A Broken Heart

Author Unknown

Content Warning: #3 (explanation)

Forging the Chain

by Em. Quad

It had been raining all the afternoon—a steady, summer rain, which came down softly and warmly, and soaked everything with its refreshing drops. Our house overlooked the Bay, and I had been standing in the balcony for more than an hour, gazing moodily at the waves coming sullenly in with their foam-capped crests, subdued by the steady downpour, standing in the dusky twilight, quite unconscious of how the time passed. We had a picnic in the paddock, which stretched down to the sea, about a mile from the house, and when the rain came on they came home to mamma's to finish the day, and go away when the rain stopped. Of course we didn't want much preparation; we were all full of fun, and it was no trouble to clear out the big sitting room far a dance. I could hear their merry voices at intervals, but I did not pay much attention to them or their amusements. The air was hot and quiet, and the wind seemed filled with the sad voices of the night. It cleared up a little just as darkness set in, and I could see right across to Fort Denison, which is a deal more than I could ever since I had been out on the balcony.

I ought to have been happy with all the good things of the world that I had—good looks, a good education, good health, and plenty of admirers. But I wasn't though. I believe I was the most miserable girl in Sydney at that minute. It seemed strangely out of place for a fair young woman, scarcely more than a girl, to be standing in the gloom, with the drip of the rain, and the sullen moaning of the wind in her ears, waging a bitter fight with Destiny; her first bitter fight, because of all in the world that she desired the most she could not have—the love of a man whose heart was given to another. For he was engaged to be married, and could never be anything to me; and yet, womanlike, that fact served but to heighten my passion.

He had begged to be allowed to go back to the city that night, pleading business as his excuse; but we would not let him, because he was such good company, and we all liked him. If he had gone it would have been been better for us both.

As I stood on the balcony, I could hear the gay laughter of the revellers in the sitting-room, and the applause which followed a comic song one of the gentlemen has just been singing. I was turning to go to them, and no loaner neglect my duties as hostess, when a group of the idlers came up, and laughingly told me they had arranged for "a grand denouement."

"A grand what?" I asked, trying to laugh.

"Oh! you'll see. Were going to marry you!"

My heart gave a great jump and stood still. The proposition came so close to the tenor of my own dreamy thoughts, that, for a moment I was startled.

"There, don't look so frightened. We don't mean it for good, you know," said one of them. "Oh yes, of course; and besides, its only to Bella's other half! See, I can make you a veil and things with the mosquito curtains!" which practical remark drew a roar from at least a dozen, as they scampered off.

Only to Bella's "other half!" That was all. But if he had not been Bella's second half he might—

"I hope you will not stand here any longer, Miss Todd. There is really nothing to look at over there," said a deep voice close to me, a voice with a forced ring of gaiety in it. My heart gave another little leap. It always did when he came near me; but I controlled myself with an effort and answered him in a light manner and turned to go.

"They have decided on marrying us," he continued in the same tone and voice, "and Dick is going to do the parson. We have rigged him out in the grandest style you ever saw; not a high church minister, you know, because we haven't got a gown. Dick wanted to be the bridegroom, but we agreed it was not safe, and so they took me as—as I belonged to—someone else."

For my life I could not keep my eyes down. I struggled hard, but the quivering lids rose slowly and I looked straight into his face. What I read there sent the blood in a torrent to my heart that nearly stopped its beating. But I only said: "Very well, Mr. Bruce; anything to oblige and pas the time, you know. I will go and get ready."

And that was the way the first link was forged.

Everything was arranged, and I returned to the window to collect myself and go through the farce that was to amuse the giddy company—returned and found him there, looking out upon the black and stormy night. I tried to go, but it was too late. How it came about I could not tell, and do not know to this day, but I saw his face was flushed and his eyes were glowing with light.

"I did not dare to speak, but I cannot keep silent longer—I cannot, though I call heaven to witness I have struggled like a man—man, did I say?—like a lunatic! struggled to keep back the love I—"

He caught me before I could move away, before I could comprehend his meaning almost. I could only say piteously: "Oh! no, no! you must be quiet—be calm—you will kill her else!"

He would have spoken again, but I broke from him, and, pale and excited, walked bravely amongst the guests.

