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Title: West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark’s
Author: Holmes, Mary Jane
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark’s" ***
ST. MARK’S ***
POPULAR NOVELS.
BY
_Mrs. Mary J. Holmes_.
I.—TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.
II.—ENGLISH ORPHANS.
III.—HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE.
IV.—’LENA RIVERS.
V.—MEADOW BROOK.
VI.—DORA DEANE.
VII.—COUSIN MAUDE.
VIII.—MARIAN GRAY.
IX.—DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
X.—HUGH WORTHINGTON.
XI.—CAMERON PRIDE.
XII.—ROSE MATHER.
XIII.—ETHELYN’S MISTAKE.
XIV.—MILLBANK.
XV.—EDNA BROWNING.
XVI.—WEST LAWN. (_New._)
Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books
are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the
sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention
to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.
All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each and sent _free_
by mail, on receipt of price, by
G. W. CARLETON & CO.,
New York.
WEST LAWN
AND
THE RECTOR OF ST. MARK’S.
BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
AUTHOR OF
TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.—’LENA RIVERS.—MARIAN GREY.—MEADOW BROOK.—ENGLISH
DAYLIGHT.—HUGH WORTHINGTON.—THE CAMERON PRIDE.—ROSE MATHER.—ETHELYN’S
MISTAKE.—MILLBANK.—EDNA BROWNING.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
_G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.
LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
M.DCCC.LXXIV.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
DANIEL HOLMES,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Maclauchlan, Stereotyper,
145 & 147 Mulberry St., near Grand, N. Y.
JOHN F. TROW & SON, PRINTERS,
205–213 EAST 12TH ST., NEW YORK.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.— Dora’s Diary 7
II.— Author’s Journal 15
III.— Dr. West’s Diary 19
IV.— Johnnie’s Letter to Dora 27
V.— Dora’s Diary 31
VI.— Letters 44
VII.— Dora’s Diary Continued 54
VIII.— Jessie’s Diary 80
IX.— Extract from Dr. West’s Diary 84
X.— Dora’s Diary 87
XI.— Richard’s Story 102
XII.— The Shadow of Death 119
XIII.— At Beechwood 134
XIV.— In the Spring 146
XV.— Waiting for the Answer 159
XVI.— The Engagement 169
XVII.— Extract from Dr. West’s Journal 178
XVIII.— Poor Max 182
XIX.— Anna 193
XX.— Richard 209
XXI.— The Night before the Wedding 212
XXII.— Down by the Lake Shore 216
XXIII.— The Bridal Day 226
XXIV.— The Shadows of Death 235
XXV.— Breaking the Engagement 240
XXVI.— Giving in Marriage 254
XXVII.— More of Marriage 263
XXVIII.— Dora’s Diary 270
THE RECTOR OF ST. MARKS.
I.— Friday Afternoon 283
II.— Saturday Afternoon 291
III.— Sunday 299
IV.— Blue Monday 309
V.— Tuesday 319
VI.— Wednesday 328
VII.— At Newport 341
VIII.— Showing How it Happened 354
IX.— Anna 368
X.— Mrs. Meredith’s Conscience 379
XI.— The Letter Received 383
XII.— Valencia 393
XIII.— Christmas Day 403
WEST LAWN.
CHAPTER I.
DORA’S DIARY.
“BEECHWOOD, June 12th, }
11 o’clock P. M. }
“At last, dear old book, repository of all my secret thoughts and
feelings, I am free to come to you once more, and talk to you as I can
talk to no one else. Daisy is asleep in her crib after a longer struggle
than usual, for the little elf seemed to have a suspicion that to-morrow
night some other voice than mine would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too,
the darling, cried himself to sleep because I was going away, while the
other children manifested in various ways their sorrow at my projected
departure. Bless them all, how I do love children, and hope if I am ever
married, I may have at least a dozen; though if twelve would make me
twice as faded and sickly, and,—and,—yes, I will say it,—as peevish as
Margaret’s six have made her, I should rather be excused. But what
nonsense to be written by me, Dora Freeman, spinster, aged
twenty-eight,—the Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went home
with me from the sewing society. But they were mistaken, for if the
family Bible is to be trusted, I was only twenty-five last Christmas,
and I don’t believe I look as old as that.”
Here there was a break in the diary, while Dora glanced in the mirror at
a graceful little figure, with sloping shoulders and white neck,
surmounted by a well shaped head with masses of reddish-brown hair,
waving just enough to suggest an idea of the curls into which it might
be easily coaxed; low forehead; piquant nose, with an undeniable curve
which ill-natured people call a turn-up; bright, honest eyes of
reddish-brown, like the hair; mouth which did not look as if it had ever
said a disagreeable thing; rows of white, even teeth, with complexion
remarkable for nothing except that it was natural, and just now a shade
or two paler than usual, because its owner was weary with the months and
years of care which had fallen on her youthful shoulders.
This was the picture Dora saw, and nodding to the _tout ensemble_ a
little approving nod, and pushing behind her ears the heavy braids of
hair to see if the style were becoming, as somebody once had told her,
she resumed her pen and diary, as follows:
“Where was I when vanity stopped me for an inspection of myself? Oh, I
know; I had been writing things about being married, for which I ought
to blush, and through which I put my pen, so— But there’s what I said of
Margaret; I’ll let that stand, for she is peevish and cross, and it’s a
relief to tell it somewhere. Poor Margaret! I cannot help pitying her
when I look at her now, and remember what she used to be at the dear old
home,—so beautiful, so petted, and admired. Ah me! that was twelve years
ago, and I was a little girl when Margaret was married, and we danced on
the lawn in the soft September sunlight, with papa looking on, so happy
and so proud; and then the bonfires they kindled and the bells they rang
at nightfall in honor of the bride, Mrs. John Russell, Esquire. Alas!
when next on a week day that bell was rung, it tolled for my dear lost
father, who died with apoplexy, and left his affairs all in confusion,
his property, which was reputed so great, all mortgaged, and _I_ a
little beggar. Shall I ever forget John Russell’s kindness when,
hurrying home from Europe, he came to me at once and said I should be
his daughter, and should live with him and Margaret at Beechwood, where
we came eleven years ago this very June,—Margaret a splendid-looking
woman, who would not wear black because her bridal dresses were so much
more becoming; and I a timid, awkward girl of fourteen, who cried so
much for the dear father gone, and the old homestead sold, that people
said I looked and acted older than my sister, the stylish Mrs. Russell.
How glad I was when in the autumn Johnnie was born and Margaret left him
so much with me, for in my love for him I forgot to mourn for father,
and came to think of him as safe in heaven, where mother went when I was
ten days old. Then those three delightful years at school, when I roomed
with sweet Mattie Reed, whom I am going to-morrow, to visit. No matter
if there were _three_ babies here instead of one when I came home; and
it was very wicked in me to feel annoyed, because I was so often
expected to see that nurse did her duty, or in fact turn nurse myself to
the wee little things. I cannot say that I was glad when Benny came, for
with the advent of each child, Margaret grew more delicate, more
helpless, and more,—I wonder if it is bad to say it,—more fault-finding
with her husband, who, though the very best man in the world, is not
like,—like,—well, say like Dr. West.”
Here the pen made three heavy strokes through that name, completely
erasing it, after which it continued:
“I cannot tell why I should bring _him_ up as a comparison, when I do
not like him at all, even if the whole village of Beechwood is running
mad about him,—I mean the old people, not the young, who sneer at him
and call him stingy. If there’s anything I hate, it’s penuriousness,
which holds so fast to a three-cent piece and hugs a battered sixpence.
Don’t I remember our fair last winter for the benefit of the church, and
how the girls, without the slightest reason for doing so, said to me,
‘Now, when Dr. West comes in, _you_ take possession of him. You are just
the one. He thinks more of _you_ than of all of us together. You can
sell him that dressing-gown and slippers. Ask _fifteen_ at first, and if
he demurs, fall to _ten_. They were both given, so we shall not lose.
Tell him, if necessary, how shabby his present gown and slippers are
looking, and how the ladies talk about it.’
“I did not believe he would come directly to my table, and, I think now,
the crowd must have pushed him there, for come he did, looking so
pleasant and kind, and speaking so gently when he said he hoped we
should realize a large sum, and wished so much he could help us more. Of
course, the gown and slippers were thrust upon his notice, so cheap,
only fifteen dollars; and, of course, he declined, saying, _sotto voce_:
“‘I would gladly buy them for your sake, if I could, but I cannot afford
it.’
“Then I fell to twelve, then to ten, and finally to eight, but he held
out firmly, notwithstanding that I told him how forlorn he looked in his
old ones, patched and tattered as they were. I could see a flush on his
face, but he only laughed, and said he must get a wife to mend his
things. It was surely my evil genius which prompted me to retort in a
pert, contemptuous tone:
“‘Umph! few ladies are insane enough to marry stingy old bachelors, who
would quarrel about the pin money!’
“I shall never forget how white he grew, or how quickly his hand went
into his pocket, as if in quest of his purse; but it was withdrawn
without it, just as that detestable Dr. Colby came simpering along,
smelling of cologne, and musk, and brandy. I knew, to a certainty, that
he did not pay his board bills, and yet I felt goaded into asking him to
become an example of generosity to Dr. West, and buy the gown and
slippers. I’d take it as a personal favor, I said, putting into my
hateful eyes as much flattery as I possibly could; and he bought them,
paying fifteen dollars right before Dr. West, who said softly, sadly
like:
“‘I’m glad you have found a purchaser. I did not wish you to be
disappointed;’ and then he walked away, while that Colby paraded his
dressing-gown and slippers until I hated the sight of them, and could
have cried with vexation.
“Still, when later in the evening Dr. West came back and asked me to go
with him for ice-cream, I answered saucily:
“‘Thank you; I can’t leave; and besides, I would not for the world put
you to so much expense!’
“If he was white before, he was livid now, and he has never appeared
natural since. I wish he knew how many times I have cried over that
affair, and how I detest that pert young Colby, who never has a patient,
and who called and called at Beechwood until Mrs. Markham, across the
way, sent in to ask who was so very sick. After that I took good care to
be engaged whenever I heard his ring. _Dr. West_,—I wonder why I will
persist in writing his name when I really do not care for him in the
least; that is, care as girls sometimes care for fine-looking men, with
good education, good morals, good manners, and a good profession. If I
could rid myself of the idea that he was stingy, I might tolerate him;
but of course he’s stingy, or why does he wear so shabby a coat and hat,
and why does he never mingle in any of the rides and picnics where money
is a necessary ingredient? Here he’s been in Beechwood three, yes, most
four years, getting two-thirds of the practice, even if he is a
homœopathist. I’ve heard that he gives liberally to the church, and he
attends the extreme poor for nothing. So there is some good in him. I
wonder if he’ll come to say good-by. I presume not, or he would have
reserved that package sent by Johnnie, and brought it himself instead.
It is marked ‘Mrs. David West, Morrisville.’ Who in the world can Mrs.
David West be? I did not know he ever saw Morrisville, and I am sure he
came from Boston. There’s the bell for midnight. I have written the
whole hour, and all of Doctor West, except the ill-natured things I said
of Margaret, and for which I am sorry. Poor Madge, as Brother John calls
her, she’s sick and tired, and cannot help being a little fretful, while
I, who never had an ache or pain, can help blaming her, and I will. I’m
sorry, Sister Maggie, for what I have written about you, and humbly ask
your pardon.”
CHAPTER II.
AUTHOR’S JOURNAL.
It lacked ten minutes of car-time, and the omnibus-driver was growing
impatient and tired of waiting for his passenger, when a noisy group
appeared upon the piazza: Mrs. Squire Russell, pale, languid, drooping
as usual, with a profusion of long light curls falling in her eyes, and
giving to her faded face the appearance of a poodle dog; Mr. Squire
Russell, short, fat, henpecked, but very good-looking withal, and some
half dozen little Russells, clinging to and jumping upon the young lady,
whom we recognize at once as Dora, our heroine.
“You won’t stay long, even if Mrs. Randall does urge you,” said Mrs.
Russell, in a half-complaining tone as she drew together her white
wrapper, and leaned wearily against a pillar of the piazza. “You know I
can’t do anything with the children, and the hot weather makes me so
miserable. I shall expect you in two weeks.”
“Two weeks, Madge! are you crazy?” said the Squire’s good-humored voice.
“Dora has not been from home in ages, while you have almost made the
tour of the Western Continent. She shall stay as long as she likes, and
get some color in her face. She used to be rosier than she is now, and
it all comes of her being shut up so close with the children.”
“I think it is very unkind in you, Mr. Russell, to speak as if I was the
worst sister in the world, and the most exacting. I am sure Dora don’t
think so. Didn’t she go with us to Newport last summer, and wasn’t she
more than once called the belle of the Ocean House?”
John gave a queer kind of whistle, while Dora involuntarily drew a long
breath as she remembered the dreary time she had passed at the Ocean
House, looking after _three_ nurses, six children, and her sister
Margaret, whose rooms were on the third floor, and to whom she had acted
the part of waiting-maid in general. But her thoughts were suddenly
brought back from Newport by Margaret’s next remark:
“You needn’t charge the loss of her roses to me either, John. No one can
expect to be young-looking forever, and you must remember Dora has
passed the bloom of youth. She’s in her twenty-sixth year.”
“Twenty-sixth year! Thunder! that’s nothing,” and Squire Russell tossed
up in the air the little Daisy crawling at his feet, while Johnnie, the
ten-year old boy, roared out:
“Aunt Dora ain’t old. She’s real young and pretty, and so Dr. West told
Miss Markham that time she counted on her fingers, and said, so spiteful
like: ‘Yes, Miss Freeman is full thirty. Why, they’ve been here eleven
years, and she must have been nineteen or twenty when she came, for she
was quite as big as she is now, and looked as old. Yes, she’s too old
for the new minister, Mr. Kelley.’ I was so mad I could have knocked
her, and I did throw a brick at her parrot squawking in the yard. Dr.
West was as red as fire, and said to her just as he spoke to me once,
when he made me hold still to be vaccinated, ‘Miss Freeman is not
thirty. She does not look twenty, and is perfectly suitable for Mr.
Kelley, if she wants him.’
“‘She don’t,’ says I, ‘for she don’t see him half the time when he
calls, nor Dr. Colby either.’
“I was going to spit out a lot more stuff, when Dr. West put his hand to
my mouth, and told me to hush up.”
There were roses now on Dora’s cheeks, and they made her positively
beautiful as she kissed her sister and the little ones good-by, glancing
nervously across the broad, quiet street to where a small, white office
was nestled among the trees. But though the blinds were down, the door
was not opened, while around the house in the same yard there were no
signs of life except at an upper window, where a head, which was
unmistakably that of Dr. West’s landlady, Mrs. Markham, was discernible
behind the muslin curtain. He was not coming to say good-by, and with a
feeling of disappointment Dora walked rapidly to the omnibus, which bore
her away from the house where they missed her so much, Squire John
looking uncomfortable and desolate, the children growing very cross, and
at last crying, every one of them, for auntie; while Margaret took
refuge from the turmoil behind one of her nervous headaches, and went to
her room, wondering why Dora must select that time of all others to
leave her.
CHAPTER III.
DR. WEST’S DIARY.
“June 13th, 10 P. M.
“How beautiful it is this summer night, and how softly the moonlight
falls upon the quiet street through the maple-trees! On such a night as
this one seems to catch a faint glimpse of what Eden must have been ere
the trail of the serpent was there. I have often wished it had been Adam
who first transgressed instead of Eve. I would rather it had been a man
than a woman who brought so much sorrow upon our race. And yet, when I
remember that by woman came the Saviour, I feel that to her was given
the highest honor ever bestowed on mortal. I have had so much faith in
woman, enshrining her in my heart as all that was good and pure and
lovely. And have I been mistaken in her? Once, yes. But that is past.
Anna is dead. I forgave her freely at the last, and mourned for her as
for a sister. How long it took to crush out my love,—to overcome the
terrible pain which would waken me from the dream that I held her again
in my arms, that her soft cheek was against my own, her long, golden
curls falling on my bosom just as they once fell. I do not like curls
now, and I verily believe poor Mrs. Russell, with all her whims and
vanity, would be tolerably agreeable to me were it not for that forest
of hair dangling about her face. Her sister wears hers in bands and
braids, and I am glad, though what does it matter? She is no more to me
than a friend, and possibly not that. Sometimes I fancy she avoids and
even dislikes me. I’ve suspected it ever since that fatal fair when she
urged me to buy what I could not afford just then. She thought me
avaricious, no doubt, a reputation I fear I sustain, at least among the
fast young men; but my heavenly Father knows, and some time maybe _Dora_
will. I like to call her Dora here alone. The name is suited to her,
brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. If she were one whit more like Anna, I
never could have liked her as I do,—brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora.
“And she has gone to Morrisville, where Anna lived. Is this Mrs. Randall
very grand, I wonder, and will Dora hear of Anna? Of course she will. I
knew that when I asked her to be the bearer of that package which I
might have sent by express. Perhaps she will take it herself, seeing
little Robin and so hearing of Anna. O Dora, you would pity me if you
knew how much I have suffered. Only God could give the strength to
endure, and He has done so until I carry my burden uncomplainingly.
“Will she see Lieutenant Reed, Mrs. Randall’s brother? What a blow that
story gave me, and yet I doubted its truth, though the possibility
nearly drives me wild, and shows me the real nature of my feelings for
Dora Freeman. Let me record the event as it occurred. This morning Dora
went away to Morrisville, my old home, though she does not know that,
because, for certain reasons, I have not chosen to talk much of my
affairs in Beechwood. She went early, before many people were astir, but
I saw her, and heard, as I believe, the roar of the train until it was
miles away, and then I awoke to the knowledge that the world had changed
with her going, that _now_ there was nothing before me but the same
monotonous round of professional calls, the tiresome chatter of my
landlady, Mrs. Minerva Markham, and the tedious sitting here alone.
“Heretofore there has been a pleasant excitement in watching the house
across the street for a glimpse of Dora, in waiting for her to come out
upon the lawn where she frolicked and played with all those little
Russells, in seeing her sometimes steal away as if to be alone, and in
pitying her because I knew the half dozen were on her track and would
soon discover her hiding-place, in wishing that I could spirit her away
from the cares which should fall upon another, in seeing her after the
gas was lighted going in to dinner in her white muslin dress with the
scarlet geraniums in her hair, in watching her window until the shadow
flitting before it disappeared with the light, and I was left to wonder
if the little maiden were kneeling in adoration to Him who gave her life
and being. All this, or something like it, has formed a part of my
existence, but with Dora’s going everything changed. Clouds came over
the sun; the breeze from the lake blew cold and chilly; Mrs. Markham’s
talk was more insipid than ever, while the addition to my patrons of two
of the wealthiest families in town failed to give me pleasure. Dora was
gone, and in a listless mood I made my round of visits, riding over the
Berkley hills and across the Cheshire flats, wondering if I did well to
send that package by Dora, knowing as I did that it must lead to her
hearing of Anna.
“It was sunset when I came home, a warm, purple sunset, such as always
reminds me of Dora in her mature beauty. There was a stillness in the
air, and from the trees which skirt the hillside leading to the town the
katydids were biping their clamorous notes. I used to like to hear them
when a boy, and many’s the time I’ve stood with _Anna_ listening to them
by the west door at home; but now there was a sadness in their tones as
if they were saying, ‘Dora’s gone; Dora’s gone,’ while the opposite
party responded, ‘And Anna too; and Anna too.’
“I had not wept for Anna since the hour when I first knew she was lost
forever, but to-night in the gathering twilight, with the music of my
boyhood sounding in my ears, the long ago came back to me again,
bringing with it the beautiful blue-eyed girl over whose death there
hangs so dark a mystery, and there was a moisture in my eyes, and a tear
which dropped on Major’s mane, and was shed for Anna dead as well as for
Dora gone. When I reached the office, I found upon the slate a
handwriting which I knew to be Johnnie Russell’s, and for a moment I
felt tempted to kiss it, because _he_ is Dora’s nephew. This is what he
had written:
“‘Mother’s toock ravin’ with one of her headaches, cause auntie’s gone,
and there’s nobody to tend to the young ones. Gawly, how they’ve cut up,
and she wants you to come with some jim-cracks in a phial. Yours, with
regret,
JOHN RUSSELL, JR.’
“I like that boy, so outspoken and truthful, but Dora will be shocked at
his language. And so my services were needed at the big house over the
way. Usually I like to go there, but now Dora is gone it is quite
another thing, for with all my daily discipline of myself, I dislike
Mrs. Russell. I have struggled against it, prayed against it, but as
often as I see her face and hear her voice, the old dislike comes back.
There’s nothing real about her except her selfishness and vanity. Were
she raving with fever, I verily believe her hair would be just as
elaborately curled, her handsome wrapper as carefully arranged, and her
heavy bracelets clasped as conspicuously around the wrists as if in full
dress for an evening party. To-night I found her in just this costume,
with a blue scarf thrown round her, as she reclined upon the pillow. I
knew she was suffering, from the dark rings beneath her eyes, and this
roused my sympathy. She seems to like me as a physician, and asked me to
stop after I had prescribed for her. Naturally enough she spoke of Dora,
whom she missed so much, she said, and then with a little sigh
continued:
“‘It is not often that I talk familiarly with any but my most intimate
friends, but you have been in our family so much, and know how necessary
Dora is to us, that you will partially understand what a loss it would
be to lose my sister entirely.’
“‘Yes, a terrible loss,’ I said, thinking more of myself than of her.
‘But is there a prospect of losing her?’ I asked, feeling through my
frame a cold, sickly chill, which rapidly increased as she replied:
“‘Perhaps not; but this Mrs. Randall, whom she has gone to visit, has a
brother at West Point, you know, Lieutenant Reed, the young man with
epaulets, who was here last summer.’
“‘Yes, I remember him,’ I said, and Mrs. Russell continued:
“‘He has been in love with Dora ever since she was with his sister
Mattie at school. Dora has not yet given him a decided answer, but I
know her preference for him, and as he is to be at his sister’s while
Dora is there, it is natural to fear that it may result in eventually
taking Dora away from Beechwood.’
“‘It may, it may,’ I responded, in a kind of absent way, for my brain
was in a whirl, and I scarcely knew what I did.
“She must have observed my manner, for her eyes suddenly brightened as
if an entirely new idea had been suggested to her.
“‘Now if it were some one near by,’ she continued, ‘perhaps she would
not leave me. The house is large enough for all, and Dora will marry
some time, of course. She is a kind sister, and will make a good wife.’
