Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Avillion and Other Tales, Vol. 1
(1853)
*******************
About the print version:
AVILLION AND OTHER TALES.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "OLIVE," "THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY," "AGATHA'S HUSBAND," &c. &c.
LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.
BOMBAY:
SMITH, TAYLOR AND CO.
1853. [THE AUTHOR OF THIS WORK RESERVES THE RIGHT OF AUTHORIZING A TRANSLATION
OF IT.]
Page verso
London:
Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey.
****************
I offer these, that were of my May-days,
To May.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE Author, in including among "AVILLION AND OTHER TALES" some reprints,
has to offer acknowledgments for permission, to the proprietors of "Fraser's,"
"Bentley's," "Sharpe's," "Jerrold's," and the "Dublin University" Magazines;
likewise to the "Athenæum," and the Messrs. Chambers.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
AVILLION; OR, THE HAPPY ISLES 1
THE LAST OF THE RUTHVENS
THE SELF-SEER
THE SCULPTOR OF BRUGES
THE ITALIAN'S DAUGHTER
AVILLION; OR, THE HAPPY ISLES.
A Fireside Fancy.
"I am going a long way,
With these thou seest--if, indeed, I go--
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avillion."
TENNYSON.
CHAPTER I.
WE sat together on the deck, Lilias and I, listening to the boom of the
wide Atlantic, and looking into each other's eyes. A thriftless occupation, but
infinitely sweet. We had not grown tired of it yet, though we had been married
three weeks; our love was not even a shadow the less. It seemed impossible for
us to date its beginning; Heaven grant we may never know its end!
We had been wedded three weeks. Three weeks! Could it be, then, that
only one little month had passed since that day--the day of days!--when-- But I
will tell all concerning it. I will chronicle its every hour, whether of suffering or joy; for now both are alike written goldenly
on this happy heart of mine.
I had been ill for a long time--indeed, from my youth up I have rarely
known the blessing of continuous health. But though this circumstance gave a
languor and a half-melancholy dreaminess to my whole character, I think, too, it
made me more humble, more loving, more thankful for all the love which was
showered upon me. And when my long illness came, this blessing increased
tenfold. I heard people compassionate "poor Wilfred Mayer," and say how hard it
was that a young man should have the strength and glory of his youth brought
thus low. I did not feel it so; I knew that there was power, aye, and beauty, in
my soul; and I cared not for the feeble body. Besides, I lived in such an
atmosphere of love. There was my father; my bold, frank-hearted brother, younger
than I, yet assuming all the tender protection of eldership; Hester, the most
loving of sisters; and one, dearer than any sister--Lilias Hay.
But the day--that day! In the morning I, feeble always, seemed feebler
than ordinary. I lay back in my arm-chair, listening to the soft pattering of
the April rain upon the window-sill, without any connected thought, except a
fear that the weather might keep Lilias Hay in-doors: and I did not like to miss
seeing her, even for a day. I heard the sound of an opening door; but it was
only the physician--accompanied by a second, whom I had not seen before. I
was disappointed, and paid little heed to either, until I noticed that they drew
my sister aside, and spoke earnestly. While she listened, Hester turned pale,
looked at me, and began to weep. Her tears seemed to fall on my heart like
ice-drops, piercing me with a shuddering dread. I felt, I knew, that that
smooth-tongued stranger had, with his calm, stolid lips, pronounced my
death-doom.
And I must die! The Shadow, hovering near me so long that I had ceased
to regard it, was then close at hand-its very breath was upon me! I MUST DIE!
Hester came to my side with the second physician. I looked fixedly upon
him, my doomer. I believe I said some words which betrayed my thoughts; for he
answered, with a bland, cheerful smile, "that I must not imagine anything so
serious; a voyage, perhaps a summer in Madeira, would soon--"
I turned away; I would hear no more of the smiling lie. Thank God, it
was not breathed by Hester's lips! No; she only wept, and kissed me once or
twice softly.
"In a week he must go!" I heard the physician whisper. Then I knew there
was no hope. They went away, and left me alone.
I tried to think of peace, of religion; I tried to say, "Thy will be
done;" but the strong writhings of human passion shut out from me even the face
of God. To die, to leave all my dear ones, to part from Lilias Hay!--I uttered
her name almost with a groan--the thought was horrible. In this fearful moment I
knew how madly, how despairingly, I loved her. She knew it, too, though I had never
told her so. There was no need. The deep tenderness between us had grown from
year to year, until it became a part of our life. I say our life; for we seemed
to have but one. Neither said, "I love;" but the daily tide of our existence as
it flowed harmoniously on, cried out with its thousand voices, "See, how these
two love one another!"
I had hitherto been content that it should be so, knowing well that
Lilias would wed no man save me, and that one day the loving friendship between
us would be changed for a closer bond. But now I must die--die without having
called her wife, without even having taken her once to my heart. O misery! that
blessed, long-dreamed-of moment would never come; I must go down into the dark
grave; I must lay my head in the dust there, and not on the pure, faithful bosom
of my Lilias Hay!
I groaned aloud; I writhed in my anguish. Life and youth were yet strong
within me. I could not die. Sometimes I resolved at all hazards to tell Lilias
of my love. Perhaps I might draw life from the lips of my betrothed; perhaps a
wife's prayers might yet stand between me and the Destroyer. I would risk it! I
would ask her to wed me now--at once. What,--wed youth with sickness, peace with
misery, life with death? God forgive the sinful thought! No; rather let me die
alone, with dumb lips that carried their eternal secret mournfully to the grave.
Best so--best even for her sake.
I grew calmer. My frozen despair melted into a dew of tears. I began to
pray the prayers that my dead mother had taught me when I was a child. They made
me feel like a child now, peaceful and humble. When Hester came in again, I was
able to look in her face and smile. She did not weep, but talked with me calmly
and affectionately, about my journey. I said I would rather remain at home; but
she prayed--nay, they all prayed--that I would embrace any chance that might
spare me longer to their dear love. I promised. Then my sister left the room,
and brought in Lilias Hay.
Lilias was very pale, but composed and tearless. She came and sat down
beside me, in her usual place. I laid my hand on her lap; she took it, and held
it for a long time without a word.
"You know all, Lilias; that I am going to Madeira?"
"Yes."
I marvelled, nay, I was almost pained, that she said no more. My Lilias!
I did not know thy heart even then!
They were all in the room: my father, Charles, Hester, and one who was
to be Hester's bridegroom that very month. As they began to consult as to who
should accompany me on this voyage of doom, young Fortescue drew her nearer to
him with an anxious look. Hester cast her eyes down; but I saw the struggle in
her heart. I would not put the claim even of a dying brother before that of an
affianced husband. I said I would rather have Charles with me; and, after some
resistance, Hester assented. They soon went away, and left me, as they often
did, alone with my friend Lilias.
My friend! Was it friendship, when her every tone, her very movement,
caused my heart to thrill, even through the cold sluggish pulses of disease. How
keenly I suffered! How I yearned to lay my cheek on the dear hand I held, and
pray her to take my poor dying head to her bosom, and let my last breath utter
the life-long love which on earth might never ...
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