We went through the mock ceremony somehow, I could not tell how, the necessity for duplicity alone keeping me calm. Roars of laughter and applause greeted me as I replied to the questions of the evening—laughter that jarred into my very soul and seemed to me to be the mockery of fiends. The service seemed so awful to me that I felt I was trifling with a Holy and Heavenly thing. Actress! Could a woman act as I acted then, the world would ring with her praises. The next hour seemed an oblivion to me. We had the supper, the usual speeches at the table, and then finished up with a dance. I could detect a painful, frightened look in her eyes, which seemed to me that she partly guessed the truth, and that look chilled my heart and made me feel as though I were a guilty and a wicked thing. At length I could not bear it any longer. I was sick of the miserable farce that was enacted; I felt a mad desire to rush out into the rain, to get out under the sky and try and think. The rain had stopped now. The wind still sighed in fitful gusts across the bay and moaned in the shrubberies of the garden. I stood upon the gravel path holding my throbbing temples with my hands, trying to beat down the pain that racked them. It was so hot and black and gloomy, that I thought the very sky lowered upon me and called me "guilty!"

A hand was placed upon my arm. I knew it was his, but I did not move. I was not strong enough to confront him yet. His voice was low, and thrilled me strangely, and I could hear that he spoke with an effort.

"Say you will not turn from me. Tell me that you do not scorn me for a weak and foolish thing. It was my fate. I could not keep back my love—love which has grown within me ever since I saw your face—ever since that eventful night when I—I made a fool of myself—."

I put out my hand deprecatingly. "Hush!" I said, "you must not talk of love to me."

"Must not?" he cried wildly. "Must not? By Heaven! I will! I swear I cannot live if you will not love me! I tell you that I will take my life! My God! do you?—can you call yourself a woman, with all a woman's heart, and all a woman's passions—a woman such as you are—can you—do you mean to stand there and tell me—say to me that in your heart, on your soul, you do not love me?"

He paused.

The wind which murmured fitfully in wintry gusts against the trees fell into silence. All the very world seemed dead and nature hushed as though listening for his reply. With a great sob of agony I hid my face in my hands.

"God help me—I cannot!"

And that is the way the second link in the chain was forged.

If there was ever a woman in this world suffered it was I upon that dreadful night. How I faced my guests again—answered their questions about my somewhat pallid appearance—I cannot tell; but I only remember, after it was all over, Bella, his in= tended bride, coming to me in a state of nervous excitement, to tell me she knew all. She had stood upon the balcony and listened to every word we had uttered in the garden, and now she came to me to tell me she was not sorry to be rid of a man whose mind appeared to be as fickle as his business habits, and he was as likely to acquire an estate as he was to concentrate his mind upon the one object of his thoughts and affections. It was all very well for him to talk to me as he had done. It was his passion, not his love, which spoke. He was excited with my beauty, and, although he swore so strongly that he loved me, he had sworn so to her before.

This I did not believe. I knew her to be a cold-hearted woman of the world, with all a worldly woman's thoughts and instincts; and the false position in which she was placed naturally made her speak with some bitterness of feeling.

She spoke to me a great deal upon the same subject, and advised me that she was not the least bit concerned, and then we kissed and made friends. But all that long night I lay awake thinking over what had occurred, over my madness—for madness it must have been—and the following day I left home and went on a visit to Parramatta.

However I managed to pass the following week I never knew. I did not go out, saw no one, but passed the time in such a state of abject desolation that it is wonderful I did not fall ill and die. But I had made up my mind, and as long as I did not see him again I could be strong, and live upon the dear memories of a past love. But if I met him again I felt that I might not be able to bear up against the passions that racked my heart, and then I should despise myself again.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these—"it might hays been." 

"It might have been!" How those words seemed to haunt my very life! They were with me awake and asleep, and seemed burned into my brain with letters of fire; and as often as the bitter memories of that night came to me, I felt as though I should be unable to bear up against it. In the hope that a change of scene might help me to forget, I asked my mother to take me to Melbourne.

And the night before we left he came to me and begged my heart again.

My heart! It was not mine to give. It was his already, and he knew it. That interview ended the same as before. I promised to marry him. I was to go to Melbourne as arranged, remaining there—a year it might be—until it should be all forgotten, and then return to him and to happiness.

And that is how another link was forged.

After I got to Melbourne we corresponded with each other regularly, and some months afterwards I received a note from Bella. She told me that she was glad the match had been broken off, as she fully intended to be married at the end of that year.

Married! How strange it seemed! I wrote back, and we corresponded after that at intervals. Towards the close of the year his letters seemed to be of a different tone to that which he began them in, but I scarcely noticed that. His business seemed to fail him, and he, as he told me, was a poor man. This fact seemed to lie heavier with him than anything else he had yet mentioned, even our separation. I own I had some slight bitterness of feeling at this, but when I thought of his struggles for a position, and how adversity must have forced him to the conviction that as long as he was obliged to work against poverty our wedding would be delayed, I softened towards him, and felt for his plight. But then I had money enough for both of us and more. I fully made up my mind, and about a month before Bella's wedding day I wrote her a long letter, explaining all, and announcing my intention to come back and see if the obstacle could not be removed, and his discontentment set aside For he had not written to me for a considerable time now, and the last letter sent my own.