“At this point Squire Russell came in, and soon after I said good-by,
going out again into the summer night, beneath the great, full moon,
whose soft, pure light could not still the throbbing of my heart;
neither could the long walk I took down by the lake, where Dora and I
went one day last summer. There were quite a number of the villagers
with us, for it was a picnic, but I saw only Dora, who, afraid of the
water, stayed on the shore with me, while the rest went off in
sail-boats. We talked together very quietly, sitting on the bank,
beneath a broad grape-vine, of whose leaves she wove a sort of wreath,
as she told me of her dear old home, and how the saddest moments she had
ever known were those in which she fully realized that she was never
again to live there, that stranger hands would henceforth tend the
flowers she had tended, and stranger feet tread the walks and alleys and
winding paths with which the grounds abounded. I remember how the wish
flashed upon me that I might some day buy back the home, and take her
there as its mistress. Of all this I thought to-night, sitting on the
lone shore, just where she once sat, and listening to the low dash of
the waves, which, as they came rolling almost to my feet, seemed to
murmur, ‘Never, never more!’
“I do not believe I am love-sick, but I am very sad to-night, and the
walk down to the lake did not dispel the sadness. It may be it is wrong
in me thus to despond, when in many ways I have been prospered beyond my
most sanguine hopes. That heavy debt is paid at last, thanks to the kind
Father who raised me up so many friends, and whose healing hand has more
than once been outstretched to save when medicine was no longer of
avail. As is natural, the cure was charged to me, when I knew it was God
who had wrought the almost miraculous change. And shall I murmur at
anything when sure of His love and protection? Be still, my heart. If it
be God’s will, Dora shall yet rest in these arms, which fain would
shelter her from all the ills of life; and if ’tis not His will, what am
_I_, that I should question His dealings?”
CHAPTER IV.
JOHNNIE’S LETTER TO DORA.
“BEECHWOOD, June 13th. }
In the afternoon, up in the wood-house chaimber }
where I’ve crawled to hide from the young ones. }
“DEAR, DEAR, DARLING AUNTIE:
“It seems to me you’ve been gone a hundred million billion years, and
you’ve no idea what a forlorn old rat-trap of a plais it is Without You,
nor how the Young Ones do rase Kain. They keep up the Darndest
row—Auntie. I didn’t mean to use that word, and I’ll scratch it right
out, but when you are away, I’ll be dar—There I was going to say it
agen. I’m a perfectly Dredful Boy, ain’t I? But I do love you, Auntie,
and last night,—now don’t you tell pa, nor Tish, nor Nobody,—last night
after I went to bed, I cried and cried and crammed the sheet in my mouth
to keep Jim from hearing me till I most vomited.
“Ben and Burt behave awful. Clem heard their Prayers and right in the
midst of Our father, Burt stopped and asked if Mr. John Smith, the
Storekeeper, was related to John the baptist. Clem laughed and then Ben
struck her with his fist and Burt, who is a little red pepper any How
pitched in And kicked Burt. The fuss waked up Daisy who fell out of bed
and screamed like Murder, then Tish, great Tattle Tail, must go for
Father who came up with a big Gadd and declared he’d have order in His
own house. You know the Young Ones aint a bit afraid of Him and Ben and
Burt kept on their fightin tell Clem said ‘I shall tell Miss Dora how
you act.’ That stopped ’em and the last I heard Burt was coaxing Clem:
“‘Don’t tell Auntie. I’se good now, real good.’
“Maybe it’s mean in me to tell you but I want you to know just how They
carry on, hoping you’ll pick up your traps and come home. No I don’t
neither for I want you to stay and have a good time which I’m sure you
don’t have here. I wish most you was my Mother though I guess girls of
25 don’t often have great strappin Boys like me, do they? I asked Dr.
West and he looked so queer when he said, ‘It is possible but not
common.’ Why not, I wonder? Now, Auntie, I don’t want mother to die,
because she’s Mother, but if she should, _you’ll_ have father, won’t
you? That’s a nice Auntie, and that makes me think. Last night mother
had the headache and Dr. West was here. It was after the Rumpus in the
nursery and I was sitting at the head of the stairs wishing you was come
home when I heard ’em talking about you and what do you think mother
told Doctor? A lot of stuff about you and that nasty Reed who was here
last summer. She talked as if you liked him,—said he would be at Mrs.
Randall’s and she rather expected it would be settled then. _I was so
mad_, I bumped right up and down on the stairs and said Darn, Darn, as
fast as I could. Now, Auntie, I didn’t mean to lie, but I have. I’ve
told a whopper and you can bite my head off if you like. Dr’s voice
sounded just as if he didn’t want you to like that Reed and I diddent
think it right to let it go. So this morning I went over to the office
and found Dr. West looking pale as if he diddent sleep good.
“‘Doctor,’ says I, ‘do I look like a chap that will lie?’
“‘Why, no,’ says he, ‘I never thought you did.’
“‘But I will,’ ses I, ‘and I am come to do that very thing, come to tell
you something Aunt Dora made me promise never to tell.’
“‘John, you mussent, I can’t hear you,’ he began, but I yelled up, ‘you
shall; I will tell; it’s about Dora and that Reed. She don’t like him.’
Somehow he stopped hushin’ me then and pretended to fix his books while
I said how last summer I overheard this Reed ask you to be his wife, and
you told him no; you did not love him well enough, and never could, and
how you meant it too. There diddent neither of you know I was out in the
balcony, I said, until he was gone, and I _sneazed_ when you talked to
me and made me promise never to tell what I’d heard to father, nor
mother, nor nobody. I never did tell them, but I’ve told the doctor, and
I ain’t sorry, it made him look so glad. He took me, and Tish, and Ben,
and Burt, all out riding this afternoon and talked to them real nice,
telling them they must be good while you was gone. Tish and Jim are
pretty good, but Ben has broken the spy-glass and the umberill, and Burt
has set down on the kittens, and oh I must tell you; he took a big iron
spoon which he called a _sovel_ and dug up every single gladiola in the
garden! Ain’t they terrible Boys?
“There, they’ve found where I be, and I hear Burt coming up the stairs
one step at a time, so I must stop, for they’ll tip over the ink, or
something. Dear Auntie, I do love you ever and ever so much, and if you
want my Auntie and a grown up woman I’d marry you. Do boys ever marry
their aunts?
“Your, with Due Respect,
“JOHN RUSSELL.
“p.s. Excuse my awful spellin. I never could spel, you know, or make the
right Capitols.
“p.s. No. 2. Burt has just tumbled the whole length of the wood-house
stares, and landed plump in the pounding barrel, half full of water. You
orto hear him _Yell_.”
CHAPTER V.
DORA’S DIARY.
“MORRISVILLE, June 13th.
“I was too tired last night to open my trunk, and so have a double duty
to perform, that of recording the events of the last two days. Can it be
that it is not yet forty-eight hours since I left Beechwood and all its
cares, which, now that I am away from them, do seem burdensome? What a
delicious feeling there is in being referred to and waited upon as if
you were of consequence, and how I enjoy knowing that for a time at
least I can rest; and I begin to think I need it, for how else can I
account for the languid, weary sensation which prompts me to sit so
still in the great, soft, motherly chair which Mattie has assigned me,
and which stands right in the cosey bay-window, where I can look out
upon the beautiful scenery of Morrisville?
“It is very pleasant here, and so quiet that it almost seems as if the
town had gone to sleep and knew nothing of the great, roaring, whirling
world without. Not even a car-whistle to break the silence, for the
nearest station where I stopped, after my uneventful ride, is eight
miles from here. There was Mattie herself waiting for me on the
platform, her face as sunny as ever, and her greeting as cordial. Her
husband, Mr. Randall, is a tall, well-formed man, with broad shoulders,
which look a little like West Point discipline. It was very silly in one
to contrast him at once with Dr. West, but I did, and Dr. West gained by
the comparison, for there is an expression in his face which I seldom
see in others, certainly not in Mr. Randall. _He_ looks, as I suspect he
is, proud,—and yet he is very kind to me, treating me with as much
deference as if I were the Queen of England. They had come in their
carriage, and the drive over the green hills and through the pleasant
valleys was delightful. I could do nothing but admire, and still I
wondered that one as fond of society as Mattie should have settled so
far from the stirring world as Morrisville, and at last I asked why she
had done so.
“‘It’s all Will’s doings,’ she answered, laughingly. ‘He is terribly
exclusive, and fancied that in Morrisville he should find ample scope
for indulging his taste,—that people would let him alone,—but they
don’t. Why, we have only lived there three months, and I am sure half
the town know just how many pieces of silver I have,—whether my dishes
are stone or French china,—what hour we breakfast,—when we go to
bed,—when we get up, and how many dresses I have. But I don’t care, I
rather like it; and then, too, Morrisville is not a very small town. It
has nearly three thousand inhabitants, and a few as refined and
cultivated people as any with whom I ever met.’
“‘Who are they?’ I asked, and Mattie began:
“‘There’s the Verners, and Waldos, and Strikers, and Rathbones in town,
while in the country there’s the Kingslakes, and Croftons, and Bishops,
and Warings, making a very pleasant circle.’
“I don’t know why I felt disappointed that she did not mention _Mrs.
David West_ as among the upper ten, but I did, and should have ventured
to speak of that lady, if I had not been a little afraid of Mr. Randall,
who might think my associates too plebeian to suit him.
“We were entering the town now, and as we drove through what Mattie said
was Grove Street, I forgot all about Mrs. David West in my admiration of
the prettiest little white cottage I ever saw. I cannot describe it
except that it seemed all porticoes, bay-windows, and funny little
places shooting out just where you did not expect them. One bay-window
opened into the garden, which was full of flowers, while right through
the centre ran a gurgling brook, which just at the entrance had been
coaxed into a tiny waterfall. I was in ecstasies, particularly as on a
grass-plat, under a great elm-tree, an oldish-looking lady sat knitting
and talking to a beautiful child reclining in a curious-looking vehicle,
half wagon, half chair. I never in my life saw anything so lovely as the
face of that child, seen only for a moment, with the setting sunlight
falling on its golden curls and giving it the look of an angel. The lady
interested me greatly in her dress of black, with the widow’s cap
resting on her gray hair, while her face was familiar as if I had seen
it before.
“‘Who are they?’ I asked Mattie, but she did not know.
“Neither did her husband, and both laughed at my evident admiration.
“‘We will walk by here some day, and maybe you can make their
acquaintance,’ Mattie said, as she saw how I leaned back for a last
glance at the two figures beneath the trees.
“‘There is West Lawn!’ Mattie cried at last, in her enthusiastic way,
pointing out a large stone building which stood a little apart from the
town.
“I knew before that ‘West Lawn’ was the name of Mr. Randall’s home, and
when I saw it I comprehended at once why it was so called. It was partly
because of the long grassy lawn in front, and partly because it stood to
the westward of the village, upon a slight eminence which overlooked the
adjacent country. It is a delightful place, and Mattie says they have
made many improvements since they bought it. But it must have been
pleasant before, for it shows marks of care and cultivation given to it
years ago. Like that cottage by the brook, it has bay-windows and
additions, while I think I never saw so many roses around one spot in my
life. There is a perfect wilderness of them, in every shade and variety.
These reminded me of Dr. West, who is so fond of roses, and who said
once that he would have _his_ home literally covered with them. ‘West
Lawn’ would suit him at this season, I am sure. Here in Morrisville I
find myself thinking a great deal about Dr. West, and thinking only good
of him. I forget all I ever fancied about his littleness, and remember
instead how kind he is to the Beechwood poor, who have named at least a
dozen children after him. _Mrs. David West!_ I do not see as I shall be
able to meet her ladyship, as she evidently does not belong to the
Vernor and Randall clique.
“But let me narrate events a little more in the order in which they
occurred, going back to last night, when we had tea in what Mattie calls
the ‘Rose Room,’ because the portico in front is enveloped with roses.
Then came a long talk, when Mr. Randall was gone for his evening paper,
and when Mattie, nestling up to me, with her head in my lap, just as she
used to do in school, told me what a dear fellow her husband was, and
how much she loved him. Then some music, I playing my poor
accompaniments while Mattie sang her favorite Scotch ballads. Then, at
an early hour for me, I went to bed, for Mattie does not like sitting up
till midnight. I have a large, airy chamber, which must have been fitted
up for a young lady, there are so many closets, and shelves, and
presses, with a darling little bath and dressing-room opening out of it.
Mattie, who came in to see that I was comfortable, told me this was the
only room in which the paper had not been changed.
“‘It’s old-fashioned, as you see,’ she said, ‘and must have been on
before the time of Mr. Wakely, of whom we bought the house, but it is so
pretty and clean that I would not have it touched.’
“It is indeed pretty, its ground a pure white, sprinkled here and there
with small bouquets of violets. Just back of the dressing-table and near
the window are pencil-marks, ‘Robert, Robert, Robert,’ in a girlish
hand, and then a name which might have been ‘Annie,’ though neither of
us could make it out distinctly. Evidently this room belonged to a
maiden of that name, and while thinking about her and wondering who she
was, I fell asleep. I do not believe in haunted houses, nor witches, nor
ghosts, nor goblins, but last night I had the queerest dreams, in which
that woman and child beneath the trees were strangely mingled with Dr.
West and a young lady who came to me with such a pale, sad face, that I
woke in a kind of nightmare, my first impression being that I was
occupying some other room than mine.
“This morning Mattie was present while I unpacked my trunk, and coming
upon that package, I said, as unconcernedly as possible, ‘Oh, by the
way, do you know such a person as Mrs. David West? I have a package for
her, entrusted to me by a—a friend in Beechwood.’
“‘Mrs. David West?’ and Mattie seemed to be thinking as she examined the
package, which felt like a small square box. ‘Mrs. David West? No, I
know no such person; but then I’ve only lived here three months. There’s
Bell Verner now coming in the gate. Maybe she will know, though they
have only been here since last autumn. I’ll ask her, and you be in
readiness to come down if she inquires for you, as she certainly will.
You look sweet in your white wrapper, with the blue ribbon round your
waist. I wish blue was becoming to me—Yes, yes, Dinah, I’m coming,’ and
she fluttered down to the hall, where I heard a sound of _kissing_,
accompanied with little cooing tones of endearment, such as Mattie has
always been famous for; then a whisper, and then I shut the door, for I
was sure they were talking of me. As a general thing I dread to meet
grand people, I had enough of them at Newport: and so I hated to meet
Miss Bell Verner; and after I was sent for I waited a little, half
wishing myself away from Morrisville.
“I found her a stylish, cold-looking girl, who, after taking me in, at a
glance, from my head to my slippers, said rather abruptly:
“‘Excuse me, Miss Freeman, but weren’t you at Newport last summer?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered, now scanning her, to discover, if possible, some
trace of a person seen before.
“‘I thought so,’ she continued. ‘We were at the Atlantic. We could not
get in at the Ocean House, it was so full. Pardon me, but I am afraid I
felt slightly ill-natured at your party—the Russells, I believe—because
they took so many rooms as to shut us out entirely. If I remember
rightly, there were nine of you, together with three servants, and you
stayed two months. I used to see you on the beach, and thought your
bathing-dress so pretty. We were a little jealous, too, at our house of
Miss Freeman, who was styled the belle.’
“‘Oh, no,’ I exclaimed, feeling very much embarrassed, ‘I couldn’t be a
belle. I did not go much in society. I stayed with Margaret who was
sick, or helped take care of the children.’
“‘Oh, yes,’ she rejoined, ‘I heard of the invalid Mrs. Russell, who
exacted so much of her sweet-tempered sister. The gentlemen were very
indignant. By the way, how is Mrs. Russell?’
“I did not like the way she spoke of Margaret, and with as much dignity
as possible I replied that Mrs. Russell was still out of health, and I
feared would always remain so. Somehow I fancied that the fact of there
having been nine of us, with three servants, and that we stayed at the
Ocean House two months did more towards giving Miss Verner a high
opinion of me than all Mattie must have said in my praise, for she
became very gracious, so that I really liked her, and wished I had as
fine and polished an air as she carried with her. When we had talked of
the Strykers, and Waldos, and Rathbones, Mattie suddenly asked if Bell
knew a Mrs. David West in town.
“‘Mrs. David West? Mrs. David West?’ It did seem as if Miss Verner had
heard the name, and that it belonged to a widow living on the Ferrytown
road. ‘But why do you ask?’ she said. ‘It can’t be any one desirable to
know.’
“Mattie explained why, and Miss Verner good-naturedly offered to
inquire, but Mattie said no, their man Peter would ascertain and take
the package. So after Miss Verner was gone, and Peter came round to
prune a rosebush, Mattie put him the same question:
“‘Did he know Mrs. David West?’
“‘Yes, he knew where she lived; she had that handsome grandchild.’
“Of course Mattie deputed him at once to do my errand, and I consented,
though I wished so much to go myself. Running upstairs I wrote on a
card:
“‘Dr. West, of Beechwood, commissioned me to be the bearer of this
little package, which I should have brought to you myself had Mrs.
Randall known where to find you.
“‘DORA FREEMAN, West Lawn.’
“I did not see Peter again until long after dinner, and then I asked if
he had done my errand.
“‘Yes, miss,’ he replied. ‘She was much obliged. She’s a nice woman.’
“‘Peter, don’t those verbenas need sheltering from the hot sun?’ Mr.
Randall called out, his manner indicating that by volunteering
information respecting Mrs. David West, Peter was getting too familiar.
“Mr. Randall is very proud, and so is Mattie, but in a different way. If
she knew how much I wish to see Mrs. West, or at least learn something
of her, she would never rest until the wish was gratified. We took a
walk after tea to the village cemetery, of which the people are justly
proud, for it is a most beautiful spot, divesting the dark, still grave
of half its terrors. There are some splendid monuments there, one
costing I dare not tell how much. It was reared to the memory of General
Morris, for whom the town was named, but this did not impress me one
half so much as a solitary grave standing apart from all the others and
enclosed by a slender iron fence. The grass in the little yard was fresh
and green, and there were many roses growing there. The stone was a
plain slab of Italian marble, with only these words upon it:
“‘Anna, aged 20.’
“Even Mattie was interested, and we leaned a long time on the gate,
speculating upon the Anna sleeping at our feet. Who was she, and whose
the hand of love which had been so often busy there? She was young, only
twenty when she died. Had many years been joined to the past since she
was laid to rest? Was she beautiful, and good, and pure? Yes, she was
all that, I fancied, and I even dared to pluck a rose-bud whose parent
stalk had taken root near the foot of the grave. I can see it now in the
glass of water where I put it after returning home. That rose and that
grave have interested me strangely, painfully I may say, as if the Anna
whom they represented were destined to cross my path, if ever the dead
can rise up a barrier between the living.
“June 15th.
“A steady summer rain has kept us in-doors all day, but I have enjoyed
the quiet so much. It seems as if I never should get rested, and I am
surprised to find how tired I am, and how selfish I am growing. I was
wicked enough to be sorry when in the afternoon Bell Verner came,
bringing her crocheting and settling herself for a visit. She is very
sociable, and asks numberless questions about Beechwood and its
inhabitants. I wonder why I told her of everybody but Dr. West, for I
did, but of him I could not talk, and did not.
“SATURDAY, June 16th.
“A long letter from Johnnie, and so like him, that I cannot find it in
my heart to scold him on paper for his dreadful language. I will talk to
him on my return, and tell him he must be more choice of words and must
make an effort to learn to spell, though I believe it is natural to the
Russells to spell badly. I can see just how they miss me at home, and I
cried over the letter till I was almost sick. I am sure they want me
there, and I wonder what they would say if they knew how the Randalls,
and Verners, and Strykers are plotting to keep me here until September,
Mattie and Bell saying they will then go with me to Beechwood. Just
think of those two fine ladies at our house. To be sure, it is quite as
expensively furnished as either Mattie’s or Bell Verner’s, and we keep
as many servants; but the children, the confusion! What would they do?
No, I must not stay, though I should enjoy it vastly. I like Bell
Verner, as I know her better. There is a depth of character about her
for which I did not at first give her credit. One trait, however, annoys
me excessively. She wants to get married, and makes no secret of it
either. She’s old enough, too,—twenty-eight, as she told me of her own
accord, just as she is given to telling everything about herself.
Secretly, I think she would suit Dr. West, only she might feel above
him, she is so exclusive. I wonder Margaret should tell him that story
about Lieutenant Reed, and I am glad Johnnie set him right. I would not
have Lieutenant Reed for the diamonds of India, and yet he is a great,
good-natured, vain fellow, who is coming here by and by. I think I’ll
turn him over to Bell, though I can fancy how her black eyes would flash
upon him.
“I have had a note from Mrs. David West, inviting me to come and see
her, and this is the way it reads:
“‘MY DEAR MISS FREEMAN:
“‘I am much obliged for the trouble you took in bringing me that
package, and did I go out at all, except to church, I would thank you in
person. If you can, will you come and see me before you return to
Beechwood? I should like to talk with you about the Doctor. Any one
interested in him has a sure claim upon my friendship.
“‘Yours respectfully,
“‘HELEN WEST.
“‘GROVE STREET, NO. 30.’
“Nothing can be more ladylike than the handwriting, and, indeed, the
whole thing. Mrs. David West may be poor and unknown, but she is every
whit as refined and cultivated as either Mattie or Bell. I shall see
her, too, before I leave Morrisville; but why does she take it for
granted that I am interested in Dr. West? I am not, except as a good
physician; and what is she to him? Here I am puzzling my brain and
wasting the gas, when I ought to be in bed; so with one look at that
rose, which I have been foolish enough to press,—the rose from Anna’s
grave,—I’ll bid the world good-night.”
CHAPTER VI.
LETTERS.
No. 1.
_Mrs. David West’s Letter._
“MY DEAR RICHARD:
“Your package of money and little note, sent by Miss Dora Freeman, was
brought to me with a line from the young lady by Mr. Randall’s colored
servant Peter. I know you could not afford to send me so much, and I
wish you had kept a part for yourself. Surely, if the commandment with
promise means anything,—and we know it does,—you, my son, will be
blessed for your kindness to your widowed mother, as well as your
unselfish devotion to those who have been, one the innocent, the other
the guilty, cause of so much suffering. God reward my boy—my only boy as
I sometimes fear. Surely if Robert were living he would have sent us
word ere this. I have given him up, asking God to pardon his sin, which
was great.
“And so the debt is paid at last! Dear Richard, when I read that I shed
tears of gratitude and thanksgiving that you were free from a load you
never should have borne. It was a large sum for you to earn and pay in
less than seven years, besides supporting me and Robin. He grows dearer
to me every day, and yet I seldom look at him without a great choking
sob rising to my throat. He is like his mother, and I loved her as if
she had been my daughter. O Anna, lost darling, was she as pure and
sinless when she died as when she crept into my arms and whispered of
her newly found hope in Him who can keep us all from sin? God only
knows. Alas! that her end should be wrapt in so dark a mystery; and ten
times alas! that any one should be malignant enough to blame you, who
had well-nigh died when the trouble fell upon us.
