CAPÍTULO 36.
MARGARET’S first impulse was to implore the captain to put back, in order that she might send messengers after James. Then she commenced to blame herself for not having detected his intention. Se recounted to herself every peculiarity of his demeanour since the first announcement of their departure; particularly the unusual tenderness of his manner on the journey, and, above all, his mode of taking leave of her on the previous night. These things, seen in the light of the present fact, made all so clear to her, that she inveighed bitterly against her own blindness in not seeing them before, and led her to inflict on herself fierce self-reproach for having, as she fancied, allowed herself to be so pre-occupied by her own feelings and emotions as to allow all else to escape unnoticed.
It was long before this last sentiment ceased to predominate in her mind, as was
natural to one whose disposition it was ever the seek within her own self for
the origin of every evil that occurred in connection with her. Mingled with this
feeling, however, was one of anger with James, for the liberty he had taken in
putting such a burden upon Edmund without first asking his leave. And how could he know that such an assignment of her
to Noel’s protection would not be most unwelcome to herself? This last thought
produced an involuntary smile; and that smile, when she became conscious of it,
broke up her reverie, and restored her to active practical thought. Her husband
gone, her duty lay now with her children. Summoning her maid, she bade her make
up a berth for one of the children in her own cabin, as she intended to have one
always with her during the passage. The girl, a warm-hearted little
mestiza, with sallow skin and dark eyes, assured her mistress that she could
very well take care of both, and that it would disturb el Señor to have a child in his cabin. Her eyes opened very wide when told
that el Señor was not coming, and had returned to the Real, and that
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el señor hermano would see them safe home; and then she set herself to make the required changes. The movement of the vessel, however, proved too much for the poor little body, and she was forced to retire, leaving Margaret to do it all herself. Noel, peeping into the corridor, saw the maid sitting in attitude of despair, and the little girls standing by gazing wonderingly upon her, and then he saw Margaret passing rapidly from one cabin to the other. Whereupon, perceiving the position of affairs, he advanced to the children, and taking a hand of each, said in a loud and cheerful voice, ‘Come up-stairs with uncle, and see the pretty waves,’ and so carried them off until breakfast time, when, the maid being still out of the question, he sent them into their mother’s cabin, telling them to be sure and make mamma have some breakfast herself. In the afternoon he received a little note from her, thanking him for his thoughtfulness, and saying that she would try to get on deck in the evening, when the children were asleep.
In the evening they met. Her manner was intensely calm. In the most matter-of-course way, she took his arm for a walk, and after a few turns in silence, they sat down. Neither of them had spoken yet, and in the beauty of the tropic night, and the weird strangeness of the position and the scene, each felt that silence was more expressive than words. At length Margaret drew a long sigh, and said, as if to herself, –
‘What poor fools we mortals are. So thin a veil between us and reality, and all our senses are incapable of piercing it. It seems so easy now to have perceived and prevented James’s intention, and to have escaped the bitter punishment due to my blindness. For the first time in my life I shrink from that future state, where we shall have to look back in the spirit and see how very little mere knowledge would have kept us from the mistakes of our lives.’
‘Life without mistakes! What would become of our education? Ah Margaret! James was right when he said you were not meant for this world; and you stumbled upon the truth the other night when you said you had lost your way and come here by mistake. To me, it is a comfort to think that you were not deemed quite perfect enough to dispense with this world as a sort of finishing school. It quite accords with his theories about love in life. You left heaven to learn that. I suspect that when once you have learnt your lesson you will not be sent back hither again. So I must make the most of you here; and when
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we meet there, you must condescend from your high sphere and help me.’
‘You have a right to be bitter,’ she said. ‘You cannot feel it more than I do.’
‘Margaret, you know in your heart that nothing is farther from my mind in respect to you than bitterness. I forgive you speaking thus, because I know how deeply wounded you are by what has taken place. I am willing to serve as an altar of atonement for all your imaginary sins, and to let you vent all your grief upon me; but I would also aid you to avoid any room for after self-reproach for your injustice.’
‘Yes, yes, I am wrong, I know, and you are too good to me. But really I cannot help thinking sometimes that stupidity is the greatest of sins. And I am so stupid. At least, I was, until that night – Oh Edmund! I doubt if it was real kindness to remove the veil so far, and reveal to me the sweetness possible to life.’’
‘We do not read that the women of old repined when visited by a god in their sleep! But, seriously, you are hardly one to repent of the opening of any avenue to knowledge on account of any personal regret it may cause you. Blaming your own ignorance of life and its meaning, you yet hesitate to learn from me. Surely, placed as we are, such delight is not forbidden to us as comes
“When one that loves and knows not, reaps
A truth from one that loves and knows.” ‘
Margaret could not help laughing at this unexpected application of a favourite passage; but presently her sadness returned, though with less intensity, and she said, –
‘What will James do without me? At first he will, I know, encourage the most absorbing excitement, and work incessantly to avoid thinking, and scarcely allow himself even to eat or sleep. But when he is worn out, and the inevitable collapse comes –– Oh, I dread to think of what may happen!’
‘There is one thing that gives as much room for hope as for anxiety,’ returned
Noel, ‘and that is, the state of the country. If the worst prognostics are to be
realised, life in
‘God grant it may,’ she said fervently, ‘but still, moments
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will come when he will be almost beside himself. I alone know how really dependent he is. He has more than once allowed that I am the stronger of the two.’
‘In a complimentary sense?’
‘Not invariably, for he sometimes said it was the strength of death as opposed to the feebleness of life: the power of not feeling, as of the granite hill against the beating storm. I am sure I have often longed for such a power. The hill need well be granite to endure the constant fretting of the elements.’
‘My poor Margaret! and you were not granite, but felt intensely all the time. Felt doubly, too; for him, as well as for yourself. I suppose he forgot that even the mountain must at last succumb to the seasons. How strange and unwonted will this rest appear to you when the first anxiety is over.’
‘It will scarcely be rest when my mind is ever with him. How dreadful will be his letters! And he tells me not to write, as he will not be able to endure mine. An occasional line to say I am alive and well: no more.’
‘I can well understand his feelings in that respect,’ said Noel. ‘It indicates the difference between the mutual, and the unreciprocal yet ardent, love. For myself, I am only too glad to have all I may from you. But had I held the same relation to you that he has, I suspect that I should find no compromise possible between the all and the none.’
‘You are so different,’ said Margaret, sighing, ‘that I cannot
conceive his fate yours under any circumstances.’
Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Índice da Obra Atual Anterior: Capítulo 35 Seguinte: Capítulo 37
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