Bella's answer to me was kind and sympathetic, full of womanly feeling and goodness of heart. "My dear Julia," she wrote. "I was afraid to break to you before what had I hinted at for many months; but you never seem to understand. Melbourne, once you are used to it, you will find as pleasant a place to live in as Sydney and I am moving over there soon after my wedding. Do not come back here, for the man on whom you have bestowed your love is to be married to-morrow, and before you get this the ceremony will have been concluded."

And that was the last link the the chain of my fate.

Warragul Guardian and Buln Buln and Narracan Shire Advocate, Thursday 30 December 1880, holiday supplement page 2.

The Bunch of Violets

Author Unknown

 It was a stormy night in June. The fair weather of many weeks had been followed by a tempest of more than ordinary severity, and the elements seemed resolved to prove that their previous mildness should not be taken as a sign of continuous inactivity. Amid the blinding rain, the howling wind, the constant rolling of the thunder, and the flashing of the lightning, a man sat bare-headed and unmoved. For in his own mind there raged a tempest greater than that of Nature. Big drops rolled down his face other than those from the clouds; his form was shaken, but not by the blast; and his groaning could be heard above the cracking of the branches and the sighing of the leaves. In his hand he held a withered bunch of violets. And, in truth, his case was passing pitiful. He had been happy—too happy; and, without warning, the cup of happiness had been dashed from his lips. Before him stretched the future—a vast sea of doubt and care, with no beacon of hope to illumine its troubled waters. And of the past there remained to him only the bitter sweet memories of happiness, fled for ever with the fragrance of the flowers at which he gazed. The story connected with them was neither long nor uncommon. Cyril Dare loved Violet Romaine; Violet Romaine said she loved Cyril Dare, and on this stormy day in June they were to have been married. Only a week ago she had given him the violets.

"They are my flowers," she said. "You must keep them for this little while till you keep me for ever.''

And he had kept them next his heart, and she—well, she had quietly left him for another ere the week was over, without explanation or good-bye. Yet this miserable man loved her better than ever. "A fool, an ass, an idiot," so said everyone who knew him and her.

The scene changes. A great ship is lying like a log on the ocean, doomed to destruction, though the sea is smooth as glass, and no storm has borne her down. The clouds of smoke rising from her hold tell the terrible tale. Efforts, gigantic efforts, have been made to save the vessel, but they are useless, and despair settles down on every countenance. In a few hours at most the Empress of the East will have sunk beneath the wave, almost within sight of land. She is on her passage from India, and on her deck crowd the passengers, some white with terror and speechless, some nervous and noisy, some cursing, some praying, but most with that blank look which means so much and yet tells so little. There are old men who have come back to die in their native land, middle-aged men who are returning to spend the fortunes they have realized, young men who have been looking forward to meeting fathers, mothers, wives, or sweethearts. And, worse still, there are women and children. The captain of the ship stands in earnest conversation with his officers and a knot of passengers; the crew, consisting of English and Lascars, tired and begrimed with smoke, are whispering moodily together a little way off. At length the captain speaks decisively, "There is no help for it. It must be done."

"Then," says an old, white-haired man next him, "there is no hope."

"There is none," is the decided reply.

Meanwhile, jets of flame are bursting from the hatchways, and a roaring sound can be plainly heard by all. The captain addresses the crowd—"Passengers and crew of the Empress of the East, I regret to inform you that in less than two hours the ship will founder."

Some of the crew cry, "'To the boats!" The captain draws a revolver from his breast, and says—

"The first man who touches even a rope without my orders dies by my hand." Then he continues, "It is impossible to save the lives of all—we have not boats to hold them."

A smothered groan rises from the audience, but the captain goes on unmoved—

"I have, therefore, consulted with my officers and other gentlemen, and we have decided on the course to be pursued. All the women and children will first be lowered into the boats." As he speaks, there is a general rush by the ship's company to the davits, but by each boat stand two officers, pistol in hand. The skipper, after a moment's pause, continues—

"We are two hundred and fifteen men on board. The boats will only hold one hundred and fifty. Sixty-five, of whom one will be myself, must therefore" here his voice quivers in spite of his self-possession— "perish with the ship."

On this a wild shout half yell, half wail— bursts from the men around him.

"Silence!" he shouts, "silence, and hear me! It will be decided by lot—those who go and those who stay." He turns to the chief officer by his side, "Mr. Peterson, give me the papers."