“And so you fear you are more interested in this Dora than you ought to
be, or rather that she is far too good for you.
“She must be very, very good, if my boy be not worthy of her.
“Yes, the Randalls are very grand, fashionable people, as you may know
from the fact that the Verners and Strykers took them up at once. I
don’t know what influence they may have over Dora; not a bad one, I
hope. I think I saw her the other night riding by on horseback, in
company with Bell Verner. It was too dark to see her distinctly, but I
heard Miss Verner say, in reply evidently to some remark, ‘I never
trouble myself to know or inquire after any one out of our set,’ and
then they galloped on rapidly. As I am not in Miss Verner’s ‘set’ she
will not probably bring Dora to see me, but I have obviated that
difficulty by writing her a note and inviting her to call on me. Did I
do right? I am anxious to see her, for a mother can judge better than
her son of what is in woman.
“Yours affectionately,
“HELEN WEST.”
“By the way, did you know that Mr. Randall was the purchaser of West
Lawn, our old home?
“H. W.”
No. 2.
_Extract from Dr. West’s reply._
“DEAR MOTHER:—Your letters do me so much good, and make me strong to
bear, though really I have perhaps as little to trouble me as do most
men of my years. If the mystery concerning poor Anna were made clear,—if
we were sure that she was safe with the good Shepherd, and if we knew
that Robert, whether dead or alive, had repented of his sin, I should be
very happy.
“There’s _Dora_, I know,—a continuous trouble, but one with which I
would not willingly dispense. You ask if you did right to invite her to
call. You seldom do wrong; but in this case, O mother, I have become a
perfect coward since Dora left me. I thought I wanted her to know all
that we know of Anna and Robin; but now the very possibility of her
hearing the little you can tell, and then giving it the natural
construction which she might, makes the cold sweat ooze out in drops
upon my face. If she comes, tell her as little as possible. It gives me
a thrill of satisfaction to know that she is at West Lawn, enjoying the
roses I planted. Dear West Lawn! but for that terrible misfortune which
prompted us to sell it, you might have belonged to Miss Bell Verner’s
set. But don’t tell Dora. I’d rather she should like me for myself, and
not for what I used to be.” * * * *
No. 3.
_Extract from Margaret’s letter to Dora._
* * * * “I do think you might come home, instead of asking to stay
longer. It’s right shabby in you to leave me so long, when you know how
much I suffer. The children behave dreadfully, and even John has acted
real cross, as if he thought all ailed me was nervousness. You cannot
love me, Dora, as much as I do you, and I think it’s downright
ungrateful after all I’ve done for you since father died. If you care
for me at all, you’ll come in just one week from to-day. I have about
decided to go to Saratoga, and want you to go with me. Be sure and
come.”
No. 4.
_Extract from Mattie’s letter to Margaret._
“DEAR MRS. RUSSELL:—Excuse the liberty I am taking, but really if you
and your husband knew how much Dora has improved since leaving home, and
how much she really needs rest, you would not insist on her coming home
so soon. Husband and I and Bell Verner all think it too bad, and I for
one veto her leaving us.”
No. 5.
_Extract from Mr. Randall’s letter._
“MRS. RUSSELL.—MADAM:—Both myself and Mrs. Randall are exceedingly loth
to part with our young guest, whom rest is benefiting so much. You will
do us and her a great favor to let her remain, and I may add I think it
your duty so to do.”
_Scene in Mrs. Russell’s parlor one morning about the first of July._
Squire John nervously fumbling his watch-chain, looking very hot and
distressed; Johnnie all swollen up, looking like a little volcano ready
to explode; Mrs. Russell crying over Mr. and Mrs. Randall’s letters,
wondering what business it was of theirs to _meddle_ and talk, just as
if she did not do her duty by Dora. Who, she’d like to know, had
supported Dora these dozen years, sending her to school, taking her to
Newport, and buying her such nice dresses? It was right mean in Dora,
and she would not stand it. Dora should come home, and John should write
that very day to tell her so, unless he liked Dora better than he did
her, as she presumed he did—yes, she knew he did.
“Thunderation, mother, why shouldn’t he like Auntie best?” and with this
outburst, Johnnie plunged heart and soul into the contest. “Who, I’d
like to know, makes the house decent as a fellow likes to have it,—a
married old chap, I mean, like father. ’Tain’t you. It’s _Auntie_, and
so the whole co-boozle of servants say. You ask ’em. Talk about what
you’ve done for Dora these dozen years, taking her to Newport, and all
that! I think _I’d dry up_ on that strain and tell what she’d done for
me. Hasn’t there been a baby about every other week since she lived
here, and hasn’t Auntie had the whole care of the brats? And at Newport
how was it? I never told before, but I will now. I heard two nice
gentlemen talking over what a pretty girl Miss Freeman was, and how mean
and selfish it was in her sister to make such a little _nigger_ of her.
They didn’t say _nigger_, but that’s what they meant. Dora ain’t coming
home, no how. You can go to Saratoga without her. Take Clem, and Daisy,
and Tish, and Jim. You know they act the best of the lot. Leave me and
Burt and Ben at home. I’ll see to them, and we shall get on well
enough.”
By this time Margaret was in hysterics, to think a son of hers should
abuse her so, with his father standing by and never once trying to stop
him. Possibly some such idea crept through Squire John’s brain, for,
putting into his voice as much sternness as he was capable of doing, he
said, “My boy, I’m astonished that you should use such shocking words as
_thunderation_, _co-boozle_, _dry up_, and the like. Your Aunt Dora
would be greatly distressed; but, Madge,” turning to his sobbing wife
and trying to wind his arm around her waist, “Johnnie is right, on the
whole; his plan is a good one. We’ll take Clem, and Rosa, too, if you
like, leaving Johnnie, Ben, and Burt at home, and Dora shall stay where
she is. She was tired when she went away, and very pale. You are not
selfish, Madge; you’ll let her stay. I’ll write so now,—shall I?” and
there was a sound very much like a very large, hearty kiss, while a
moment after Johnnie, in the kitchen, was turning a round of
somersaults, striking his heels in the fat sides of the cook, and
tripping up little Burt in his delight at the victory achieved for Dora.
No. 6.
_Extract from Johnnie’s letter to Dora._
“July 7th.
“DEAR AUNTIE:—The house is still as a mouse, and seems so funny. The old
folks, with Tish, Jim, Daisy, Clem, and Rosa, have cut stick for
Saratoga, leaving me with Ben and Burt. You orto have seen me pitch into
mother about your staying. I give it to her good, and twitted about your
being a drudge. I meant it all then, but now that she is gone, I’ll be—I
guess I’ll skip the hard words, and say that every time I rem’ber what I
said to her, there’s a thumpin’ great lump comes in my throat, and I
wish I hadn’t said it. I’ve begun six letters to tell her I am sorry,
and she only been gone two days, but I’ve tore ’em all up, and now when
you see her you tell her I’m sorry,—’cause I am, and I keep thinkin of
when I was a little shaver in petty-coats, how she sometimes took me in
her lap and said I was a preshus little hunny, the joy of her life. She
says I’m the _pest_ of it now, and she never kisses me no more, nor lets
me kiss her ’cause she says I slawber and wet her face, and muss her
hair and dress. But she’s mother, and I wish I hadn’t sed them nasty
things to her and maid her cry.
“Dr. West was here just now, and wanted to borrow a book, but when he
found it was yourn he wouldn’t take it; he said he’d write and ask
permission.
“We get on nice, only cook has spanked Ben once and Burt twice. I told
her if she did it agen I’d spank her, and so I will. I think I’ve got
her under, so she knows I’m man of the house. The old cat has weened her
kittens. Burt shut one of ’em up in the meal chest, and the white-fased
cow has come in, which means she’s got a calph.”
“Yours,
“JOHNNIE.”
No. 7.
_Dr. West’s letter, on which he spent three hours, wasting half a dozen
sheets of note-paper, and which when finished did not please him at
all._
“MISS FREEMAN:—You probably do not expect me to write to you, and will
be surprised at receiving this letter. The fact is I want permission to
go to that little library, which, until this morning, I did not know was
yours. There are some books I would like to read, but will not do so
without leave from the owner.
“I hear you are enjoying your visit, and I am glad, although _I_ miss
you very much. Of course you know your brother and sister are at
Saratoga, and that Johnnie is keeping house, as he says. If you have not
time to answer this to me, please say to Johnnie whether I can read the
books or not.
“Yours truly,
“RICHARD WEST.”
No. 8.
_Dora’s reply, over which she spent two hours and wasted five sheets of
note-paper._
“DR. WEST.—DEAR SIR:—You really were over-nice about the books, and I
should feel like scolding were it not that your fastidiousness procured
me a letter which I did not expect from you. Certainly, you may take any
book you like.
“And so you miss me? I wonder if that is true. I should not think you
would. I’m not worth missing. I hope you will see Johnnie as often as
possible.
“Yours respectfully,
“DORA.
“P. S.—I am going to-morrow to see Mrs. David West.”
CHAPTER VII.
DORA’S DIARY CONTINUED.
“It is a long time since I wrote a word in this book; I have been so
happy and so busy withal; visits, rides, picnics, and everything. I did
not know that life was so bright and pleasant as I have found it here in
Morrisville, where everybody seems trying to entertain me. Mattie’s
brother Charlie is here, but he behaves like a man; does not annoy me
one bit, but flirts shockingly with _Bell Verner_, who flirts as hard in
return. He teasingly asked me one day about _Dr. West_, and when Bell
inquired who he was, he said he was ‘a country doctor of little pills; a
sort of lackadaisical chap, who read service very loud, and almost
touched the pew railing when he bowed in the Apostles’ Creed.’
“I grew so very angry defending Dr. West that Bell honestly believes I
care for him, and kindly stops Lieutenant Reed when he begins his fun. I
like Bell Verner more and more, only she is too proud. How I cried over
that letter from Margaret telling me to come home, and how I tried not
to have Mr. and Mrs. Randall answer it; but they did, and there came
back such a nice response from John. What a dear, unselfish man he is,
and how smooth he made it look,—so smooth that I really felt as if doing
him a favor by staying until Johnnie’s letter was received, and I
guessed at once the storm through which they had passed.
“Will I ever forget the day I received a letter from _Dr. West_? I could
scarcely credit my own eyes, yet there was his name, Richard West,
looking so natural. I felt the blood tingling in my veins, even though
he merely wrote to ask me if he might read my books, the foolish man! Of
course he might. He says he misses me, and this I think is why the
letter is worth so much, and why I answered it. Perhaps it was foolish
to do so, but I can’t help it now. It is not at all likely he’ll write
again though I find myself fancying how I shall feel, and what he would
say in a second letter. Bell Verner knows he wrote, for I told her, but
pretended I did not care. To-morrow I am going at last to see Mrs. David
West.
“July 15th.—I have seen Mrs. David West; have looked into her eyes, so
like the doctor’s; have heard her voice; have seen the child; and oh!
why _am_ I so wretched, and why, when I came back, did I tear up that
rose from Anna’s grave and throw it to the winds? I hate this room. I
cannot bear it, for Anna used to occupy it; she haunts me continually.
She died in this room. _Richard kissed her here_, and here that child
was born. Oh, what am I to think except what I do? And yet it is all
suspicion, based on what a gossiping woman told me. I wish she had never
come here. I would rather have cooked the dinner myself than have heard
what I have.
“It was arranged that Mattie should go with me to see this Mrs. David
West, and I thought of little else all the morning; but when dinner came
Mattie had been seized with one of her violent headaches, and it was
impossible for her even to sit up. Knowing how much I had anticipated
the call, and not wishing to have me disappointed, she insisted that I
should go without her, Peter acting as my escort there, while the new
cook, a Mrs. Felton, who, it seems, had business on that street, would
call for me on her way home. This was the arrangement, and at about four
o’clock I started. I had in some way received the impression that Mrs.
David West lived on Elm Street, and when we passed that point I asked
Peter if we were right.
“‘Yes, miss, Grove Street,—just there a ways in the neatest little
cottage you ever set eyes on, I reckon.’
“Involuntarily I thought of the woman and child seen that first evening
of my arrival at Morrisville, and something told me I was going straight
to that cottage with its roses, its vines, and bay-windows. The surmise
was correct. I knew the house in an instant, and had there been a doubt
it would have been dispelled by the widow’s cap and the little child out
on the grass-plat, just where they were that other summer day so like
this and yet so unlike it, for then I never guessed how sharp a pang I
should be suffering now.
“‘There she is. That’s Mrs. West with Robin,’ Peter said, and the next
moment I was speaking to Mrs. David West, and before she said to me,
‘You know my son,’ I felt sure she was the doctor’s mother.
“The same fine cast of feature, the same kind, honest expression beaming
in the dark eye, and the same curve of the upper lip,—said by some to be
always indicative of high breeding. The mother and son were very much
alike, except that she as a female was noticeable for a softer style of
beauty. I never saw one to whom the widow’s cap was so becoming. It
seemed peculiarly adapted to her sad, sweet face and the silken bands of
grayish hair, which it did not conceal. There was also in her manner and
speech a refinement which even Bell Verner might have imitated with
advantage. My heart went out to her at once, and by the time I was
seated in the rustic chair, for I preferred remaining in the yard, I
felt as much at ease as if I had known her all my life.
“‘This is Robin,’ she said, turning to the child, who I now discovered
was a cripple in its feet, and unable to walk. ‘Did Richard ever tell
you of Robin?’
“There was a hesitancy now in her voice, as if she knew Richard had
never told me of him, and doubted her own integrity in asking the
question.
“‘No,’ I replied, ‘the doctor never told me of Robin, nor yet of
himself.’
“‘Richard is very reticent,’ she answered; and then as she saw my glance
constantly directed to Robin, she evidently tried to keep me from
talking of him by asking numberless questions about Richard, and by
telling me what a good, kind child he was to her.
“It is true I did not suspect her then of such a motive, but I can see
now how she headed me off from the dangerous ground on which I leaped at
last, for I could not resist the expression of that child’s face, and
breaking away from what she was telling me of Richard, I knelt by his
chair, and kissing his round cheek, asked:
“‘Whose boy are you?’
“‘Papa Richard’s and grandma’s,’ he replied, and then there flashed upon
me the thought that in spite of his deep blue eyes and soft golden curls
he was like Dr. West. For an instant I was conscious of a sharp,
stinging pain, as I said to myself, ‘Was Dr. West ever married?’ Surely
he would have told of that,—would at some time have mentioned his wife,
and with the pain there came the knowledge that I did care more for Dr.
West than I had supposed; that I was jealous of the dead woman, the
mother of this child. Mrs. West must have divined a part of my thoughts,
for she said half laughingly, like one under restraint:
“‘He has always called my son “Papa Richard,” as he is the only father
the child ever knew,’ and a shadow flitted across her face as she
directed my attention to a tall heliotrope near by. But I was not to be
evaded; curiosity was aroused, and replying to her remark concerning the
heliotrope, I turned again to Robin, whose little hand I now held in
mine, and said, ‘He is your grandchild?’
“Suddenly the dark eyes looked afar off as if appealing to something or
somebody for help; then they softened and tears were visible in them.
“‘Poor little Robin, he has been a source of great sorrow as well as of
comfort to me, Miss Freeman,’ and Mrs. West’s delicate hand smoothed and
unwound the golden curls clustering around Robin’s head. ‘So I used to
unwind her curls,’ she continued abstractedly. ‘Robin’s mother. I must
show you her picture when we go in. She was very beautiful, more so than
any one I ever knew, and Richard thinks the same.’
“Again that keen pain, as of a sharp knife gliding through my flesh,
passed over me, but I listened breathlessly, while still caressing the
child she continued:
“‘His mother was my adopted daughter: I never had one of my own. Two
sons have been born to me; one I have lost,’—and her breath came
gaspingly like speaking of the dead,—‘the other you know is Richard. To
all intents and purposes Anna was my daughter, and I am sure no mother
ever loved her own offspring more than I did Anna. O Anna darling, Anna
darling! I never dreamed, when I took her to my bosom, that she could—O
Anna!’ and Mrs. West’s voice broke down in a storm of sobs.
“After this I could not ask her any more questions, and in a kind of
maze I followed her into the house, which was a perfect little gem, and
showed marks of most exquisite taste. Some of the furniture struck me as
rather too heavy and expensive for that cottage, but I gave it but
little thought, so interested was I in what I had heard and seen.
“‘That is _Anna_,’ Mrs. West said, pointing to a small portrait hanging
upon the wall just where the western sunbeams were falling upon it and
lighting it up with a wonderful halo of beauty.
“Instantly I forgot all else in my surprise that anything so perfectly
beautiful could ever have belonged to a human being, and with a scream
of delight I stood before the picture, exclaiming, ‘It is not possible
that this is natural!’
‘It is said to be,’ Mrs. West rejoined, ‘though there is a look in her
eye which I did not notice until a few months before she died. She was
crazy at the last.’
“‘Crazy!’ I repeated, now gazing with a feeling of pity upon the lovely
face, which seemed imbued with life.
“I cannot describe that face, and I will not attempt it, for after I had
told of the dark blue eyes and curls of golden hair, of the pure white
skin and full ripe lips, you, my journal, would not have the least idea
of the face, for the sweet, heavenly expression which made it what it
was can never be described on paper. The artist had put it on canvas, so
at least said Mrs. David West, and I believed her, drinking in its rare
loveliness and repeating again, ‘Crazy—poor Anna! Was it for long?’
“‘No, not long; she died when Robin was born.’
“‘And her husband; he must have been heart-broken,’ I ventured to say
next, but if Mrs. West heard me, she made no reply, and with my thoughts
in a tumult, I continued looking at the portrait until, suddenly
remembering the grave which had so interested me, I asked, ‘How old was
Anna when she died?’
“‘Just twenty,’ was the reply; while I rejoined, ‘I am sure then I have
seen her grave. It says upon the stone, “Anna, aged 20.”’
“‘Yes, that’s all Richard would have on the marble. It almost killed
Richard, but God has healed the wound just as He will heal all hearts
which go to Him.’
“I don’t know why I said what I did next, unless it were that I should
have died if I had not. The words were wrung from me almost against my
will:
“‘Was Richard Anna’s husband?’
“‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband!’ Mrs. West replied,
quickly.
“Heretofore she had answered my queries concerning Anna with hesitancy,
but the ‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband,’ was spoken
eagerly, decidedly, as if it were a fact she would particularly impress
upon my mind. Then, as I stood looking at her expectantly, she went on,
but this time in the old, cautious manner:
“‘I never knew who Anna’s husband was. It is a sad story, which I would
gladly forget, but Robin’s presence keeps it in my mind,’ and bowing her
head over the child, the poor woman wept passionately.
“‘Poor grandma, don’t cry. I love you! What makes grandma cry over me so
much, and look so sorry at me? Is it because I am a little lame boy?’
“This Robin said to me, while he tried to brush away the tears of her he
called grandmother. He had not talked much before, but what he said now
went through my heart, and kissing his forehead, I whispered:
“‘People sometimes cry for joy.’
“‘But she don’t,’ he said, nodding toward Mrs. West, who left us alone
while she bathed her face and eyes. ‘She looks so sorry, and says, “Poor
Robin,” so often. I guess it’s because my feet will never walk, that she
says that. I should cry too, but Papa Richard talked to me so good, and
said God made me lame; that up in heaven there were no little cripples;
that if I loved the Saviour, and didn’t fret about my feet, I’d go up
there some day; and since then I’ve tried hard not to mind, and ever so
many times a day I say softly to myself, “Will Jesus help Robin not to
fret because he’s a poor lame boy, of no use to anybody.” I say it way
in my mouth, but God hears just the same.’
“I could not answer for my weeping, but kneeling beside the lame boy, I
wound my arms around his neck, and laid his curly head upon my bosom,
just as I would have done had it been Johnnie, Ben, or Bertie thus
afflicted.
“‘Seems like you was most my mother,’ he said, caressing my cheek with
his soft little hand. ‘You don’t look like her much, only I dreamed once
she came to me and loved me, as you do, and kissed my twisted feet, oh!
so many times. It was a beautiful dream, and next day I told it to
grandma, and asked her if she wasn’t sure my mother was in heaven! She
did not answer until I said again, “Is she in heaven?” Then she said, “I
hope so, Robin;” but I wanted to know sure, and kept on asking, until
she burst out with the loudest cry I ever heard her or anybody cry, and
said, “God knows, my little Robin. He will take care of her. I hope
she’s there!” but she wouldn’t say for sure, just as she did when the
minister and Mrs. Terry’s baby died. Why not? Why didn’t she? Lady, you
look good. You look as if you prayed. Do you pray?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered, wondering if he would call my careless words a
prayer.
“‘Then lady,’ and the deep eyes of blue looked eagerly, wistfully at me,
‘then tell me true, is my mother in heaven, sure?’
“What could I do,—I who knew nothing to warrant a different
conclusion,—what could I do but answer, ‘Yes.’ He believed me, the
trustful, innocent child, clapping his hands for joy, while the picture
on the wall, wholly wrapped in the summer sunshine, seemed one gleam of
heavenly glory, as if the mother herself confirmed the answer given to
her boy. He did not doubt me in the least, neither did I doubt myself;
Anna was safe, whatever her sin might have been; whether the wife of one
husband or six, like the woman of Samaria, she surely was forgiven.
“Mrs. West had now returned, her face as calm and placid as ever, and
her voice as low and sweet.
“‘You have had a sad call, I fear,’ she said. ‘Richard would not like it
if he knew how I had entertained you, but I’ll promise to do better next
time, though I cannot talk of Anna. Some day perhaps, you may know all,
but I would rather it should be Richard who tells you.’
“She kept associating me with Richard, and though the association was
not distasteful, it puzzled me somewhat, making me wonder if he had ever
told her much of me.
“At that moment Mattie’s new cook, Mrs. Felton, appeared, curtseying
with a great deal of humility to Mrs. West, who did not seem especially
pleased to meet her. Still she greeted her kindly, and suffered her to
caress Robin, whom she called a ‘precious lamb,’ a ‘poor, little,
stunted rosy,’ and numerous other extravagant names.
“‘I’m back to the old place,’ she said to Mrs. West, when through with
Robin, ‘but my, such a change! ’Tain’t much such times as when you were
there, I tell you. Then we had a head; now we’ve none.’
