches to what goes on in our daily lives, where, ever in search of one form of wealth, our labors lead us to discover some other of which we knew nothing! Little had Alfred Layton ever suspected that, while seeking to gain May's affection, he was winning another heart; little knew he that in that atmosphere of love his deep devotion made, she—scarcely more than a child—lived and breathed, mingling thoughts of him through all the efforts of her mind, till he became the mainspring of every ambition that possessed her. And now he knew it all. Yes, she confessed, as one never again fated to meet him, that she loved him. “If,” wrote she, “it is inexpressible relief to me to own this, I can do so with less shame that I ask no return of affection; I give you my heart, as I give that which has no value, save that I feel it is with you, to go along with you through all the straits and difficulties of your life, to nourish hope for your success and sorrow for your failure, but never to meet you more.... Nor,” said she, in another place, “do I disguise from myself the danger of this confession. They say it is man's nature to despise the gift which comes unasked,—the unsought heart is but an undesired realm. Be it so. So long as the thought fills me that you are its lord, so long as to myself I whisper vows of loyalty, I am not worthless in my own esteem. I can say, 'He would like this; he would praise me for that; some word of good cheer would aid me here; how joyously he would greet me as I reached this goal!”
“Bravely borne, dear Clara! would requite me for a cruel sacrifice. You are too generous to deny me this much, and I ask no more. None of us can be the worse of good wishes, none be less fortunate that daily blessings are entreated for us. Mine go with you everywhere and always.”
These lines, read and re-read so often, weighed heavily on Layton's heart; and she who wrote them was never for an instant from his thoughts. At first, sorrow and a sense of self-reproach were his only sentiments; but gradually another feeling supervened. There is not anything which supplies to the heart the want of being cared for. There is that companionship in being loved, without which life is the dreariest of all solitudes. As we are obliged to refer all our actions to a standard of right and wrong, so by a like rule all our emotions must be brought before another court,—the heart that loves us; and he who has not this appeal is a wretched outlaw! This Layton now began to feel, and every day strengthened the conviction. The last few lines of the letter, too, gave an unspeakable interest to the whole. They ran thus:—
“I know not what change has come over my life, or is to come, but I am to be separated from my mother, intrusted to a guardian I have never seen till now, and sent I know not whither. All that I am told is that our narrow fortune requires I should make an effort for my own support. I am grateful to the adversity that snatches me from a life of thought to one of labor. The weariness of work will be far easier to bear than the repinings of indolence. Self-reproach will be less poignant, too, when not associated with self-indulgence; and, better than all, a thousand times better, I shall feel in my toil some similitude to him whom I love,—feel, when my tired brain seeks rest, some unseen thread links my weariness to his, and blends our thoughts together in our dreams, fellow-laborers at least in life, if not lovers!”
When he had read thus far, and was still contemplating the lines, a small slip, carefully sealed in two places, fell from the letter. It was inscribed “My Secret.” Alfred tore it open eagerly. The contents were very brief, and ran thus:—
“She whom I had believed to be my mother is not so. She is nothing to me. I am an orphan. I know nothing of those belonging to me, nor of myself, any more than that my name is not, 'Clara Morris.'”