Mr. Peterson hands him a basket containing a number of small folded pieces of paper. There is a dead silence. The captain says—

"There are two hundred and fifteen numbers in this basket. Each man in turn will draw one. All below one hundred and fifty will be received in the boats, all above will stay—with me. My own number is one hundred and fifty. In the meantime, Mr. Peterson, see that my instructions are carried out. The passengers and ship's company will draw turn and turn about."

Then rises a fresh uproar. There are entreaties, prayers, expostulations, menaces imprecations. The captain is unmoved. He holds open his basket, and says, "Draw," while Mr. Peterson reads aloud from a roll of names. As each one takes the fatal slip, his number is recorded. And the scene is so dreadful that no pen could describe it, no tongue tell it.

There are three pieces of paper remaining in the basket.

"Major Dare!" calls Mr. Peterson.

A bronzed soldier approaches and takes his lot.

"One hundred and thirty-six," says Mr. Peterson.

"Abraham Brown!"

"One hundred and twenty-three."

The last number lies in the basket.

"Captain Hall!"

"One hundred and sixty-three," is the fatal answer; and a woman's shriek tells that the captain is very dear to someone on board.

They are, all things considered, wonderfully calm, these men about to die; and they watch the preparations for the salvation of others with almost mechanical rigidity. In fact they are stunned by their situation.

Major Dare is standing by the wheel awaiting his turn to be summoned, for two of the boats have already been lowered. A woman, pale and tearful, but very beautiful, approaches him. She is Violet Hall, once Violet Romaine, now Captain Hall's wife,

"I want to speak to you," she says.

"Well?"

"Save my husband, Cyril Dare," she sobs hysterically.

"I—I cannot," he answers.

"You loved me once," she whispers, "and —"

"I love you still," he interrupts hoarsely. "I shall always love you."

"Then save him," she pleads; "Save him for my sake "

"How?" he cries, wildly. "How?"

She hesitates, but only for a second, as Mr. Peterson's voice is heard summoning the elect to be saved.

"Give him your number," she wails; "and you—take his."

Then she sinks at his feet, not daring to meet his eye.

He is for a brief space dumbfounded at the splendid audacity of her request. Then the great fact forces itself upon him. She wishes him to give his life for his rival's. He looks at her lying inanimate before him. That look decides his answer. Life itself is as nothing when weighed against her agony.

"Be it so," he murmurs. Then raising her tenderly, he gives her one pure kiss upon the brow and leaves her in a trance. He finds Captain Hall crouched in the paddle-box, with one of his children clambering on his knee.

"Hall," says Major Dare, "let me look at your number."

The Captain gives it, groaning.

"Curse it!" he hisses, "my usual luck. What do you want it for?'" he adds, fiercely.

"I think there is some mistake," replies Cyril. "There, I thought so. Why, my dear fellow, your number is 136 not 163. I congratulate you."

Hall looks at him stupidly, and then at the paper. He cannot (and never will) understand the matter. He is about to speak, but Dare has gone back to where he left Mrs. Hall. She has recovered from her swoon, and is leaning against the side of the vessel.

"Violet," says Cyril, quietly, "I have done your bidding. He is saved."

She gazes at him, and repeats mechanically—

"He is saved—and you?"

Cyril smiles sadly as he answers—

"Lost—for you."

And as he speaks she forgets everything— the fire, fear of death, hope of safety. She sees only Cyril Dare, and the whole great force of his great love bursts upon her soul, tearing aside the selfish barrier of her own nature, rending the ties of her wedded life, and leaving him victor in the fight which has been fought between them. She would tell him all this, but she is speechless, and it is too late now. Her name is called, but she does not move.

Cyril says, "Go, my darling."

The spell is broken, and tears fall fast as she kneels before him.

"Forgive me!" she cries; "forgive me! I love you!"

They call her name again.

Cyril grasps her in his arms and carries her to the gangway.

"Good-bye," he whispers; "good-bye for ever, my own darling."

She cannot answer: she is past that.

Then they lower her into the boat beside her husband and children. And he, standing on the deck of the sinking ship, does not regret his sacrifice.

* * *

Pieces of charred wreck are being washed on to the beach of a Cornish fishing village. They are all that remains of the good ship "Empress of the East." And among the bodies cast upon the strand is one identified as that of Major Cyril Dare. Round his neck is found a chain suspending a large gold locket containing neither ringlet nor portrait, only the dry fragments of what was once a bunch of violets. Each year, on the anniversary of the shipwreck, a lady, prematurely grey, comes to lay a wreath of "her own flowers" on his grave overlooking the restless wave. By the villagers she is taken for a sister or a cousin, but her secret no one knows.

This is her punishment.

Warragul Guardian and Buln Buln and Narracan Shire Advocate, Thursday 18 November 1880, supplement page 2