“Mrs. West stopped her at this point by asking me to come again, and
saying she did not know Mrs. Randall or she would call on me.
“‘You might make the first advance,’ I said. ‘You have surely lived here
longer than Mrs. Randall.’
“‘Yes, I know,’ and her pale face flushed up to her soft grey hair. ‘But
times have changed with me. I do not go out at all.’
“‘Come again,’ Robin said, as I turned towards him; ‘come again, lady; I
likes you, cause you seem some like Papa Richard.’
“It grated harshly to hear the child say Papa Richard, and involuntarily
I asked, ‘Why he did not say Uncle Richard? He is not your father,’ I
added, while the child’s eyes grew big with wonder, as he replied:
“‘Then where is my father, I’d like to know?’
“Mrs. Felton laughed a hateful, meaning laugh, and said:
“‘Come, Miss Freeman, it’s time we were going.’
“With another good-by for Robin I shook Mrs. West’s proffered hand, and
was soon out in the street with Mrs. Felton, who, when we were at a safe
distance from the house, remarked in a very disagreeable tone:
“‘The cutest thing you ever did was to tell that child not to call the
doctor papa. I’d have broke him of it long before this. It don’t sound
well, ’specially after all’s been said about Mr. Richard and Miss Anna.’
“I wouldn’t question her, neither was there a necessity for it, as she
was bent on talking, and of the Wests, too.
“‘I s’pose you know the doctor and his mother used to own West Lawn?’
was the next remark, which brought to my mind the conversation between
her and Mrs. West.
“‘Used to own West Lawn!’ I repeated, surprised out of my cool reserve.
“‘To be sure they did; but, for some unaccountable reason which nobody
ever knew, they sold it about the time Anna died, and bought the place
where they live now. Of course when a person jumps right out of a good
nest with their eyes wide open, nobody but themselves is to blame for
where they land. Mrs. West held her head as high as the next one, drove
her carriage, and used solid silver every day, and now its all gone. I
lived with her as chamber-maid for a whole year. I was Sarah Pellet
then.’
“I was too much interested to stop her, and suffered her to go on.
“‘I loved Miss Anna, even if she did turn out bad. She was the
sweetest-tempered, prettiest-wayed girl you ever seen, and when they
took her to the hospital I felt as bad as if she’d died.’
“‘To the hospital? The lunatic asylum? Did she go there?’ I asked; and
Sarah Felton replied:
“‘Oh yes; they hoped ’twould cure her. Seems’s if the trouble all come
to once. First, there was Robert, Richard’s twin, who went off, or was
murdered, and has never been heard of since.’
“‘Richard’s twin brother ran off? When? How long ago? How long before
Anna died, I mean?’ I asked, stopping suddenly as a new light dawned
upon me, only, alas! to fade into darkness at the answer.
“‘Oh, better than a year. Yes, a full year; for he’d been gone a good
spell before it was known to many. He didn’t live here; ’twas in New
York, and he hardly ever come home. He was a wild one, not much like
Richard, who was engaged to Anna, and that’s what I can’t make out,—why
he didn’t marry her.’
“We were crossing a common now, where there were rustic benches beneath
the trees; and feeling that unless I stopped I should fall, I was so
faint and sick with what I had heard, I said that I was tired; and
seating myself upon a bench, loosened my hat-strings and leaned against
a tree, listening, while my loquacious companion continued:
“‘He was engaged for years, so I’ve heard, and I know he thought a sight
of her. It was fairly sickish to see ’em together, he with his arm round
her and she a lettin’ her head, with them long curls, loll on his
shoulder. They was to be married the very day she died. ’Twas an awful
sight. I went away from them about the time they sent her to the
hospital; but I was back a spell, as the chamber-maid was took sick, and
so I was in it all. Dr. Richard kissed her when she was dyin’, and she
whispered something in his ear.’
“‘But Robin,’ I gasped; ‘Anna was surely married to somebody.’
“Again the smile I had seen before and hated curled her lip as she
answered:
“‘Yes, of course she was married, for she was a very pious girl, runnin’
Sunday-schools, belongin’ to the church, tendin’ to the poor, and all
that.’
“I knew that woman did not believe in Anna’s piety, but I did, and the
belief gave me comfort as I gazed up into the clear blue sky and said to
myself, ‘She is there.’
“Dimly I began to perceive why Mrs. West could not tell Robin that his
mother was in heaven sure; but I was glad I had done so, without
reasoning in the least upon the matter. I exonerated Anna, and only
wrote bitter things against poor Richard, saying to the woman, ‘And
Richard kissed her when she was dying?’
“‘Yes, up there where you sleep. That was Anna’s room, where she died,
and where Robin was born. I didn’t see it, but them that told me did.
Richard fell as flat as if struck with lightning when he came up from
the office and heard what had happened, and six hours after, when they
said she was dyin’ and had asked for him, he had to be carried, he was
so limpsy and weak. She never noticed the child an atom, or acted as if
there was one, but would whisper, ‘Forgive,—I can’t tell,—I promised
not. It’s all right,—all right.’ What she meant nobody knows, for she
died just that way, with Richard’s arm around her, and the doctor
a-holdin’ him, for he was whiter than a rag, and after she was dead he
went into a ravin’ fever, which lasted for weeks and weeks, till the
allopaths give him up. Then the homœopaths come in and cured him, and
that’s why he turned into a sugar-pill doctor. He was one of the
blisterin’ and jollup kind before his sickness, but after that he
changed, and they do say he’s mighty skilful. As soon as he got well
they sold West Lawn, and Mrs. West has never seemed like the same woman
since. Folks thinks they’s poor, though what’s become of the property
nobody knows. Anyways the doctor supports his mother, sendin’ her money
every now and agen.’
“‘But why,’ I asked, ‘did Mrs. Randall and Bell Verner never hear of all
this?’
“‘Easy enough,’ was the reply. ‘Judge Verner only moved here last fall,
and Mr. Randall last spring. West Lawn has changed hands three times
since the doctor owned it; so it’s natural that his name shouldn’t
appear in the sale. Then, it’s seven years since it all happened, and a
gossiping place like Morrisville, where there are upwards of three
thousand folks, don’t harp on one string forever; only them that was
interested, like me, remembers.’
“This was true in detail, and was a good reason why neither Bell nor
Mattie had ever heard of Anna West, I thought, as I dragged my steps
homeward, hardly knowing when I reached there, and feeling glad that
Mattie was still confined to her bed, as this left me free to repair at
once to my own room,—Anna’s room,—where she died, with her head on
Richard’s arm, and he so weak that he had to be supported. Poor Richard!
I do pity him, knowing now why he so often seems sad. But what was it?
How is it, and what makes my brain whirl so fast? Anna said with her
dying breath that it was all right, and I believe her. I will not cast
at her a stone. She is in heaven sure; yes, Robin, sure. And Richard
fell as if smitten with lightning when he heard of it! That betokened
innocence on his part. Then why this horrid feeling? Is it sorrow that
he cared for and loved her? I don’t know; everything seems so far off
that I cannot find it. What is the record? Let me see.
“Richard once lived here in this grand house; he has met with reverses,
nobody knows what; he has a brother somewhere, nobody knows where; he
supports his mother, and this accounts for what I termed his stinginess.
How I hate myself, and how noble Dr. West would appear were it not
for,—for,—I cannot say it,—the horrible possibility, and I,—I guess,—I
think,—I am very sure I did care for him more than I supposed.
“July 23d.
“I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest doses of
medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die. It was a heavy cold, taken
when sitting upon the common, I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she
came in to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am sure my
head would never have ached so hard if I had not heard that dreadful
story. I have thought a great deal while Mattie believed me sleeping,
and the result of it is this: _I hate Dr. West_, and never desire to see
him again! There is something wrong, and I’ve no faith in anybody.
“There’s a letter from Margaret lying on the table. They are at the
Clarendon, which is a new hotel, smaller than either the United States
or Union Hall, but makes up for its size in its freshness, its quiet,
and air of homelike comfort. At least so Margaret says; and although she
complains that she does not see so many people as she would at the
larger houses, she seems contented, and speaks in raptures of her nice
large rooms and their gentlemanly host. I am glad she is satisfied, and
that Johnnie, at home, is, as he expresses it in a letter just received,
‘as happy as a clam.’
“Accidentally I have heard that Robin is sick and has sent for me. I
must have slept for many hours, I think: not a heavy, stolid sleep, as I
was vaguely conscious that Mattie stole in to look at me, and that Bell
Verner, too, was here. But I did not realize it all until at last I woke
and felt that I was better. The pain from the head was gone, and the
soreness from the throat, leaving only a pleasant, tired feeling which I
rather enjoy.
“In the other room Mattie and Bell were talking, as it seemed, of me,
for I heard Mattie say:
“‘I wonder if she really does care about him?’
“‘I think she does,’ was Bell’s reply, ‘for I remember how annoyed she
was when your brother teased her by ridiculing his peculiarities. Poor
girl! I half suspect this has something to do with her illness. Mrs.
Felton has confessed having told her what she knew.’
“‘She has? When?’ and Mattie seemed surprised.
“‘Why,’ returned Bell, ‘that night I sat with Dora, Mrs. Felton, you
know, was with me a part of the time, and once when Dora, in her
disturbed sleep, was talking, she moaned about Dr. West and Anna. “Poor
lamb, she’s dwellin’ on the young lady who died in this very room,”
Felton said; and when I inquired what young lady, she told me all she
knew, and more too, I think. Afterwards I asked Mrs. Stryker if she ever
heard of Anna West, and she said, “Oh yes; she died just before we came
here. Everybody was talking about it;” and then she told her story,
which, of course, differed from Mrs. Felton’s about as much as is the
difference in the social position of the two women,—Felton seeing things
from her stand-point, and Mrs. Stryker repeating them from hers. She
said Mrs. West used to give elegant parties, and Anna was always the
star of the company. She was so beautiful and attractive that young men
could not help admiring her, while Richard loved her very much, and
nobody now believes—’
“I covered up my head at this point, for I would not listen to any more.
After a little I heard some one coming up the stairs, not quietly,
soberly, as Mattie and Bell had come, but noisily, rapidly, two steps at
a time, trilling a few notes from some opera, and when the music ran
high, absolutely breaking into a clear, decided whistle! I was amazed,
particularly as the next moment Bell Verner said:
“‘Hush-sh! Miss Freeman’s asleep. You’ll wake her with your boy-ways!’
“‘I don’t care!”’ and the whistler evidently cut a pirouette. ‘I’ll try
to wake her, unless you tell me quick who is the handsomest man in town,
the most _distingué_, for I met him just now in the street, and fell in
love at once! Tall, broad-shouldered, with brown, dreamy eyes, and the
whitest teeth! Tell me quick, Bell! You ought to know every marriageable
man between the two poles, for here you’ve been out just as many years
as you are older than I am, to wit, _ten_. Say, who was it?’
“‘Jessie, do be quiet. How do I know?’ Bell began, and then I knew the
noisy girl was Bell’s young sister, Jessie, who had just been graduated
in Boston, and had of course come home.
“She was a wild, rattle-brained creature, I was sure, but her flow of
spirits suited my mood, and for the sole purpose of seeing her I called
to Bell, who, the next moment, was asking anxiously what I wanted.
“‘I am better,’ I said. ‘Am well; and I want you to open the blinds so I
can see; then all come in where I can hear you talk. Who is that with
the cheery whistle?’
“‘_Eureka!_ she thinks my whistle beautiful!’ I heard from the next
room, while Bell replied:
“‘It’s sister Jessie. She came last night, and has nearly driven us wild
already with her fun and spirits. She stopped for a few days at
Saratoga, and saw your sister. Shall I call her?’
“‘Yes,’ I said; and Jessie came at once,—a little fairy, hoydenish
creature, with the sauciest, merriest face, the roundest black eyes, and
a head covered with short, black curls, which shook as she talked, and
kept time with the twinkle of her eyes.
“She kissed me heartily, and then, perching herself upon the foot of the
bed, told me about Saratoga,—what a little paradise it was at the
Clarendon,—so clean and nice; what a splendid man the proprietor was,
treating his boarders as if they were invited guests; humoring
everybody’s whim, even to muzzling the poor dog who barked at night,
thereby disturbing some nervous invalid,—told me too what a love of a
man she thought Squire Russell.
“‘Mrs. Russell is your sister,’ she went on, ‘and so I say nothing of
her, _pro_ nor _con_, except that it must be good pious work to live
with her,’ and the curls and the eyes danced together.
“I could not be angry, and the gypsy rattled on:
“‘But that Mr. Russell is my _beau ideal_ of husbands. I made him
promise if he ever was a widower, he’d take me for his second wife.
There’s nothing I’d like better, I told him, than to mother his six
children. You ought to have seen my lady then!’ and the queer, little
face put on a look so like Margaret’s that I could not forebear
laughing, knowing, as I did, how shocked my sister must have been.
“‘“Husband,” she said, “I think it’s wrong to trifle with matters so
sacred!” Whereupon the husband meekly subsided, and fanned her
connubially with the Saratoga paper. Oh, he’s a splendid fellow, but I
used to pity him evenings when I saw him standing over his wife’s chair,
looking so wistfully at the dancers. She wouldn’t let him waltz,—thought
it was very improper, and I was told made several remarks not very
complimentary to my style of tripping the light fantastic toe. She is
rather pretty, and one night when she wore a pale blue silk, with all
her diamonds and point-lace, she was the finest-looking woman in the
room.’
“‘She used to be very beautiful,’ I said, feeling that I must defend
her, ‘but she is sadly broken, and no wonder,—six children in twelve
years!’
“‘Yes, I know. It’s perfectly dreadful, but if I had forty children, I’d
let my husband waltz and smoke. Oh, I forgot, she don’t let him smoke if
she knows it, and if by chance the poor fellow drew a whiff or two down
in the office, he had to walk round the south-east corner of the
building sixteen times to air himself. There’s the gate,—who’s come?’
and with this she bounded from the bed and ran to the window to
reconnoitre.
“‘As I live,’ she exclaimed, drawing back from the window, ‘it’s the
very man I told you about, and he’s coming here.’
“‘Don’t be angry with her: she’s a crazy child,’ Bell whispered, and I
had just time to reply that I was not angry, when the peal of the
door-bell was distinctly heard, and Jessie, by leaning over the
bannisters, tried to hear what was said.
“‘It’s about you,’ and she darted back to my side. ‘He certainly said
Miss Freeman.’
“I don’t know that I expected what followed, but my breath came heavily,
and I was not surprised when Sarah, the maid, came up and handed me a
card bearing the name of _Dr. West_. He was in the parlor, and if I
could not go down he wished to see Mrs. Randall. Instantly Mattie and
Bell exchanged glances, while the former said in an aside:
“‘Can it be the child is so sick they have sent for him?’
“‘What child?’ I exclaimed. ‘Who is sick. Is it Robin?’
“‘Yes,’ Mattie answered, hurriedly. ‘We did not think best to tell you
when the message came, four days ago. Robin West is very sick, and keeps
asking for the lady who said his mother was in heaven sure. As you could
not go, I went myself, learning by that means many things concerning the
family which I never knew before. I liked Mrs. West very much. But what
shall I tell the doctor for you?’
“I felt irritated and annoyed that Mattie and Bell, and so many, should
know and talk about that story, and more than all I was vexed that Bell
should believe I cared for the doctor, whose heart was buried in Anna’s
grave, and I answered pettishly:
“‘You needn’t tell him anything.’
“Bell looked surprised, Jessie whistled, and Mattie laughed, as she
walked downstairs to receive her visitor.
“‘I have only known you for half an hour, Miss Dora Freeman,’ Jessie
said, saucily, ‘but if _I_ am any judge of the genus female-homo, you
are desperately in love with that man, and are jealous of somebody.’
“Bell shot at her a warning glance, which silenced her for a moment, and
in the pause I distinctly caught the tones of Dr. West’s familiar voice,
though I could distinguish nothing he said. He did not stay long, and
the moment his step was heard in the hall Jessie was at her post at the
window, ready to watch him as he went down the walk. I think Bell wanted
to look out, but she was far too proud, and in spite of Jessie’s
entreaties that she would come just for a minute and say if she ever saw
a more perfectly splendid man, she sat where she was and waited for
Mattie, who soon appeared, joining with Jessie in praises of Dr. West.
The most agreeable person she had ever met, she said, and she wondered I
had not told them about him.
“I was so unamiable that I would not even ask when he came to
Morrisville, nor why he had called; but Jessie asked for me, and so I
learned that he arrived at his mother’s the night previously, and in
compliance with Robin’s repeated request that some one should go for
_the lady_, he had come himself. Robin was better, Mattie said, and if
no new symptoms appeared the doctor would return to Beechwood the next
day.
“All this while I asked no questions and volunteered no remark, though
in my own mind I resolved that so soon as I was able, I would go to see
Robin West. I suppose I was beginning to look tired, as Bell said they
were worrying me too long, and, after some coaxing and scolding, she
persuaded her sister to leave with her.
“‘Mind, now,’ Jessie said to me, as she stood with her hat poised on her
short, thick curls, ‘if you are sure you do not like this doctor, and
wish to be rid of him; I’ll take him off your hands, and thank you, too.
I’ve a great mind to try the effect of my charms upon him: shall I? You
see, I am not going to wait, like Bell, till I verge upon the _serious_
yellow leaf. I am going to be married. _Au revoir!_’ and whistling ‘Hail
to the Chief,’ she bounded down the stairs, three at a time, I verily
believe, for I trembled lest she should break her neck, and felt
relieved when her gay laugh sounded upon the walk.
“The next thing which I heard was that Dr. West was at Mr. Verner’s,
prescribing for Jessie’s father, who had been taken violently ill.”
CHAPTER VIII.
JESSIE’S DIARY.
“July 24th.—The richest thing has happened; the best joke I ever heard
of; and I give myself great credit for having been the direct cause of
its happening! If there is any one thing which father hates more than
another, it is a homœopathic physician.
“‘Quacks, humbugs, impositions, loggerheads, ignoramuses!’
“These are very mild names compared with what I’ve heard him call them,
declaring he would show the door to the first one who should ever come
round him with their two goblets, two spoons, two little plates for
covers, and one pill dissolved in a hogshead of water, half a drop to be
taken once in six hours! That’s the way he talked, submitting to any
amount of blistering, bleeding, drugging, and torturing, and thinking it
felt nice. But I’ve played him a trick which will do him good for the
remainder of his natural life.
“When I came home last night from Mr. Randall’s, I found him groaning,
sweating, and almost swearing with the colic, brought on by too much
fruit at dinner, followed by two saucers of cream. He never was in such
pain in his life; he should die, he knew he should; and somebody must go
for the doctor. Of course every servant was out of sight and hearing,
and so I went myself for Dr. Lincoln, who was off in the country miles
away, and would not be home for hours. Here was a dilemma; and as I was
wondering what to do next, I saw that paragon of M.D.’s, Dr. West,
coming down the street. Instantly my decision was made; and looking as
anxious as I could, I accosted him at once, begging him to go and
prescribe for my father, Judge Verner. He looked at me a little
curiously, but acceded to my request, and in less than five minutes I
had ushered him into the room, where father was enacting a round of
_colicky_ gymnastics, and where Bell looked up in wonder, actually
starting to her feet when I introduced _Dr. West_.
“‘Dr. Lincoln was gone, and I brought this one,’ I whispered to father,
who was in too much pain to notice particularly, and who thought it Dr.
Lincoln’s student.
“‘I shall need some water, a spoon, and two goblets,’ the doctor said,
and I hastened to execute the orders, watching father as the stirring
process went on, and almost screaming when he swallowed the first
spoonful.
“‘I’m afraid it ain’t strong enough, doctor. It hasn’t much taste,’ he
said, smacking his lips, as he missed the flavor of Dr. Lincoln’s
bottles.
“‘We’ll see what effect it has,’ was the doctor’s reply; and in a few
moments down went another drop of the sweetened water; then another, and
another, until the groaning and flouncing ceased, and father lay upon
his pillow as well-behaved a patient as one would wish to see.
“He was very quiet, and after waiting half an hour the doctor said he
did not think he was needed any longer, and would leave.
“‘Should the paroxysms return,’ he said to Bell, ‘give him six of these
pills,’ and he placed upon the table a tiny phial, which at once caught
father’s eye and set him to raving like a madman.
“‘Bell! Jessie!’ he gasped, as the gate closed after the doctor, ‘who
was that chap?—what persuasion, I mean? Was he a rascally—’
“He was in too great a rage to say the words, and so I said it for him.
“‘He was a homœopathist, father. Didn’t he help you quick? You never
groaned a groan after the third swallow.’
“‘Third swallow be—no, I won’t swear, but I will say Thunder and Mars!’
he roared; ‘have I been insulted in my own house? I won’t stand it! I’ll
gag, I’ll heave, I’ll puke, but what I’ll get rid of the stuff! Give
_me_ water for the colic,—_me!_’
“‘But if the water answered the purpose, why do you care?’ Bell asked,
and father gave her a look very like, ‘_Et tu Brute_.’
“He could not deny that he was better,—that something had helped him;
but it wasn’t sweetened water; no indeed; and I might heave it out of
the window.
“I took up the goblet to do so, when he yelled:
“‘Don’t be a fool because you made one of me! Set that glass down and
bring me that phial.’
“I obeyed, and he read on the little yellowish paper: ‘For Colic. For an
adult, take six every hour. For children from two to three, according to
age. Prepared by R. West, M.D., Beechwood.’
“He read it aloud twice, then asked, ‘Who the —— was _R. West, M.D._,
and how the plague came he there?’
“The hurricane was over, and I ventured to explain, asking if he were
not very gentlemanly and pleasant.
“‘He’s well enough for a _fool_!’ he replied, declaring he should have
been better without the truck; that had nothing to do with it.
“This morning I missed the little phial, and when I asked where it was,
father told me to mind my business, and then I knew he had it safe in
his vest pocket, a charm against future attacks of colic. How Bell
scolded when we were alone, and how I rolled on the floor and laughed.
Bell is smitten; I can see it in her face and manner. She does nothing
but think of Dr. West, who has returned to Beechwood. Will I ever see
him again? and does Dora Freeman hate or like him, which?”
CHAPTER IX.
EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST’S DIARY.
“BEECHWOOD, July.
“I did not see Dora after all, and I had thought so much about it,
feeling, I am afraid, more than willing that Robin should be sick, and
so give me an excuse for going to Morrisville. Since receiving that
little note from Dora, I have frequently dared to build castles of what
might some day be, for something in that message led me to hope that I
am not indifferent to her. The very fact that she answered my informal
letter asking the loan of a book would prove it so, so I sit and think
and wonder what the future has in store for me, until my patients are in
danger of being neglected.
