Hearts Afire - By J. D. Rawden Page 0,40
all my thoughts into confusion. But I felt that I ought to make the attempt—I ought. I had promised it to you, my darling, and to myself. My life had become insupportable; the more so because of my mother, who knew my secret, who tortured me with her contempt—the contempt of a person who has never any wrong—who might at any moment betray me, and tell the story of that balmy night.
“Father smiled, and didn’t seem to care in the least to hear what I had to say. I had the courage to tell him that I adored you, that I wished to live and die with you, that our love would suffice for our needs, that I would never marry anyone but you ; and finally, that, humbly, earnestly, I besought him, as my father, my guardian, my wisest parent, to give his consent to our marriage.
“He had listened, with his eyes cast down, giving no sign of interest. And now at the end he simply uttered a dry little “No.”
“And then took place a dreadful scene. I implored, I wept, I rebelled, I declared that my heart was free, that my person was free; and always I found that I was addressing a man of stone, hard and dry, with a will of iron, an utterly false point of view, a conventional standard based upon the opinion of the world, and a total lack of good feeling. My father denied that I loved you, denied that you loved me. His one word was No—no, no, no, from the beginning to the end of our talk. He made the most specious, extravagant, and cynical arguments to convince me that I was deceiving myself, that we were deceiving ourselves, and that it was his duty to oppose himself to our folly. Oh, how I wept! How I abased my spirit before that man, who reasoned in this cold strain! And how it hurts me now to think of the way I humiliated myself! I remember that while my love for you, dearest, was breaking out in wild utterance, I saw that he was looking admiringly at me, as in a theatre he might admire an actor who was cleverly feigning passion. He did not believe me; and two or three times my anger rose to such a point that I stooped to threaten him; I threatened to make a public scandal.
“The scandal will fall on the person who makes it,”he said severely, getting up, to cut short the conversation.
“He went away. In the drawing-room I heard him talking quietly with mother, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t left me broken-hearted.”
“My Harleigh, my darling Harleigh, my constant thought —it is then decided: we must run. We must fly. Here, like this, I should die. Anything will be better than this house; it is a prison. Anything is better than the galleys.
“I know that what I propose is very grave. According to the common judgment of mankind a young girl who elopes is everlastingly dishonored. In spite of the sanctity of marriage, suspicion never leaves her. I know that I am throwing away a great deal for a dream of love. But that is my strange and cruel destiny—the destiny which has given me a husband and taken away my youth; given me a heart eager for affection and cut me off from all affection; given me the dearest and at the same time the least loving father.”
“Who will weep for me here? No one. Whose hands will be stretched out to call me back? No one’s. What memories will I carry away with me? None. I am lonely and misunderstood; I am flying from a heart of ice and snow to the warm sunlight of love. You are the sun, you are my love. Don’t think I’ll of me. I am not like other girls. I am a poor soul, seeking a home, a family, a nest. I will be your wife, your sweetheart, your servant; I love you. A life passed in the atmosphere of your love will be an absolution for this fault that I am committing. I know, the world will not forgive me. But I despise people who can’t understand one's sacrificing everything for love. And those who do not understand it will pity me. I shall care for nothing but your love; you will forgive me because you love me.
“So, it is decided. On the third day after you receive this letter—that is,