“Poor Robin, I fear he is not long for this world, and when I remember
how perfectly helpless he is, and must always remain, I say to myself:
“‘It is well that the child should follow the mother, if indeed, as Dora
told him, she is in _heaven sure_.’
“Darling Dora, I am glad you told him so. You have no reason to think
otherwise. Does Dora know how much I once loved Anna? I fancy not, and
yet there are those in Morrisville who remember the sad story, but she
is not thrown much in their society. The Randalls and Verners and
Strykers form a circle into which outsiders are not often admitted. I
liked that Mrs. Randall, and so did mother. How familiar the old place
looked to me, and how natural it seemed that I should be there, and Dora
too. Will she ever be the mistress of my home? If so, that home I know
will not be West Lawn, but there is still a cherished hope of one day
redeeming that old homestead of which she talks so much. Then, _Dora_,
brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora, your little feet shall dance again upon
the greensward and your merry laugh awaken the echoes of the olden time.
Dear Dora, I trust she is not very sick, and I wish I could have seen
her.
“Judge Verner,—by what chance came I in his presence, and that of his
regal daughter Bell? I suspected then I was the victim of a joke,
perpetrated by that saucy-looking, black-eyed elf, whom they called
Jessie, and now I am sure of it, for here this morning comes a letter
from the judge, worthy, I think, to be preserved as a curiosity.
“‘Mr. West,’ he writes, with the _Mr._ heavily underscored, as if to
make it doubly evident that he ignored the title of Dr. in my case:
‘Enclosed find five dollars for professional services rendered to self
July 22d. If I hadn’t had such a confounded stomach-ache I suppose I
should have marched you out-doors in double-quick time, as that is what
I’ve threatened to do with all kinds of quacks; but I’m glad I didn’t,
as my remembrance of you _is_ that you are a gentleman, even if you have
a soft spot in the brain. Jessie,—that’s my youngest,—insists that your
spoon victuals did me good, and prides herself on having cajoled you
into the house,—but she needn’t tell me; I know better. Bell,
too,—that’s my eldest,—has partially gone over to the enemy, but I’ll
stick to my principles. It’s all a piece of tomfoolery, though if you’ll
never breathe a word of it to Bell, nor Jessie, there is something about
those paltry little pills in that phial that will stop the tallest kind
of a gripe! I’d like to know you better, young man, and so would my
daughters. Come here in the autumn, when the shooting is fine. We have
splendid woods for hunting, if you enjoy it.
“‘Yours truly,
“‘THOMAS VERNER.’
“This is a judge’s letter, and I rather like him for it. He is not to be
convinced in a hurry, but those little pills will do the work. I’d like
to know him better, and his daughters too. There was something
fascinating in that haughty Bell’s manner, while the mischievous Jessie
attracted me at once. I may some time improve the acquaintance commenced
under so very singular circumstances.”
CHAPTER X.
DORA’S DIARY.
“It seems to me a year since I last wrote, and yet ’tis only three short
weeks. But in that time so much has happened that I scarcely can realize
it at all. Morrisville was very lonely after the doctor left, and but
for that wild Jessie, who keeps one so constantly stirred up, I could
hardly have borne the loneliness. She is so full of life, and she has
made me laugh so much as she described her father’s conversion to
homœopathy, and then went off into ecstasies over Dr. West.
“But there came a day when even the gleeful Jessie’s laugh was hushed,
and her merry eyes were dim with tears, as she helped me array a little
crippled form for the grave. Robin is dead! I can write about it now,
can speak of the darling composedly, but at first the thought of him
brought a great choking sob, and I could only weep, so fast he grew in
my love during the few days I watched over him. He was worse I heard,
and in spite of Mattie’s assertion that I was not able to endure it, I
went to see him. Nor was I sorry when I met the look of love which
beamed in his soft blue eyes, as folding his arms around my neck, he
said:
“‘I knew you’d come, for I asked God would He send you to little Robin,
and He did. You’ll stay, too, won’t you, till Robin’s dead? and you’ll
tell me again of my mother in heaven?’
“I might not have stayed with him to the last, but for a dream I had
that night, in which Anna came to me, her robes all white and pure as
are the robes of the redeemed, a halo of glory round her head, and a
look of love in her eyes as she bent over me and said:
“‘There’s a little harp in heaven waiting for my boy, and ere many days
his baby hands will sweep its golden strings; but till that time
arrives, he wants you, Dora Freeman,—wants you to lead him down into the
river, across whose waters I shall wait to meet him. For Richard’s sake,
you’ll go.’
“The beautiful vision faded from my view, and I awoke from what seemed
more reality than a dream.
“‘Not for Richard’s sake,’ I said, ‘but for Anna’s;’ and so next day I
went again to where the little sick boy lay, watching and waiting for
me.
“‘I don’t call him Papa Richard now,’ he said, when my wrappings were
removed, and I sat down beside him. ‘I told him what you said, that he
was not my father, and he told me, “No, Robin, I am not,” but he
wouldn’t say where papa was. Do you know, lady, is he in heaven, too?’
“I could not tell, and I tried to divert his mind into some other
channel, getting him to speak of Richard, and, vain girl that I was,
laying ingenious snares for ascertaining if Richard had mentioned me
when he was home.
“‘He talked of “Dora.” Is that you, and may I call you so?’ Robin said,
in reply to my direct interrogation as to what Richard had talked about;
and so after that I was Dora to the child, who would scarcely let
another wait upon him. ‘You seem like mother. You’ll stay,’ he kept
repeating, when Mattie came at nightfall after me.
“I thought of Anna in my dream; thought of the little golden harp, and
stayed, while people talked, as people will, wondering what kept me at
that child’s sick-bed, and associating me at last with Richard, for
whose sake they said I had turned nurse to Robin. This piece of gossip
proved the resurrection of the old story, which was told and retold in a
thousand different forms, until madcap Jessie Verner threatened to box
the first one’s ears who should say Anna West to her again. This she
told me herself, watching with me by Robin, and that was all that passed
between us on the subject. It seemed to be tacitly understood that
neither Mattie, Bell, nor herself were to speak of the story to me, and
they did not. Somehow it would have been a great relief to know just
what they thought, but I would not ask, and on this point surrounded
myself with so strong a barrier of reserve, that they never tried to
break it down.
“Jessie had come to Mrs. West’s unsolicited, and it was strange how the
quiet, sad woman opened her heart at once to receive the wild young
creature, while Robin turned to her trustingly, and whispered when she
was gone:
“‘I don’t mind—her seeing my feet. She laughs at most everything, but
she wouldn’t at my poor, twisted toes.’
“Precious Robin! I would he could have seen the gush of tears with which
Jessie baptized those twisted toes when first the shrivelled things met
her view; but he was then where the halt and maimed are made whole, and
the feet which here had never stepped a step were treading the golden
streets. It was strange that one so young should be so sensitive about
his deformity, but he had been so from the time he first learned that he
was lame, and when, sitting in his chair upon the lawn, he would often
ask his grandmother if she supposed the passers-by guessed that he was
not like them.
“It is frequently the case that a deformity of the body manifests itself
in the expression of the face, but it was not so with him. A more
beautiful face I never saw, and I loved to watch it as he lay sleeping
upon his pillow, wondering if the mother could have been as beautiful as
the child, and then speculating bitterly upon the father, wherever he
might be. I had said in my heart that I exonerated Richard, but at times
I experienced a feeling which I called hatred for the man whom Mrs. West
was almost hourly expecting, and who, when he came, found me with Robin
on my lap, his head nestled upon my bosom, while I sang to him of the
Heavenly City, where his mother waited for him.
“It was just at the setting of the sun that I heard the coach stop
before the gate, and a rapid step upon the walk. My voice must have
trembled, for Robin unclosed his eyes as if to ask the cause, but I
hushed him gently, while in the adjoining apartment a low conversation
was carried on for twenty minutes or more. At last the doctor started
for the room where I was sitting, but I gave no sign of consciousness
until he was close beside me and I met the glance of his eyes,—a glance
in which for an instant I fancied I read more than a friendly interest;
the blood surged hotly through my veins; but thoughts of Anna, whom
dying he had kissed, holding her as I had held Robin, froze it back from
my face, which must have turned very white, for after his first words of
greeting, he said to me, ‘I cannot thank you enough for what you have
been to mother. She has told me of your kindness; but Dora,’ and his
hand touched my hair lightly, ‘I fear you are overtaxing your strength.
You are very pale to-night. Let me relieve you of Robin.’
“I was not tired, I said, and my manner was so chilling that his hand
slid from my hair, while he began speaking to Robin, who only complained
of weariness.
“‘I am glad you have come, Uncle Richard,’ Robin said, putting out his
thin fingers and playing with the heavy beard of the doctor, who had
knelt beside me the better to see the child. ‘I call you uncle all the
time because Dora wanted me to.’
“Instantly our eyes met, and I saw his face crimson with emotions whose
nature I could not guess. I only knew they hardened me into stone, and I
was glad when at last Jessie came in, for she relieved me from all
necessity of talking. Richard liked Jessie; her sprightly manner amused
and rested him, I could see, and it made me half angry to hear how
merrily he laughed at her remarks, even when he knew that Robin’s days
were numbered. How I clung to that child, refusing to give him to the
care of Mrs. West. He could not lie upon the bed, and I felt a kind of
fierce pleasure in holding him, and in knowing that Richard knew what I
was doing for Anna’s child.
“Slowly the summer night darkened around us, and the August moon cast
its beams across the floor, even to where I sat singing the low lullaby.
And out upon the piazza Dr. West and Jessie talked and laughed together,
until the sick boy whispered moaningly, ‘It’s very cold and dark in
here. Cover me closer, Dora, and light the candles now.’
“I covered him up, and saw upon his face a shadow, whose import I could
not mistake, and half bitterly, half reproachfully, I exclaimed:
“‘Dr. West, if you can spend the time, I think Robin needs you.’
“He was at my side in an instant, and so was Jessie; her eyes filling
with tears when she, too, saw and recognized the shadow which had
alarmed me. Robin was dying! We all knew it now, and Robin knew it, too,
and still refused to leave me for the arms which Richard stretched out
to him.
“‘It’s nicer here,’ he said, and there was a world of love in the soft
blue eyes as he nestled closer to me.
‘I guess I’m dying. It’s all so dark and queer. Is it very far to
heaven, and will I lose the way?’
“‘No, darling, for Jesus will go with you,’ Richard answered, now
pressing so close to Robin that his shoulder touched mine, and I felt
his breath upon my hair.
“‘And I won’t be a cripple any more? I’ll walk in heaven, and mother’s
there sure?’ was the next remark, to which there came no response,
except a moan from Mrs. West, until I answered:
“‘Yes, _sure, Robin, sure_.’
“‘I’ll tell her how good you was, and how much I loved you, too. What
shall I say for you, Grandma West? What word shall I carry mother?’
“Mrs. West was weeping bitterly, with her head upon the pillow, where
Robin’s had lain so long, and when he thus addressed her, she answered:
“‘Tell her, if you meet her, how I mourned for her till my hair all
turned white, and tell her how if in thought I ever wronged her, I am so
sorry now.’
“‘I’ll tell her,’ Robin whispered; ‘and you, Uncle Richard, what for
you?’
“The doctor’s frame shook, and his face was white as ashes as he was
thus appealed to for a message to the dead, but he did not speak until
Robin twice repeated, ‘And what for you?’
“Then with a sob, he said:
“‘Nothing, Robin; nothing from me.’
“‘Why! didn’t you love my mother?’ the dying boy asked, the look of
surprise for a moment mastering the look of death upon his face.
“‘Yes, he did,’ I said. ‘He loved her better than his life. He loves her
still. Tell her so.’
“Again my eyes met those of Dr. West, but in the expression of his there
was something which subdued all my pride, and brought a rain of tears
upon my face. I did not longer refuse to let him take the child, nor did
Robin refuse to go; and I leaned back in my chair sick and faint, while
that great struggle went on between death and the little life whose lamp
had burned so feebly.
“It was not long, but while it lasted I knew that Richard was praying
softly, and that his words were soothing to the sufferer, who suddenly
exclaimed:
“‘I see my mother! She’s like the picture in the frame! She’s waiting
for me over there where the banks are so green! She is in heaven sure;
but I don’t see my father anywhere! He is not there! Oh, where is my
father?’
“That was the last; and two hours later, Robin lay quietly upon his
couch, his golden curls all smooth and shining, just as Jessie had made
them, his blue eyes closed, his tiny hands folded upon his bosom, his
poor, crippled feet hidden from curious sight.
“That night I began to love Jessie Verner, and so I fancied did Dr.
West. All her levity was gone for the time, and in its place there came
a tender, motherly manner, which brooded over and encircled all in its
careful forethought. Even Mrs. West became a very child in the hands of
this girl of eighteen, while Richard, too, was brought within her
influence. He was weary with his long ride of a hundred and thirty
miles, but no one save Jessie seemed to think of this. She remembered
everything, and when I would have worried Mrs. West with questions as to
where Robin’s clothes were kept, she hushed me gently, going about the
house in quest of what was needed, with as much assurance as if she had
been the daughter instead of a perfect stranger. It was Jessie who made
Richard lie upon the lounge in the quiet sitting-room; Jessie who
arranged his pillows for him, covering him up with his travelling-shawl,
and then brought him tea and toast she herself had made, and which he so
much needed after his wearisome ride. I did not marvel that he followed
her movements with eyes in which I read, as I believed, more than an
ordinary interest; while at me, still keeping a useless watch by the
dead boy, he seldom glanced. There was a pang at my heart which I
suppose was jealousy, though I did not so define it, and I rather
enjoyed thinking that Anna, and Robin, and myself, were in some way
wronged by this new interest of Richard’s. I had cared for Robin to the
last, but with his life my usefulness had ceased. I was not needed
longer, I thought, and so next morning I went home, saying to Mrs. West
and Richard, when they asked if I would soon be back:
“‘I shall attend the funeral, of course. There is no necessity for
coming before. Jessie will do everything.’
“Mrs. West did not urge me to return, neither did Richard, but he went
with me to the gate, opening it for me, and then, standing a moment as
if there was something he would say, ‘You do look tired, _Dora_,—more so
than I thought. You are not strong enough for all you have gone through.
I think I must prescribe,’ and he took my hand to feel the quickened
pulse. ‘You are feverish,’ he continued. ‘You ought to rest, but we
shall miss you so much. It’s a comfort to know you are here.’
“I was very foolish, very nervous, and the tears started, but I dashed
them away, and taking the offered medicine, answered back, ‘I leave to
Jessie the task of comforter. She will do better than I.’
“The next moment I was walking rapidly down the street, never looking
back until the corner was reached, when, glancing over my shoulder, I
saw the doctor still standing where I had left him, leaning upon the
gate. I never remember a time when I was so childish, or more unhappy,
than I was that day and the following, which last was the day of Robin’s
funeral. There was no parade, no display,—only a few friends and
neighbors, with Jessie, presiding genius, telling everybody what to do,
while, stranger than all, Judge Verner himself was there as director,
his carriage bearing Mrs. West and Richard to the grave where they
buried Robin.
“There was something in the young man which he liked, he said, even if
he was a fool, and so he had offered no objections to Jessie’s
proceedings, and was himself doing what he could for the family. There
was room in the carriage for four, and greatly to my surprise the Judge
whispered to me:
“‘That chap they call _Doctor_ wants you to go with them. He says, next
to his mother, the child loved you the best.’
“I was very faint for an instant, and then shrinking back into the
corner I answered no, so decidedly that the judge hastened away,
repeating his ill success to Richard, who had risen, and with his mother
on his arm was advancing to the door. As he passed me he stopped, and
reaching his hand said gently, ‘_Dora_, come with us; for Robin’s sake.’
“I could not resist that voice, and I went forward taking his other arm,
and so out into the yard, past the groups of people who speculated
curiously as to why Miss Freeman should go with the chief mourners.
Behind us came Mr. Randall’s carriage, with Mattie, and Bell, and
Jessie, and that in a measure relieved me of my rather awkward position.
“‘Mother,’ Richard said, as we drew near the cemetery, ‘it is seven
years to-day since Anna died. Do you remember?’
“‘Yes,’ she answered sadly, while I remembered that seven years ago was
also to have been his bridal.
“Did he think of it as we wound round the gravelled road, past the
willow and the cedar, past the box, the pine, and fir, to where Anna lay
sleeping? Did he look back with anguish and regret to that other day,
when, with the August sunshine falling upon him as it was falling now,
he listened to the solemn words, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ and
heard the cold earth rattle down upon the coffin-lid? Yes, he did, I was
sure, and this was what blanched his cheeks so white and made his lips
quiver so, as we returned to the carriage and were driven from the yard,
leaving Anna and Robin there alone.
“That afternoon I was restless and wretched. I could not remain quietly
in any place, but wandered uneasily about until near nightfall, when I
stole out unobserved and took my way to the burying-ground, where Anna
and Robin were. Just outside the iron railing which enclosed their
graves there was a rude, time-worn seat, placed upon the grass-plat
years ago, it would seem, from the names and dates carved upon it. Here
I sat down, and leaning my face upon my hand, tried to think of all that
had transpired since I had come to Morrisville. Had I known all I was to
see and hear, would I have wished to come? I asked myself; but could
find no satisfactory answer. I was glad I had known Robin, for his
memory would be a sacred thing to me, and I said I was glad I had heard
of Anna ere I learned to think too much of Richard. Then thoughts of
Jessie arose, and I said aloud, ‘Can he ever forget Anna, who died in
his arms?’
“‘No, Dora, I shall never forget her, neither can I mourn for her
always, as I mourned when we first laid her here, and I sat nearly all
the night just where you are sitting, watching the stars as they held
their first vigil over Anna’s grave, and almost impiously questioning
the Providence which had dealt so strangely with me.’
“I knew it was Richard’s voice speaking to me, and I gave a little start
of surprise, but did not lose a word which he had spoken.
“‘I half believed I should find you here,’ he said, sitting down beside
me, and drawing a little more about my neck the shawl which had fallen
off. ‘Something told me I should find you, and so I came quite as much
to join the living as the dead. Dora, you will forgive the
familiarity,—I never called you so at home, but here, where you have
done me and mine so much good, you will surely let me use a name which
mother and Robin adopted.’
“I bowed, and he went on.
“‘You do not know how glad I am that you were with us when Robin died,
or how it lessens the smart to have you sitting with me in sight of
Robin’s grave.’
“‘And Anna’s?’ I said, looking at him for the first time.
“‘Yes, Anna’s,’ he continued in the same kind tone; ‘and it is of her I
would tell you, Dora,’ and he spoke hurriedly now. ‘How much do you know
of Anna, and who told you?’
“‘Sarah Felton; and I know more than I wish I did,’ I answered, my voice
full of tears, which I could not repress.
“‘Felton!’ he repeated in dismay. ‘Unless her reputation for veracity
has improved, I would not vouch for the truth of what she might say,
though she liked Anna. Shall I tell you her history, Dora?’
“I knew it would cost him a mighty effort to do so, but I must hear the
story. I should never be happy till I had, and I answered eagerly:
“‘Yes, tell me of Anna.’”
CHAPTER XI.
RICHARD’S STORY.
“He was very white, and his voice trembled, while his eyes had in them
the far-off look I had once or twice observed before.
“‘There are some things in our family history,’ he began, ‘which I shall
omit, as they have nothing in particular to do with Anna and myself. For
instance, you know, perhaps, that we once lived at West Lawn in
different circumstances from what mother is living in now, and that we
suddenly sold the place, purchasing a smaller one, and living in a
cheaper, plainer way. Why we did this I need not say, except that Anna
was in no way connected with it.
“‘She was my adopted sister; and she came to us when only six years old.
I was twelve, as was my twin-brother Robert. He went from us years ago,
and has never been heard from since. We fear he is dead, and the
uncertainty is killing my mother. I shall soon be all alone. But I was
telling you of Anna, who grew so fast into our hearts, my brother and I
quarrelling for the honor of drawing her to school. This was in her
childhood, but as she grew older Robert professed to care less for her
than I. “She was a doll-baby,” he said; “a compound of red and white,
and yellow curls.” He would not even acknowledge that she was beautiful,
but said she could not compare with the maidens of New York, where he
went to live when Anna was fourteen and we were twenty. His coldness
troubled me at first, but when I came to think of her as something
dearer than a sister, I was glad that he so seldom came to Morrisville,
for he was far finer-looking than I am. Put us side by side, and
nineteen out of twenty would have given him the preference. But he did
not care for Anna, and when she was sixteen I asked her to be my wife.
It was here, too, Dora, on this very bench, where you are sitting with
me, and it was eleven years ago this very day.
“‘Something most always happens to me on this day—something which leaves
its impress on my mind. One year ago we went to that picnic by the lake.
Do you remember it, Dora?’
“‘Yes,” I gasped, while my cheeks burned painfully. ‘Yes, but go on with
Anna.’
“He was silent a moment, and then continued:
“‘We were in the habit of coming here to sit, she little dreaming how
near we were to the spot of earth where she would ere long be lying. I
have told you that I asked her to be my wife, but I have not told you
how much I loved her, for I did—oh, so much, so much! And she was worthy
of my love. Whatever happened afterward she was worthy then. You have
seen her picture. It hardly does her justice, for no artist can ever
give a correct idea of what that face was when lighted up with life, and
health, and love. I have never seen a face one half as beautiful as
Anna’s. She knew that she was beautiful, but it did not make her vain,
for she knew that God had given her the dangerous gift of beauty, and
she tried to keep His gift unsullied, just as she tried to keep her
heart pure in His sight. I cannot think of a single fault she had unless
it were that she sometimes lacked decision, and was too easily swayed by
those in whom she had confidence. But in all essential points she was
right, serving God with her whole soul, and dedicating herself early to
His service.’
“‘Then why,’ I exclaimed, ‘when Robin asked if she was in heaven sure,
why did you hesitate to tell him yes?’
“A look of pain contracted his features as he replied:
“‘I am speaking of Anna as she was when I asked her to be my wife. We
read of angels falling,—then why not a mortal man? though Heaven knows
that I cannot fully believe that Anna fell. I could not live if I
believed it. Mother’s religious creed and mine differ in one point,
although we profess the same holy faith. To me a child of God is a child
forever, just as no act of mine can make me cease to be my mother’s son.
But to go on. I loved her with my whole soul, and I told her so, while
for a moment she made no reply, except to lay her head upon my arm and
weep. Then lifting up her eyes she said she was too young to know her
own mind yet; that she loved me, and always had,—like a brother at
first, but latterly in a different way, and if I would not require her
to be my wife at once, and would promise to release her should she ever
come to think that she could not be mine, she would answer yes. And so
we were engaged.
“‘After that I seemed to tread on air, so happy and so full of
anticipation was my whole being. I had been graduated the previous year,
and I was then a student in Dr. Lincoln’s office, but I boarded at home,
and saw Anna every day, counting the hours from the time I left her in
the morning until I returned late in the afternoon to our fashionable
dinner, for we observed such matters then. I shut my eyes at times, and
those days come back again, bringing with them Anna as she used to look
when she came out to meet me, her curls falling about her childish face,
and her white robes giving her the look of an angel. I loved her too
much. I almost placed her before Him who has declared He will have no
idols there, and so I was terribly punished. We were to be married on
her twentieth birthday, and until about a year previous to that time I
had not the shadow of a suspicion that Anna’s love was not wholly my
own. I well remember the time, a dreary, rainy autumn day, when she came
into my room, and leaning one hand on my shoulder, parted my hair with
the other, as she was wont to do.
“‘“Richard,” she began, “isn’t it just as wicked to act a lie as it is
to tell one?”
“‘“I supposed it was,” I said, and she continued:
“‘“Then you won’t be angry when I tell you what I must. I was very young
when I promised to be your wife, and I am afraid I did not quite know
what I was doing. I love you dearly, Richard, but you seem more like my
brother; and, Richard, don’t turn so white and tremble so,—I shall marry
you if you wish it; but please don’t, oh! don’t—”
“‘She was weeping bitterly now,—was on her knees before me, my Anna, my
promised wife. I had thought her low-spirited for some days, but had no
thought of this, and the shock was a terrible one. I could not, however,
see her so disturbed, when I had the power to relieve her, and after
talking with her calmly, dispassionately, I released her from the
engagement and she was free. I did not even hint at the possibility of
her learning to love me in time, because I fancied she would be more apt
to do so if wholly untrammelled; but that hope alone kept my heart from
breaking during the wretched weeks which followed, and in which Anna’s
health seemed failing, and her low spirits to increase. A change of air
was proposed, and she was sent to Boston, where my mother has relatives.
It was on the eve of the new year when she came back to us, with a
white, scared look upon her face, which became at last habitual, making
it painful to look at her, she appeared so nervous and frightened. It
was as if some great terror were continually haunting her, or some
mighty secret, which it was death to divulge and worse than death to
cover up. I supposed it to be a fear of what I might require of her, and
so I said to her one day that if the thing preying upon her mind was a
dread lest I should seek to make her my wife, she might put that aside,
as I should not annoy her in that way.
“‘Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her eyes,—a look so
full of anguish and remorse, that I turned away, for I could not meet
it.
“‘“O, Richard,” she moaned, drawing back so I could not touch her, “you
don’t know how wretched I am. It almost seems as if God had forgotten
that I did try to serve Him, Richard. What is the unpardonable sin? Is
it to _deceive_?”
“‘I thought she referred to her relations with me, and I tried to soothe
her agitation, telling her she had not deceived me; that she had told me
frankly how she felt; that she was wholly truthful and blameless.
“‘With a cry which smote cruelly on my ear, she exclaimed:
“‘“No, no, you kill me! Don’t talk so! I am not blameless; but, oh! I
don’t know what to do! Tell me, Richard, tell me, which is worse, to
deceive, or break a solemn vow?”
“‘I had no idea what she meant, and without directly answering her
questions I tried to quiet her, but it was a useless task. She only
wrung her hands and sobbed more passionately, saying God had cast her
off, and she was lost forever. This seemed to be the burden of her grief
for many days, and then she settled down into a stony calm, more
terrible than her stormy mood had been, because it was more hopeless.
She did not talk to us now except to answer questions in monosyllables,
and would sit all day by the window of her chamber, looking afar off as
if in quest of some one who never came.
“We thought when she came home that we had as much as we could bear, for
a domestic calamity had overtaken us, involving both ruin and disgrace,
unless it were promptly met; but in our concern for Anna, we forgot the
other trouble, else we had fainted beneath the rod. At last the asylum
was recommended, and the first of March we carried her there, taking
every precaution that her treatment should be the kindest and most
considerate.”
“‘How long ago was that?’ I asked, starting suddenly, as a memory of the
past swept over me.
“‘Seven years,’ he replied, and I continued:
“‘Was it in Utica? If so, I must have seen her, for seven years this
summer Mrs. Randall and I visited a schoolmate in Utica, and one day we
went from curiosity to the lunatic asylum, but I did not see a face like
Anna’s in the portrait. Oh yes,’ and I started again, ‘I remember now a
young girl with the most beautiful golden hair, but her face was resting
on the window-sill, and she would neither look up nor answer my
questions,—that was Anna,’ and in my excitement I could scarcely control
myself to listen, while Richard continued:
“‘It is possible, and seems like her, as she would not answer any one.
“‘Every two weeks mother and I visited her, but after the first time she
never spoke to us; but tried to hide away where we could not see her.
She gave them no trouble whatever, as she seldom left her chair by the
window, where she sat the live-long day, looking westward, just as she
did at home. She had written one letter, they said, and when we asked to
whom, the matron could only remember that she believed it was to
California, adding that the attendant who then took the letters to the
office had sickened since and died. It was to some imaginary person, no
doubt, she said, and so that subject was dismissed by my mother, but I
could not so soon forget it, and when next I visited her, I said
abruptly:
“‘“Anna, what correspondent have you in California?”
“‘Instantly her face was pallid with fear, and she fell at my feet
senseless. This was a mystery upon which I dwelt day and night, finding
no solution whatever to it, and forgetting it at last as the terrible
tragedy drew to a close.
“‘Late in July mother went again to visit Anna, and when she returned
her hair was almost as white as you now see it, while her whole
appearance was indicative of some great, crushing sorrow which had
fallen suddenly upon her. Anna had asked to be taken home, she said,—had
fallen on her knees, and clasping her dress had kissed it abjectly,
crying piteously, “Home, mother; take poor Anna home; let her die
there.”
“‘It was the first time she had spoken to us in months, and we could not
refuse. So she came,—the seventh day of August,—travelling by railroad
to the station, and coming the remainder of the way in our carriage. Her
last fancy was that she could not walk, and I met her at our gate,
carrying her into the house—and upstairs to her old room, which had been
made ready for her. As I laid her upon the bed, she clasped her arms
tightly round my neck, and whispered, “God has forgiven me, Richard,
will you?”
“‘I kissed her, and then went down to mother, who needed my services
more than Anna, and who lay all that evening on the lounge as white and
rigid as stone. The next day I saw a good deal of Anna, and hope
whispered that she was getting better. The scared, wild look was gone,
and a bright, beautiful color burned upon her cheeks. Her hair, which
had been cut, was growing out again more luxuriant than ever, and curled
in short ringlets about her head. She talked a little, too, asking if we
had ever heard from Robert, and bidding me tell him, when he came back,
that she spoke kindly of him before she died. This was the eighth. The
next day was her birthday, the one fixed upon for our bridal. I do not
know if she remembered it, but I thought of nothing else as the warm,
still hours glided by, and to myself I said it may be some other day.
Anna is better. Anna will get well. Alas! I little dreamed of the
scathing blow in store for me; the frightful storm which was to rage so
fiercely round me, and whose approach was heralded by the arrival of Dr.
Lincoln, who had been there before, holding private consultations with
my mother, and looking, when he came from them, stern, perplexed,
mysterious, and sorry.
“‘Dora, you know what all this portended, but you do not know, neither
can you begin to guess, how heavy,—how full of agony was the blow which
awaited me, when just at nightfall I came up from the office where I had
been for several hours. “Anna was dying.” This was the message which
greeted me in the hall, and like lightning I fled up the stairs, meeting
on the upper landing with my mother, who had grown old twenty years
since morning.
“‘“Richard, my boy, my poor boy, can you bear it? have they told you? do
you know?”
“‘“Yes,” I said, “Anna is dying. I must see her; let me go,” and I tore
away from the hands which would have held me back until I was to some
extent prepared.
“‘I did not heed her voice, for through the half-closed door I caught a
glimpse of Anna. She saw me, too, and her hand was beckoning. I was
half-way across the room, when a sound met my ear which took all
consciousness away, and for the next three hours I was insensible to
pain. Then came the horrid waking, but the blow had stunned me so, I
neither felt nor realized as I did afterwards. I went straight to Anna,
for she was asking for me, she from whom the rest stood aloof as from a
polluted thing. Through all the horror she had never spoken a word, or
made the slightest sound, and this suppression of feeling was hastening
her end. Nothing but the words, “Tell Richard to come,” had passed her
lips since, and when I went to her she could only whisper faintly,
“Forgive me, Richard. It’s all right, but I promised not to tell. It’s
right, it’s right.” Then she continued, entreatingly, “Let me lay my
head on your arm as it used to lie, and kiss me once in token of
forgiveness.”
“‘Dora, you are a woman, and women judge their sex more harshly than we
do, but you would not have had me refuse that dying request?’
“‘I should hate you if you had,’ I sobbed, while he continued:
“‘Mother made a motion of dissent. She was casting a stone, but I did
not heed her. I lifted Anna up; I held her on my bosom; I pushed away
the clustering curls; I kissed the quivering lips sueing for forgiveness
and assuring me all was right. I forgave her then and there as I hoped
to be forgiven; I said I would care for her baby; I received her last
injunction; I kept her in my arms until the last fleeting breath went
out, and when I laid her back upon the pillow she was dead!
“‘Death wipes out many a stain, and Anna, by her dying, threw over the
past a veil of charity, which only a few of the coarser, unfeeling ones
ever tried to rend. There was gossip and talk, and wonder, and pity, and
surmise, and something suspicious thrown upon me, the more readily as
people generally did not know that our engagement had been broken; but I
outlived it all, and when, three months after Anna died, I rose from a
sick-bed, and went forth among people again, they gave me only sympathy
and friendly words, never mentioning either Anna or Robin in my
presence.
“‘During that sickness, my opinion with regard to the practice of
medicine underwent a change, and greatly to the horror of good old Dr.
Lincoln, with whom I studied, I became a homœopathist. This furnished me
with an excuse for leaving Morrisville, as I wished to investigate that
mode of treatment, and gain every possible information from physicians
whom I knew to be intelligent and thorough. I went first to New York,
and after a few months commenced my new practice in Boston; thence, as
you know, I went to Beechwood. Once I hoped mother might be persuaded to
go with me, but she said:
“‘“I would rather stay here, where people know all about it. I could not
bear to be questioned concerning Robin.”
“‘Women are different from men; it takes them longer to rise above
anything like disgrace, and mother has never been what she was before
Anna’s death. She came in time to love Robin dearly, but his misfortune
added to her grief, until her cup seemed more than full. Her health is
failing rapidly, and a change of place is necessary. For a long time
past I have had it in my mind to sell the cottage and take mother to
Beechwood. A friend of mine stands ready to purchase at any time. I saw
him two hours since, and to-morrow the papers will be drawn which will
deprive us of our home.’
“‘And your mother!’ I exclaimed, ‘will she go to Beechwood?’
“‘Not at present. Not until she is better, Dora. I am going with mother
to California as soon as I can arrange my affairs at home. I may not
return for a long time, certainly not for a year.’
“There was a tremulousness in the tone of his voice as he told me this,
while to me the world seemed changed, and I felt how desolate his going
would leave me. Still I made no comment, and after a moment he
continued:
“‘And now, Dora, comes the part which to me is most important of all.
Men do not often lay bare their secrets except to one they love! It has
cost me a great effort to go over the past, and talk to you of Anna, but
I felt that I must do it. I must tell you that the heart I would offer
you has on its surface a scar, but, Dora, only a scar; believe me, only
a scar. It does not quicken now one pulse the faster when I remember
Anna, who was to have been my wife. I loved her. I lost her; and were
she back just as she used to be, and I knew you as I know you now, I
should give you the preference. You are not as beautiful as Anna, but
you are better suited to my taste,—you better meet the requirements of
my maturer manhood. I cannot tell when my love for you began. I was
interested in you from the first. I have watched and pitied you these
four years, wishing often that I could lighten the load you bore so
uncomplainingly, and when you came away this time, life was so dreary
and monotonous that I said to myself, “Whether Dora hears of Anna or
not, I’ll tell her when she returns, and ask her to be my wife.” At
first I was a very coward in the matter, and cautioned mother against
revealing anything, but afterward thought differently. If you are to be
mine, there should be no concealments of that nature, and so I have told
you all, giving you leave to repeat it if you please. There is one
person whom I would particularly like to know it, and that is Jessie
Verner.’
“The mention of that name was unfortunate, for it roused the demon of
jealousy, and when he continued:
“‘Dora, will you be my wife? Will you give me a right to think of and
love you during the time I am absent?’
“I answered pettishly:
“‘If I say no, would you not be easily consoled with Jessie? You seem to
admire her very much.’
“While he was talking to me he had risen, and now he was leaning against
the iron fence, where he could look me directly in the face, and where
I, too, could see him. As I spoke of Jessie, an amused expression
flitted over his features, succeeded by one more serious as he replied:
“‘I never supposed Jessie could be won even if I wished to win her, but
now that I am at the confessional, I will say that next to yourself
Jessie Verner attracts and pleases me more than any one with whom I have
met since Anna died. There is about her a life and sparkle which would
put to rout a whole regiment of blues, while her great kindness to
mother and Robin show her to be a true, genuine woman at heart. I have
seen but little of her. I admire her greatly, and had I never met you,
Dora, I might have turned to Jessie. Surely this should not make you
jealous.’
“I knew it should not, but I think I must have been crazy; certainly I
was in a most perverse, unreasonable mood, and I answered:
“‘I am not jealous, but I have seen your great admiration for Jessie,
and if on so short an acquaintance you like her _almost_ as well as you
do me, whom you have known for years, it would not take long for you to
like her better, so I think it wise for you to wait until you know your
mind.’
“I wonder he did not leave me at once; he did move away quickly, saying:
“‘It is not like you, Dora, to trifle thus. You either love me or you do
not. I cannot give you up willingly. You are tired, weak, excited, and
you need not answer me now, though I hoped for something different. I
shall think of you, love you, pray for you, while I am gone, and
possibly write to you; then, when I return, I shall repeat the question
of to-day, and ask you again to be my wife.’
“He was perfectly collected now, and something in his manner awed me
into silence. The sun had already set, and the night dews beginning to
fall. He was the first to notice it, and with tender care he drew my
shawl a second time about my neck, and then taking my arm in his, led me
away from Anna’s grave out into the streets, where more than one turned
to look inquiringly after us, whispering their surmise that we were
really engaged.
“He stayed in Morrisville three days after that, and Mattie invited him
to tea, with Judge Verner’s family and Dr. Lincoln. He came, as I knew
he would, but the judge and the doctor kept him so constantly talking of
homœopathy that I hardly saw him at all till just as he was going, when
he held my hand in his own and looked into my eyes so kindly that I
could scarcely keep back the tears which would have told him that I
loved him now, and he need not wait a year. A bad headache had prevented
Bell from coming, and as the judge was called away on business, the
doctor walked home with Jessie, while I watched them as far as I could
see, feeling myself grow hot and angry when I saw how Jessie leaned upon
his arm, and looked up in his face as confidingly as a child.
“Remembering that he wished her to know of Anna, I tried one day to tell
her, but she knew it already from Mrs. West, and exonerated Richard from
all blame. She is at the cottage a great deal, and Mattie thinks her
greatly interested in Dr. West. I wish he had not said that next to me
he preferred Jessie, for it haunts me continually, and makes me very
unamiable.”
CHAPTER XII.
THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
_Telegram to Dora Freeman, Morrisville._
“‘SARATOGA, August 25th.
“‘Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly live.
“‘JOHN RUSSELL.’
This is the telegram which I received this morning, and to-morrow I am
going to poor Margaret. God grant she may not be dead! Dear sister, what
would I not give if I had never written those dreadful things of her in
my journal. Poor Margaret! her married life has not been very happy with
all those children born so fast, and if she lives how much I will love
her to make amends for the past. My trunks are packed and standing in
the hall, and I am looking, for the last time it may be, on the woods
and hills of Morrisville, where the moonlight is falling so softly. I
can see a little of the cemetery in the distance, and I know where
Anna’s grave is so well. I have been there but once since that day, and
then I found Jessie with Mrs. West planting flowers over Robin. Mrs.
West loves that young girl, and so do I, in spite of what the doctor
said; but she does shock me with her boyish, thoughtless manners,
actually whistling _John Brown_ as she dug in the yellow dirt. Jessie is
a queer compound. She and her father and Bell are going on with me to
Saratoga. Oh, if Dr. West could be there too, he would cure Margaret. I
have been half tempted to telegraph, but finally concluded that brother
John would do so if desirable. Poor John! what will he do if he is left
alone? and does Jessie remember the foolish thing she said about his
second wife? I trust not, for that would be terrible, and Margaret not
yet dead.
“CLARENDON HOTEL, SARATOGA. }
_August_ 30th. }
“My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to some one, and so I
come to you, my journal, to pour out my grief. Margaret is dead; and all
around, the gay world is unchanged; the song and the dance go on the
same as if in No.—there were no rigid form, no pale Margaret gone
forever,—no wretched husband weeping over her,—no motherless little
children left alone so early.
“It was seven when we reached Saratoga, and I stepped from the car into
the noisy, jostling crowd which Judge Verner pushed hither and thither
in his frantic efforts to find his baggage, and secure an omnibus. How
sick of fashionable life it made me, to see the throng upon the
sidewalks and in front of the hotels, as we drove along the streets, and
how anxiously I looked up at all the upper windows as we stopped before
the Clarendon, saying to myself, ‘Is this Margaret’s room, or that?’
“I knew there was a group of men on the piazza, and remembering how
curiously new-comers are inspected, I drew my veil before my face and
was following Judge Verner, when Jessie suddenly exclaimed, ‘Perfectly
splendid!’ and the next moment my hand was grasped by Dr. West. He was
waiting for us, he said; he expected us on that train, and was staying
downstairs to meet us.
“‘And Margaret?’ I asked, clinging to his arm, and throwing off my veil
so I could see his face.
“‘Your sister is very sick,’ he replied, ‘but your coming will do her
good. She keeps asking for you. I arrived yesterday, starting as soon as
I received your brother’s telegram. Johnnie is nearly distracted, and
nothing but my telling him I was sure you would prefer to have him
remain at home, was of the least avail to keep him from coming with me.
“All this he told me while we waited in the reception-room for the keys
to our apartments.
“‘It is very crowded here,’ he said, ‘but by a little engineering I
believe you are all comfortably provided for. Your room especially,’ and
he nodded to me, ‘is the most desirable in the building.’
“I did not then know he had given it up to me, going himself into a
little hot attic chamber. Kind, generous Richard, you are a great
comfort to me these dreadful days. As he had said, my own room was every
way desirable, but I only gave it at first a hasty glance, so anxious
was I to get to Margaret. She knew I had come, and was asking
continually for me. How sadly she was changed from the Margaret who
stood upon the piazza and said good-by one morning last June. The long
curls were all brushed back, and the blue eyes looked so large, so
unnaturally bright, as they turned eagerly to me, and yet I liked her
face better than ever before. There was less of self stamped upon it,
and more of kindly interest in others.
“‘Dora, darling sister,’ was all she said, as she wound her arms about
my neck, but never since my childhood had she called me by so endearing
a title, and I felt springing up in my heart a love mightier than any I
had ever felt for her, while with it came a keen remorse for the harsh
things written against my dying sister.
“I knew she was dying; not that instant, perhaps, but that soon, very
soon, she would be gone, for there was upon her face the same pinched
look I had seen on father and Robin just before the great destroyer
came.
“‘Dora,’ she whispered at last, ‘I am so glad you are here. I was afraid
I might never see you again, and I wanted so much to tell you how sorry
I am for the past. I did not make your home with me as happy as I might.
Forgive me, Dora. I worried you and John so much. He says I never did,
but I know better. I’ve thought it all over, lying here, and I know you
cannot be so sorry to have me die as I should if it were you.’
“I tried to stop her,—tried to say that I had been happy with her,—but
she would not listen, and talked on, telling me next of the little life
which had looked for half an hour upon this world, and then floated away
to the next.
“‘I called it Dora for you,’ she said, ‘for something told me that I
should die, and I thought you might love baby better if she bore your
name. But I am glad she died; it makes your burden less: for Dora, you
will be my children’s mother,—you will care for them.’
“I thought of Dr. West, and the year which divided us, but I answered,
‘Yes, I will care for the children;’ and then, to stop her talking, I
was thinking of leaving her, when Jessie’s voice was heard in the hall,
speaking to the chamber-maid.
“‘Who is that?’ Margaret asked, her old expression coming back and
settling down into a hard, unpleasant expression, when I replied:
“‘That’s Jessie Verner. The family came with me, or rather I came with
them. You know her; she was here a few weeks since.’
“‘The dreadful girl! Why, Dora, she _whistles_, and romps with the dog,
and talks to the gentlemen, and goes down the sidewalk _hip-pi-ti-hop_,
and up the stairs two at a time; and _joked_ with John about being his
second wife right before me! Actually, Dora, right before _me_!’ and
Margaret’s voice was highly indicative of her horror at this last-named
sin of Jessie’s.
“‘It was better to joke before you than when you were absent. Jessie is
at least frank and open-hearted,’ I said, but Margaret would not hear a
word in her favor, so deeply prejudiced had she become against the young
girl, who half an hour later inquired for her with much concern, and
asked if she might see her.
“‘I did not know,’ I said, ‘I’d ask.’
“‘Never, Dora, never!’ and Margaret’s lips shut firmly. ‘That terrible
girl see me! No, indeed!’ and in this she persisted to the last, Dr.
West telling Jessie that he did not think it best for her to call on
Mrs. Russell, as it might disturb her.
“That night, tired as Jessie was, she danced like a top in the
drawing-room, meeting many acquaintances, and winning a host of male
admirers by her frankness and originality. Next morning I counted upon
her table as many as six bouquets, the finest of which she begged me
carry Margaret, with her compliments.
“Margaret was weaker this morning than she had been the previous night,
but her eyes lighted up with a gleam of pleasure when I appeared with
the flowers, and she involuntarily raised her hand to take them.
“‘Miss Jessie sent them,’ I said, and instantly they dropped from
Margaret’s grasp, while she exclaimed:
“‘That dreadful girl? Put them out of my sight. They make me sick. I
can’t endure it!’
“So I put the poor discarded flowers away in the children’s room, and
then went back to Margaret, who kept me by her the live-long day,
talking of the years gone by, of our dead parents, and finally of the
rapidly coming time when she would be dead like them. Then she spoke of
Johnnie and the little boys at home, and gave to me messages of love,
with sundry injunctions to mind whatever I might tell them. Remembering
Johnnie’s letter, in which he had expressed so much contrition for the
saucy words said to her when he did battle for me, I told her of his
grief and his desire that I should do so. Margaret was beautiful then,
with the great mother-love shining out upon her face, as with quivering
lip she bade me tell the repentant boy how she forgave him all the past,
and only thought of him as her eldest-born and pride.
“‘And, Dora, when I’m dead, cut off some of my curls, and give the
longest, the brightest to Johnnie.’
“I assented with tears, and received numerous other directions until my
brain was in a whirl, so much seemed depending upon me.
“Hovering constantly over and around her was brother John, doing
everything so clumsily and yet so kindly, that Margaret did hot send him
from her until the day was closing. Then as I came back to her after a
short absence, during which I had gone with Bell and Jessie to the
Congress Spring, she said to him softly:
“‘Now leave me with Dora.’
“He obeyed silently, and I fancied there was a flush upon his cheek as
he closed the door upon us. All thought of that, however, was forgotten
in Margaret’s question:
“‘Dora, are you engaged?’
“How I started, standing upon my feet, so that from the window I saw Dr.
West leaning against a tree, and talking to Jessie, who sat with Bell
upon the piazza. I thought she referred to him, and I answered her no,
wondering the while if it was a falsehood I told her.
“‘I am glad,’ she said, reaching for my hand. ‘When I heard he was at
his sister’s in Morrisville, I thought it might end in an engagement,
particularly as he admired you so much when he visited us last summer.’
“I knew now that she was talking of Lieutenant Reed, and that no
suspicion of my love for Dr. West had ever crossed her mind, and so I
listened, while she continued:
“‘I told you last night that you must be my children’s mother, and you
promised that you would. Tell me so again, Dora. Say that no one else
shall come between you, and if, in after years, children of your own
shall climb your lap, and cling about your neck, love mine still for
your dead sister’s sake. Promise, Dora.’
“For an instant there flashed upon my mind a thought, the reality of
which would prove a living death, and in that interval I felt all the
sickening anguish which would surely come upon me were I to take her
place in everything. But she did _not_ mean that. She could not doom me
to such a fate, and so when she said to me again faintly, oh! so
faintly, while the perspiration stood on her white lips, and her cold
hand clasped mine pleadingly, ‘Promise, Dora, to be my children’s
mother.’
“I answered, ‘Yes, I will care for and be to them a mother.’
“‘You make me so happy,’ she replied; ‘for, Dora,’ and her dim eyes
flashed indignantly, ‘you may say it was all in a jest, but I know that
dreadful _whistling_ girl meant more than half she said. She fancied
John, and sometimes I thought he fancied her. Dora, I should rise out of
my grave to have her there, in my room, riding in my carriage, sporting
my diamonds, and using my dresses, the whistling hoyden!’
“I shed tears of repentance over Margaret’s dead body for the merry
laugh I could not repress at the mere idea of her being jealous of
Jessie Verner, who was only eighteen years of age, while brother John
was almost forty. My laugh disturbed her, and so I forced it back, going
at her request for John, who, when next we met alone, stroked my hair
kindly, saying to me:
“‘You are a good girl, Dora, to make Madge so easy about the children.’
“Again that torturing fear ran like a sharp knife through every nerve,
and hurrying on to the farther end of the long hall, I sat down upon the
floor and wept bitterly as I thought, ‘What if Margaret did mean that I
should some time be his wife. Am I bound by a promise to do so?’
“From the busy street below came up a hum of voices, among which I
recognized the clear, musical tones of Dr. West, while there stole over
me a mad desire to fly to him at once, to throw myself into his arms and
ask him to save me from I knew not what, unless it were the white-faced
sister going so fast from our midst. And while I sat there crouching
upon the floor, Jessie came tripping down the hall, her bright face all
aglow with excitement, but changing its expression when she saw and
recognized me.
“‘Poor Dora!’ she whispered, kneeling beside me and pressing her warm
cheek against my own; ‘I am so sorry for you. It must be dreadful to
lose one’s sister. Why, only this afternoon, when I was talking and
laughing with those young men downstairs, whom I can’t endure, only I
like to have them after me, I was thinking of you, and the tears came
into my eyes as I tried to fancy how I should feel if Bell were dying
here. Death seems more terrible, don’t it, when it comes to such a place
as this, where there is so much vanity, and emptiness, and fashion? I
have been saying so to Dr. West, who talked to me so Christian-like. Oh!
I wish I was as good as Dr. West! I should not then be afraid to lie
where your sister does, and go out from this world alone in the night,
leaving you all behind. Is she afraid, do you think?’
“I did not know, and I answered only with a choking sob, as I gazed up
into the clear evening sky, where the myriads of stars were shining, and
thought of the father and mother already gone, wondering if we should
one day all meet again, an unbroken family. For a long time we sat
there, I listening while Jessie talked as I had not thought it possible
for her to talk. There was more to her even than to Bell I began to
realize, wishing Margaret might live to have her prejudice removed. But
that could not be. Even then the dark-winged messenger was on his way,
stealing noiselessly into the crowded house and gliding past the gay
throng, each one of which would some day be sent for thus. Up the
winding stair he went and through the upper halls until Margaret’s room
was reached, and there he entered. Dr. West was the first to detect his
presence, knowing he was there by the peculiar shadow cast by his dark
wing upon the ghastly face and by the fluttering of the feeble pulse;
and Margaret knew it next, and asked for me and the children.
“I was sitting with Jessie at the window, watching the glittering stars,
when a step came hurriedly towards us, and Dr. West’s voice said to me,
pityingly:
“‘Dora, your sister has sent for you. I believe she is dying.’
“I had expected she would die,—had said I was prepared to meet it; but
now when it came it was a sudden blow, and as I rose to my feet I
uttered a moaning cry, which made the doctor lay his hand on my head,
while, unmindful of Jessie’s presence, he passed one arm round my waist,
and so led me on to where the husband and the children wept around the
dying wife and mother. The waltzing had commenced in the parlor below,
and strain after strain of the stirring music came in through the open
windows, making us shudder and grow faint, for standing there, with
death in our midst, the song and the dance were sadly out of place. For
a moment I missed the doctor from my side, and afterwards I heard how a
few well-chosen words from him had sufficed to stop the revellers, who
silently dispersed, some to the other hotels, where there was no
dying-bed, some to the cool piazzas, where in hushed tones they talked
together of Margaret, and others to their rooms, thinking, as Jessie had
done, how much more terrible was death at such a place as this, than
when it came into the quiet bedchamber of home. And the great hotel was
silent at last, every guest respecting the sorrow falling so heavily on
a few, and even the servants in the kitchen catching the pervading
spirit, and speaking only in whispers as they kept on with their labor.
And up in Margaret’s room it was quiet, too, as we watched the life
going out slowly, very slowly, so that the twinkling lights were gone
from the many windows, and the _nuns_ in the convent across the street
had ceased to tell their beads ere the chamber-maid in our hall leaned
over the bannisters, and whispered to a chamber-maid below, ‘The lady is
dead.’
“There had been a last word, and it was spoken to _me_, ringing in my
ears for hours after the stiffening limbs were straightened, and the
covering laid over the still, white face of her who said them.
“‘Remember your promise, Dora,—your promise to your dead sister.’
“Yes. I would remember it, as I understood it, I said to myself, hugging
little Daisy in my arms, and soothing her back to the sleep which had
been broken that her mother might kiss her once more. And while I cared
for Daisy, Jessie cared for Margaret, just as she had for Robin. Jessie
was a blessing to us then, and we could not well have done without her.
Bell, though ten years older, was helpless as a child, while her young
sister ordered all, thought of all, even to the bereaved husband sobbing
so long by the side of his lost wife. In the gray dawn of the morning,
as I passed the room, I saw her standing by him, and knew she was
comforting him, for her small hand was smoothing his hair as if he had
been her father. Involuntarily I looked to see if from the dead there
came no sign of disapprobation; but no, the wife was lying there so
still, while Jessie comforted the husband.
* * * * *
“They have put Margaret in her coffin; it is fifteen hours since she
died, and to-morrow we shall go with her back to the home she left a few
weeks since, and whither a telegram has preceded us telling them of our
loss. Jessie would gladly accompany me, but I do not think it best,
neither does Bell, and so she will remain behind, and visit me in the
winter with her sister. I shall need her then so much, for the world
will be doubly lonely,—Margaret gone, and the California sun shining
down on Richard. Do I love him now? Yes, oh yes, and I am not ashamed to
confess it here on paper, while more than once I have wished so much to
tell it to him,—wished he would ask me again what he did by Anna’s
grave, and I would not answer angrily, jealously as then. I would say to
him:
“‘Wait, Richard, a little time till Margaret’s children are a few years
older, and then I will be yours, caring still for the little ones as I
promised I would.’
“But he gives me no chance, and talks with Jessie and Bell far more than
he does with me. He is going with us to Beechwood, and then in a few
weeks’ time he too, will be gone, and I left all alone. Oh, if he would
but give me a right to think of, and talk of him as of one who was to be
my husband, that terrible something would not haunt me as it does,
neither should I ask myself so constantly:
“‘Did Margaret mean anything more than that as a mother I should care
for her children?’”
CHAPTER XIII.
AT BEECHWOOD.
_The Author’s Story._
The great house at Beechwood was closed, and the first September
sunshine which lay so warmly on the grassy lawn and blooming
flower-garden, found no entrance through the doors and curtained windows
of what had been Margaret Russell’s home, and whither they were bringing
her lifeless form. During the past week there had been hot, passionate
tears wept in that desolate home, and touching childish prayers made
that God would spare the sick mother till her broken-hearted boy could
tell how sorry he was for the angry words spoken to her, and for the
many acts of disobedience which came thronging around him like so many
accusing spirits. Poor Johnnie’s heart was almost crushed when he heard
that his mother must die, and calling Ben and Burt to him, he bade them
kneel with him, and ask that God would give her back to them alive. And
so with concern for Johnnie on their baby faces, rather than concern for
their mother, the two little boys prayed that “God would make mamma
well, and not let her die, or anyway send home Auntie Dora.”
This was Ben’s idea, and it brought a world of comfort, making him ask
Johnnie “if it wouldn’t be nicer after all to have Auntie than mamma.”
“Perhaps it would, if I hadn’t been so _sassy_ to her that morning,
twitting her about not caring for us like Auntie, and telling her to
_dry up_. Oh, oh!” and the conscience-smitten boy rolled on the floor in
his first real sorrow.
To Ben, looking on in wonder, there came a thought fraught, as he hoped,
with comfort to his brother, and pursing up his little mouth, he said:
“Pho! I wouldn’t keel over like that ’cause I’d said _dry up_. ’Taint a
swear. It’s a real nice word, and all the boys in the street say so.”
Still Johnnie was not comforted, and in a state of terrible suspense he
waited from day to day until the fatal morning when there came a
telegram which he spelled out with Burt and Ben sitting on the doorstep
beside him, their fat hands on his knee, and their little round dirty
faces turned inquiringly towards him as he read:
“SARATOGA, August 31st.
“Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow, on the
evening train.”
There was at first no sudden outburst, but a compressed quivering of the
lip, a paling of the cheek, a hopeless look in the eyes, which closed
tightly as Johnnie began to realize the truth. Then, with a loud, wild
cry, he threw himself upon the grass, while Ben and Burt laughed
gleefully at the contortions of body which they fancied were made for
their amusement. At last, however, they too understood it partially, and
Ben tried to imitate his brother’s method of expressing grief by also
rolling in the grass, while Burt, thinking intently for a moment, said,
with a sigh of relief:
“I’m plaguy glad Aunty isn’t dead too.”
And this was all the consolation there was in that home at Beechwood.
Dora was not dead. She was coming home and would bring sunshine with
her. With a desire to have everything done in accordance with her taste,
and also with a view to honor his mother’s memory, Johnnie, roused at
last, and without a word of consultation with any one, sought the old
colored sexton, bidding him toll the bell, and adding with a quivering
lip:
“It’s for my mother, and if you’ll toll it extra for an hour I’ll give
you half a dollar now, and a bushel of shag-barks in the fall.”
It did not occur to the negro that possibly some higher authority than
Johnnie’s was needful ere he proceeded to toll for a person dead in
Saratoga, but love of gain and shag-barks predominated over other
feelings, and for a full hour and a quarter the bell from the old
church-steeple rang out its solemn tones, tolling till the villagers
wondered if it would never stop, and repaired, some of them, to the
spot, where Johnnie sat like a second Shylock, holding the sexton’s
watch and keeping accurate note of time as the old man bent to his task,
and tolled that long requiem for Margaret Russell. This done Johnnie
wended his way to a dry-goods store, and before nightfall there were
streamers of crape hanging from the gate and from every door-knob, while
a band of the same was tied around the arms of Ben and Burt, who wore
them quietly for a time and then made what they called horse blankets
for their velocipede. Poor little babies of four and five, they knew no
better, and only acted as other children do when left wholly to
themselves. Years hence they will weep for the mother scarcely
remembered, but now her death was nothing to them, except as they saw
the deep distress of Johnnie, who, long after they were sleeping in
their cribs, sobbed passionately upon his pillow, sorrowing most of all
for the angry words spoken to the mother who would never know his grief.
How long to him were the hours of the next day, when they waited for the
dead. It was also a day of peace and quiet, for owing to Johnnie’s
continual efforts there was only a single fight between the little boys,
who otherwise comported themselves with admirable propriety, asking
often when Aunt Dora would come, and if Johnnie was sure she was not
dead too?
At last the train came screaming in, and shortly after the hearse
stopped before the gate, while the coffin was brought slowly up the walk
and placed in the darkened parlor. With a great sobbing cry Johnnie
sprang towards Dora, but suddenly checked himself, as there flashed upon
his mind that to his father belonged the first greeting of sorrow. And
who that has passed through such a scene that knows not the comfort
there is in the sympathy of a warm-hearted child! Squire Russell felt it
keenly, as he held his first-born in his arms and heard his boyish
attempts at consolation.
“We’ll love each other more, father, now our mother’s gone. Poor father,
don’t cry so hard. If you’ll stop I’ll try to do so too. We’ve got Aunt
Dora left and all the children. Benny, come and kiss poor father,
because mother is dead.”
Such were Johnnie’s words, and they fell soothingly on the father’s
heart, making him think he had not lost everything which made his life
desirable. He had his children still, and he had Dora too. She was in
the nursery now, with Ben and Burt clinging to her neck, and asking why
she cried when they were so glad to have her back, asking, too, what
made mamma so cold, and why she was sleeping in that long queer box on
the parlor table. They did not know what death meant, and continued
their questionings until their eyelids closed in slumber, and they
forgot the long box on the parlor table, with the mother sleeping in it.
The night was hot and sultry, and as Dora lay tossing restlessly, she
fancied she heard a sound from the parlor, which was just beneath her
room, and throwing on her dressing-gown she went noiselessly down the
stairs to the parlor door, which was open, and saw a little form
kneeling by the coffin and talking to the unconscious dead.
“O mother, maybe you can hear me; I’m Johnnie, and I’m so sorry I was
ever bad to you, and made your head ache so! Poor mother, I used to
think I loved Aunt Dora best, but now I know I didn’t! There’s nothing
like a mother, and I was going to tell you so when you got home, but
you’re dead and I can’t! O mother! mother! will you never know?”
“She does; she did know, Johnnie, for I told her,” Dora said, advancing
into the room and taking the child in her arms; “I told her you were
sorry, and she forgave you freely, sending you messages of love, and
bidding me cut her longest, brightest curl for you. I did so, Johnnie;
it is in my room, and to-morrow you shall have it.”
“Why not to-night?” Johnnie pleaded, and so his aunt brought him the
lock of hair cut from Margaret’s head, the mother’s last memento, which
Johnny took with him to his room, sleeping more quietly because of that
tress of hair upon his pillow.
It was a long procession which followed Margaret to her grave, and for
the sake of Johnnie the sexton again tolled for the dead, until the
husband and the sister wished the sad sounds would cease. Sadly they
returned to the house, leaving Margaret behind them, and missing her
more than one month ago they would have thought it possible. But as the
days went by the family gradually resumed its wonted cheerfulness, for
Dora was there still: their head, their blessing, and comforter. Many
lonely hours Squire Russell experienced, it is true, but there was
always a solace in knowing that Dora would welcome him home after a
brief and necessary absence; that Dora would preside at his table, and
keep his children in order; that Dora, in short, would do everything
which the most faithful of sisters could do. The children, too, clung to
Dora even more than they were wont to do; and little Daisy, taught by
Clem, the nurse-maid, called her _mamma_, a name which Ben and Burt were
quick to catch, and which Dora did not like to hear, especially if the
father chanced to be present.
At Dora’s heart there was a constant dread of some impending evil, and
when, three weeks after Margaret’s death, she stood one night alone with
Dr. West, listening to his farewell, she felt again a longing to throw
herself on his protection, and thus she might be saved from danger. But
the doctor, though treating her with the utmost tenderness, had never
broached the subject of his love since that time at Anna’s grave, where
she answered him so indifferently. Her foolish words had hurt him more
since than they did then, causing him sometimes to wonder if she did
really care for him. If not, or if the germ of her affection was as yet
very small, it was better not to press the matter, but let it take its
course; and so, trusting that absence would do all that he wished done,
he only said good-by as he would have said it to a dear sister, and
hardly so, for when he would have kissed the sister, he left Dora
unkissed, fancying she would be better pleased with such a parting. His
caresses had wearied Anna, and he would not err this way again, so he
never touched the lips which would have paid him back so gladly, but
merely pressed the little hand which trembled in his, as he said to her,
“A year is not very long, Dora. It will pass sooner than we think, and
you must not forget me.” Another pressure of the hand, and he was gone,
leaving the maiden far more desolate than he dreamed. Could he have
known how fast the tears came, when alone in her room she went over with
the parting and said to herself, “He does not love me now. My
waywardness has sickened him;” could he have seen her when in the early
dawn she watched him as he left the house for the last time, he would
have turned back, and by taking her with him, or staying himself with
her, would have saved her from the dark storm which would bear her down
with its mighty force.
But this he did not know, and he went his way to Morrisville, where his
mother waited for him, and where Jessie, just returned from Saratoga,
sparkled, and flashed, and flitted around him, asking him to write
occasionally to her father, and tell them of California.
“Why not write to _you_?” he replied, and Jessie responded at once:
“To me, then, if you like; I shall be delighted.”
Judge Verner, and Bell, and Mattie Randall all heard this conversation,
and so there could be no harm in it, Jessie thought, while the others
thought the same, knowing that the light-hearted girl was already
corresponding with at least ten gentlemen, for not one of whom did she
care in the least. She was a merry little creature, and she made the
doctor’s stay at Morrisville much pleasanter than it would otherwise
have been, and after he was fairly on the sea, she wrote to Dora a
glowing account of “the perfectly splendid time she had with Doctor
West, the best and most agreeable man in the world. We are going to
correspond, too,” she added in a postscript, “and that will make the
eleventh gentleman on my list. I want it an even dozen, and then I’ll be
satisfied.”
Dora knew Jessie was a flirt, but this did not lessen the pang with
which she read that Jessie, and not herself, was to be the recipient of
the doctor’s letters. Never had the autumn seemed so dreary to her
before; and when the first wintry snows were falling she shrank, with a
nervous dread, from the coming months, with the long, long evenings,
when there would be nothing to occupy her time, except, indeed, the
children, or the game of chess which she played nightly with her
brother.
For one who at first mourned so sorely for the dead, the squire had
recovered his spirits wonderfully, and the villagers even hinted that,
as is usual with widowers, his dress had undergone a change, being now
more youthful and stylish than in former days when Margaret was alive.
Young girls blushed when he appeared at any of the social gatherings,
while the older ones grew very conscious of themselves, and the mothers
were excessively polite and gracious to the squire. He was happier than
he used to be, notwithstanding that he went twice a week to Margaret’s
grave, and always spoke of her as “my dear wife.” It soothed his
conscience to do this, particularly as he felt how much he enjoyed going
home from Margaret’s grave, and finding order and quiet and pleasant
words, where once there had been confusion and fretful complaints. Dora
was very pretty in her mourning-garb, with the simple linen band about
her neck and wrists, for she would relieve the sombre aspect of her
dress with a show of white, even if it were not the fashion. There was
not much color in her cheeks, and her eyes were larger than usual, but
to the squire and the children she was very beautiful, moving among them
as their household goddess, and always speaking so lovingly and kind.
Once, and only once, there came a letter from Dr. West,—a friendly
letter, which any one might read, and which said that he was at
Marysville, with his mother, whose health was greatly improved.
“I like the country much,” he wrote, “and if I had with me a few of my
Eastern friends I should be willing to settle here for life; but, as it
is, I find myself looking forward eagerly to the time when I shall
return and meet you all again.”
This passage Squire John read twice, and then glanced again at the “My
Dear Dora” with which the letter commenced.
“The doctor is very affectionate,” he said, “calling you ‘Dear Dora,’
though perhaps he has a right, for I remember thinking he admired you.”
Dora was bending over Daisy, whom she was rocking to sleep, and he did
not see her blushes as she replied:
“That is a very common way of addressing people, and means nothing at
all.”
Perhaps the squire believed this, but he was quite absent-minded the
remainder of the day, and in the evening was twice checkmated by Dora,
when his usual custom had been to checkmate her.
Dora’s first intention was to answer the doctor’s letter at once, but
sickness among the children prevented her from doing so, and when she
was at last free to write, the disposition had in a measure left her,
and so the answer for which the doctor waited so anxiously was not sent.
CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE SPRING.
About the house at Beechwood the May flowers were blooming, and in the
maple-trees the birds were building their nests, cooing lovingly to each
other as they did so, and seeming all unconscious of the young heart
which within the doors felt that never before had there come to it a
spring so full of sorrow and harrowing dread. Jessie and Bell Verner
were both there now, and Jessie had brought two immense trunks and a
hat-box, as if her intention was to spend the entire summer. She was
just as merry and hoydenish as of old, romping with the children in the
grass and on the nursery floor, herself the veriest child among them,
while her ringing laugh woke all the echoes of the place and made even
the Squire join in it, and try to act young again.
Both Jessie and Bell noted the change in Dora, and Jessie asked her
outright what it was that made her look so frightened, as if constantly
in fear of something; but Dora could not tell what she feared, for she
had scarcely dared to define to herself the meaning of Squire Russell’s
manner toward her. A stranger would have perceived no difference in his
treatment of her now and when his wife was living, but Dora felt the
change, and it almost drove her wild, making her one day sharply rebuke
the little Daisy for calling her mamma.
“I am not your mother,” she said fiercely. “Your mamma is dead, and I am
only Auntie.”
The child looked up in surprise, but called her mamma just the same,
while Dora’s eyelids closed tightly over the hot tears she thus kept
from falling. That day when Johnnie came home from school at dinner-time
he showed unmistakable marks of having been in a fight, and when
questioned by his father as to the cause of his black eye, broke out
furiously:
“I’ve been a _lickin’_ Bill Carter, and I’ll do it again if he ever
tells such stuff about you! Why, he said you’re a going to get married
to that ill-begotten, shoulder-shotten snap-dragon of a Miss Dutton! I
told him ’twas the biggest lie, and then he said it wasn’t, that it was
true, and she was coming here to be our step-mother; that she would cut
off ’Tish’s curls, spank Ben and Burt twice a day, shake Daisy into
shoe-strings, and make Jim and me toe the mark,—the hateful!”
“She ain’t, she shan’t,—old nasty Dutton,” and fiery Ben shook his tiny
fist at an imaginary bugbear who was to spank him twice a day.
Jessie laughed aloud. Bell looked amused, Dora disturbed, and the Squire
very red, as he said to his son:
“You should not mind such gossip, or allow yourself to get into a
passion. Time enough to rebel when the step-mother comes. Now go to your
room and bathe your eye.”
Johnnie obeyed, muttering as he went:
“There’s only one person I’d have for a step-mother any how, and that’s
Aunt Dora. Guy, wouldn’t I raise hob with anybody else!”
“John, leave instantly!” the Squire said sternly, while his face colored
crimson, as did Dora’s also, making Bell and Jessie glance curiously at
each other, as both thought of the same thing.
In their own room, after dinner, they discussed together the possibility
of Dora’s becoming what Johnnie wished her to be, Bell scouting the idea
as preposterous, and Jessie insisting that a girl might love Squire
Russell well enough to take him with all his children.
“Not that I think Dora will do so,” she said, “for I fancy he is not as
much to her taste, even, as he is to mine; and I guess I’d jump in the
creek sooner than marry an old widower with half a dozen children.”
What the two sisters were discussing privately in their room was talked
openly in the village, some of the people arguing that Dora could not do
better, while all agreed that for the Squire it would be a match every
way desirable both for his own and his children’s sake. To the Squire
himself the story was told one day, the teller hinting that the matter
was entirely settled, and asking when the marriage would take place.
With some jocose reply, the Squire rode away, going round to Margaret’s
grave, and thence back to his home, where the evening lights were
shining, and where Dora, with Daisy in her arms, sat alone in the back
parlor, Bell and Jessie having accepted an invitation which she was
obliged to decline on account of a bad headache.
There were strange thoughts stirring in the Squire’s breast that night,
thoughts which had haunted him for weeks and months, aye, since Margaret
died, for he could not forget her words.
“You need not wait long. You and Dora are above people’s gossip, and it
will be so much better for the children.”
This was what Margaret had said to him that night when misapprehending
her sister just as she was misapprehended, she had told him:
“I have talked with Dora, and she has promised to take my place.”
At first he had been satisfied with matters as they were, and had said
that he never could marry and love again. But gradually there had crept
into life another feeling, which prompted him to watch Dora constantly
as she moved about his house; to miss her when she was away,—to think of
her the last at night as well as first in the morning,—to wonder, with a
harassing jealousy, if Dr. West cared for Dora, or if she cared for him.
No, she did not, he thought, and made himself believe it, else he had
never said to her what he did that night, when, with Daisy in her arms,
she sat wholly in his power, and was obliged to listen to what was not
unexpected, but which, nevertheless, fell like a thunderbolt upon her,
turning her into stone, and making her grow faint and sick, just as she
did at Saratoga, when the first suspicion dawned upon her that some day
John Russell would speak to her what he was speaking now, with one hand
on her shoulder and the other on Daisy’s golden head. It was a kind,
true, fatherly heart he offered her, and she felt that he meant it all.
He cast no reflections upon his departed wife,—he merely said:
“You knew Margaret as well as I. She was not, perhaps, as even-tempered
as a more healthy person would have been, but I loved her, remembering
always what she was when I took her from her home. You were a little
girl, then, Dora, and I never dreamed that I should some time be sueing
for your hand just as I had sued for Margaret’s.”
Then he pleaded for his children, who loved her so much; would she be
their mother, just as she had promised Margaret she would? Then Dora
roused herself, and the face which met the Squire’s view made his heart
beat faster as he doubted what it portended.
“I did not think Margaret meant what you ask,” Dora said, her words
coming gaspingly. “I thought she meant care for them as I have tried to
do, and will do still. I’ll stay with you, John. I’ll be your
housekeeper, but don’t ask me to be your wife. I can’t; I’m too young
for you; I’m,—O John! O Margaret!” and here the voice broke down
entirely, while Dora sobbed convulsively.
Margaret, too, had said she could not be his wife when he asked her.
She, too, had said she was too young, and cried, but hers was not like
Dora’s crying, and Squire Russell saw the difference, feeling perplexed,
but never suspected the truth. It was natural for girls to cry, he
thought, when they received an offer of marriage, and so, with both
hands on her shoulder, he pleaded again, but this time for himself,
telling her in words which his true love made eloquent, how dear she was
to him, dearer, if possible, than his early choice, the beautiful
Margaret. And Dora believed him, for she knew he was incapable of
deception, and that made her pain harder to bear.
“If I had supposed you cared for any one else,” he said, “I should not
have sought you, but I did not. Dr. West wrote to you, I know, and I was
foolish enough to wish he had not called you his _dear Dora_, but you
did not answer him, and of course there is but one conclusion to be
drawn from that. You do not care for him, nor he for you?”
He put this to her interrogatively, but Dora could not speak. Once she
thought to tell him what there was between her and Dr. West, but
something kept her silent, and so in perfect good faith, kind, honest,
truthful John kept on until she answered:
“Please leave me now; I must think, and I am so stunned and bewildered.
I’ll answer another time.”
Squire Russell was far too good-natured to stay longer if she did not
wish it, and stooping down he kissed his sleeping child, and said:
“Let me kiss baby’s auntie, too?”
Dora offered no resistance, and he touched her forehead respectfully,
and then quitted the room. He had kissed her many times when Margaret
was living, but no kiss had ever burned her as this one did, for she
knew it was not a brother’s kiss, and with a sensation of loathing she
passed her hand over the place, and then wiped it with her handkerchief,
just as a rustling sound met her ear, and the next moment there was
another pleader kneeling at her feet, Johnnie, who had overheard a part
of his father’s wooing, and who took it up just where his sire had left
it; his stormy, impetuous arguments bearing Dora completely away from
herself, so that she hardly knew what she did or said.
“You will be father’s wife, Aunt Dora; you will, you must!” Johnnie
began. “I’ve prayed for it every single day since I heard that stuff
about old Dutton. I’ve gone to mother’s grave and knelt down there,
asking that it might be. Jim and ’Tish pray so, too, for I told ’em to,
and I should make Ben and Burt, only I knew they’d tell you; and Auntie,
you will! Father’s older than you a lot, I s’pose, but he is so good,
and was so kind to mother, even when she plagued him. I never told, but
once after you went to Morrisville, she got awful, and _lammed_ him the
wust kind,—told him he was fat, and pussy, and awkward, and she was
always ashamed of him at watering-places, and a sight more. At last she
left the room, and poor papa put his head right in my lap and cried out
loud. I cried too, and said to him:
“‘Let’s _lick_ her: I’ll help.’
“But he wouldn’t hear a word. Says he:
“‘Hush, my boy; she’s your mother and my wife. She is not as she used to
be. She’s sick and nervous.’
“And when I asked the difference between _ugly_ and _nervous_, he made
me stop, and was just as kind to her at supper-time as ever. Tell me
such a man won’t make a good husband! He’ll be splendid, and he’s
handsomer than he was,—he has lost that look as if he was afraid
something was after him, a henpecked look, Clem called it. Poor father;
he has had so little comfort, you must make him happy, Auntie; you will,
and you’ll make us all so good. You know how like Cain we behave without
you, and how we all mind when you tell us what is right. Will you be
father’s wife and help us grow up good?”
He had her face between his warm hands, and was looking at her so
earnestly, that for his sake Dora could almost have answered yes, but
thoughts of what being his father’s wife involved chilled her through
and through, and she answered him:
“Johnnie, I do not believe I can.”
For an instant the boy’s black eyes blazed fiercely at her, and then he
angrily exclaimed, “I’ll go to ruin, just as fast as I can go! I’ll
_smoke_ to-morrow, if I live, and teach Jim and Ben to do so too! I’ll
swear, and when the circus comes next week I’ll run away to that, and
take ’Tish with me; I’ll gamble; I’ll drink, and when I’m brought home
drunker’n a fool, you’ll know it is your work!”
He looked like a young tiger as he stood uttering these terrible
threats, and Dora quailed before his flashing eyes, feeling that much he
had said was in earnest. She did not fear his swearing, or gambling, or
drinking, for the present, at least, but he might not always act his
best; he might grow surly and hard and unmanageable, even by her, unless
she yielded to his request, and this she couldn’t do.
“Johnnie,” she began, and something in her voice quieted the excited
boy, “would you have me marry your father when I do not love him, and
just the thought of being his wife makes me almost sick?”
Johnnie was not old enough to comprehend her meaning. He only felt that
it was not a very bad thing to be the wife of a man as good as his
father, and he answered her, “You do love him well enough, or you will,
and he so affectionate. Why he used to hug and kiss mother every day,
even when she was crosser than fury. Of course then he’ll hug you most
to death.”
“Oh—h,” Dora groaned, the tone of her voice so indicative of disgust
that even Johnnie caught a new idea, which he afterwards acted upon; but
he would not yield his point: Dora should be his mother, and he
continued the siege until, wearied out with his arguments, Dora
peremptorily bade him leave her while she could think in quiet.
Oh, that long, terrible thinking which brought on so racking a headache
that Dora was not seen in the parlor on the day following, but lay
upstairs in her own room, where, with the bolted door between her and
the world outside, she met and battled with what seemed her destiny! One
by one every incident connected with Margaret’s death came back to her,
and she knew now what the questionings meant, far better than she did
then, while she half expected the dead sister to rise before her and
reproach her for shrinking from her duty. Then the children came up, a
powerful argument swaying her in the direction of Squire Russell. She
could do them good; she could train them so much better than another,
and John, if she refused him, would assuredly bring another there to
rule and govern them. These were the arguments in favor of John’s suit,
while on the other side a mighty barrier was interposed to keep her from
the sacrifice. Her love for Dr. West, and the words spoken to her at
Anna’s grave; and was she not virtually engaged to him?
“Yes,—oh yes, I am!” she cried, and then there came over her all the
doubts which had so tortured her since that time in the Morrisville
cemetery.
Had he not spoken hastily and repented afterwards? His continued silence
on the subject would seem so; and why did he not write to her just as
did he to Jessie, who, since coming to Beechwood, had received a letter
from him which contained no mention of her, but was full of the light,
bantering matter in which he knew Jessie delighted. Dora had heard
Jessie say she was going to answer the letter that very day; and
suddenly, like a dawn of hope, there flashed over her the determination
that she, too, would write and tell him of Squire Russell’s offer; and
if he loved her still he would come to save her, or he would write,
telling her again how dear she was to him, and that he alone must call
her his wife.
“Yes, I’ll do it,” Dora whispered; “I know he is at San Francisco, for
Jessie directs there; I’ll write to-day. It shall go in the same mail
with hers. I’ll wait two months for his reply, and then, if he answers
Jessie and ignores me, I’ll—”
Dora set her teeth firmly together, and her breath came hurriedly, as
she paused a moment ere she added, “I’ll marry John.”
And so with a throbbing head Dora wrote to Dr. West, telling him of the
proposal and asking what he thought of it. This was all she meant the
letter to mean, for her maidenly reserve would not suffer her to betray
her real motive if she knew it, but it was more like a pleading cry for
help, more like a wail of anguish for one she loved to save her from a
fate she had not strength to resist alone, than like a mere asking of
advice. The letter was finished, and just after dark, when sure no one
could see her, Dora stole from the house unobserved, and hastening to
the office, dropped into the box the missive of so much importance to
her.
“It is sure to go with Jessie’s,” she said, as she wended her way back,
“so if hers is received I shall know that mine was also.”
Alas! Jessie’s had been written the previous night, after that young
lady’s return from her visit, and while Dora’s letter was lying quietly
in the box at Beechwood awaiting the morning mail, Jessie’s was miles on
its way to New York and the steamer which would take it to California a
week in advance of the other. But Dora did not know this, neither did
she know that it contained the following paragraph:
“There is no news, except the rumor that Squire Russell will marry his
pretty sister-in-law. Bell won’t believe a word of it, but some things
look like it. Dora is so queer. I had picked her out for you, and
believe now that she likes you, though when your name is mentioned, she
bites her words off so short and crisp that I am confounded. She is a
splendid girl, and will make a grand wife, to say nothing of
step-mother.”
Little did Jessie suspect the harm these few comparatively harmless
lines would cause, and little did Dora suspect it either, as with a load
of pain lifted from her heart and consequently from her head, she sat
down by her open window and followed with her mind her letter’s course
to far-off California, and then imagined the quick response it would
bring back, and which would make her so happy.
“Johnnie must be the medium between Squire Russell and me,” she said.
“I’ll tell him to-morrow that his father must wait for my definite reply
at least six weeks, and possibly two months. At the end of that time I
shall know for sure, and if the doctor does not care, there will be a
kind of desperate pleasure in marrying my brother.”
CHAPTER XV.
WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.
As Dora reached this conclusion there came a well-known knock upon the
door, and unfastening the bolt she admitted Johnnie, who had been up
many times that day, but had not before been permitted to enter.
“O Auntie,” he cried, “you are better and I’m glad. I didn’t mean what I
said about swearing, and drinking, and smoking, and I was so mad at
myself that I teased Ben and Burt on purpose till they got hoppin’, and
then I lay still while both little Arabs pitched into me. My! didn’t
their feet fly like drumsticks as they kicked and struck, and pulled my
hair; but when Ben got the big carving-fork, I concluded I’d been
punished enough, and so deserted the field! But, Auntie, I do wish you
could love father. He has looked so sorry to-day, kind of white about
the mouth, and his hand trembled this noon when he carved the turkey.
Won’t you, Auntie? I’ve prayed ten times this afternoon that you might,
and I begin to have faith that you will. Dr. West, who used to talk to
me so good last summer when I was in his Sunday-school class, said we
must have faith that God would hear us.”
Dora drew a long, sad sigh, as she wished she too had been taught of Dr.
West to pray differently from what she knew she did. Smoothing back
John’s soft, dark hair, she said:
“Johnnie, girls cannot make a love in a minute, and this came so
suddenly upon me, I must have time to think,—six weeks or two months,
and then I will decide. Will you tell your father this for me? Tell him
I’m sorry to make him feel badly,—that I like him and always shall, even
if I am not his wife—that I know how good, how generous she is,—that he
will wait until I know my own mind better, and then if I cannot be his,
he must not mind it.”
“I’ll tell him,” Johnnie said, while Dora continued:
“And Johnnie, perhaps it had better be understood that nothing is to be
said about it in the mean time,—nothing to me by your father.”
“Yes, I know, I see. I’ll fix it,” Johnnie answered. “I’ll go to father
now,” and stooping down, he kissed his aunt tenderly, then suddenly
asked, as he looked into her eyes, “You don’t mind my kissing you, do
you? That don’t make you sick?”
“No, oh no!” she answered, and Johnnie departed on his strange errand.
Squire Russell sat in his office or reading-room, pretending to look
over his evening paper, but his thoughts were really upstairs with Dora,
whom he had not seen that day, and whose illness troubled him greatly,
for he rightly associated it with his proposal of the previous night.
Squire Russell loved Dora with a great, warm, sheltering love, which
would shield her from all harm, and unselfishly yield to her everything,
but he had not the nice, quick perception of Dr. West, and had he been
younger he could never have satisfied the wants of her higher nature as
could the rival whose existence he did not suspect. But he loved her
very much. He must have her. He could not live without her, he thought,
and womanish man that he was, a tear was gathering in his eyes when
Johnnie entered the room abruptly, and locking the door, came and stood
beside him.
“What do you wish, my boy?” the Squire said kindly, for he was never
impatient with his children.
Johnnie hesitated, beginning to feel that his father’s love-affair was a
delicate matter for him to meddle with.
“Confound it,” he began at last, “I may as well spit it out, and then
let you knock me down, or lick me, or anything you like. Father, I heard
what you said to Auntie last night, and what she said to you, and after
you was gone I took the floor and beat you all to smash. I said she must
be my mother,—she should be my mother, and all that, and set you up, I
tell you, till you’d hardly know yourself from my description. To-night
I’ve seen her again,—have just come from her room to tell you something
she bade me tell.”
Squire Russell had turned very white at first, feeling indignant at his
son for presuming to interfere, but this feeling had disappeared now,
and he listened eagerly while Johnnie continued:
“She says its sudden; that she can’t make a love in a minute; that she
must have six weeks or two months to decide, and then she will tell you
sure, and, father, you’ll wait; I know you will, and,—and,—well, I guess
I’d hold my tongue,—that is, I wouldn’t keep teasing her, nor say a
word; just let her go her own gait, and above all I wouldn’t act lovin’
like, for fear she’d up and vomit. She don’t mind me kissing her,
because I’ve no beard, I don’t shave, nor carry a cane. I’m a boy, and
you are a whiskered old chap. I guess that’s the difference between us.
Father, you’ll wait?”
Squire Russell could not forbear a smile at his son’s novel reasoning,
but he was not angry, and it made his child seem nearer, now that both
shared the same secret, and were interested in the same cause. Yes, he
would wait two, three, or four months if Dora liked, and meantime things
should continue as usual in the household.
“And afterward, father?” Johnnie asked. “How about that? If auntie says
no, she’ll mean it, and you won’t raise a rumpus, will you? You’ll grin
and bear it like a man?”
Yes, the Squire would do all his son required, and before Dora retired
for the night, a bit of paper was pushed under her door, on which was
written:
“The governor is O. K. He’ll wait and so will I; and if you must say no,
he won’t raise hob, but _I_ will. I tell you now I’ll raise the very
roof! Don’t say no, Auntie, don’t!
“Yours Very Respectfully and Regretfully,
“JOHN H. RUSSELL.”
It was rather embarrassing next morning at the breakfast-table, but
Johnnie threw himself into the gap, talking loudly and rapidly to his
father of the war meeting to be held that night, wishing he was a man,
so he could enlist, and predicting, as did many a foolish one at that
period, the spring of ’61, that the immense force of 75,000, called for
by the President, would subjugate the South at once.
The Squire talked very little, and never once glanced at Dora, who in
her heart blessed both Jessie and Johnnie, the latter for engaging his
father’s attention and the former for talking so constantly to herself
and Bell.
Dora was very white and nervous, but this was imputed to her illness of
the previous day, and so neither Bell nor Jessie dreamed of what had
passed between her and their host, or how her heart was aching with the
terrible fear of what might be in store for her.
It had been arranged that the Misses Verner should remain at Beechwood
for a long time, and as Bell thought four weeks came under that
definition she began to talk of returning home as early as the first of
June; but with a look of terror which startled both the girls, Dora
begged of them to stay.
“Don’t leave me alone!” she cried, clasping Bell’s hand pleadingly. “I
shall die if you do! Oh, stay,—you would if you knew—”
She did not say what, and Bell gazed at her wonderingly, but decided at
last to stay a few weeks longer. Nothing could please Jessie better, for
she did not particularly like Morrisville, and she did like Beechwood
very much. She liked the lake view, the hills, and the people, and she
liked the six noisy, frolicsome children, with their good-humored sire,
who treated her much as he would have treated a playful, teasing child
not his own, but a guest. Many were the gambols she had with Ben and
Burt, and little Daisy, who loved her almost as much as they loved Dora,
while upon the matter-of-fact Squire she played off many a saucy trick,
keeping him constantly on the alert with plots and conspiracies, and so
making the time seem comparatively short, while he waited for Dora’s
decision. But to Dora there was nothing which brought comfort or
diverted her for a moment from the agonizing suspense which grew more
and more dreadful as the days went swiftly by, bringing no answer to the
letter sent to Dr. West.
“Is it anything in particular you are expecting?” Johnnie asked one day,
when she turned so white and shivered, as he returned from the
post-office, with letters for all except herself.
“Yes,—no! Oh, I don’t know what I expect,” she answered, and leaning her
head on Johnnie’s shoulder, she wept silently, while the boy tried to
comfort her, and became from that moment almost as anxious that she
should have a letter as she seemed herself.
Regularly each day at mail-time he was at the office, and if there
chanced to be a letter for Dora, as there sometimes was, running to her
eagerly, but saying always to himself as the weary, disappointed look
remained the same:
“The right one has not come.”
No, the right one had not come, and now it was more than seven weeks
since the night when Dr. West had been written to.
Bell and Jessie were really going home at last, and their trunks stood
in the hall ready for the early morning train. Dora had exhausted every
argument for a longer stay, but Bell felt that they must go.
“They would come again in the autumn, perhaps, or Dora should visit
them. She would need rest by that time, sure,” Bell said, and Dora
shuddered as she thought how she might never know rest or happiness
again, save as she found them in the discharge of what she was beginning
to believe was her imperative duty.
“Letters! letters!” shouted Johnnie, running up the walk, his hand full
of documents, one of which he was closely inspecting. Spelling out the
place where it was mailed, he exclaimed, as he entered the room, “That’s
from the doctor, for it says ‘San Francisco.’”
Instantly both Jessie and Dora started forward to claim it, the hot
blood dyeing the cheeks of the latter, but subsiding instantly, and
leaving only a livid hue as Jessie took the letter, saying:
“It is for me.”
Sinking back in her chair, Dora pressed her hands tightly together, as
Jessie broke the seal and read, partly to herself and partly aloud, that
message from Dr. West.
“Is still in San Francisco, at the hotel, which is crowded with guests,
and will compare very favorably with the best houses in New York City.
Begins to think of coming home in the autumn. Mother’s health improved.
Was pleased to get my letter,” and so on.
This was the substance of what Jessie read, until she reached a point
where she stopped suddenly, and seemed to be considering; then turning
to Johnnie, she asked him to do for her some trifling service, which
would take him from the room. When he was gone, she said to Dora:
“Maybe you’ll scold, but it cannot now be helped. In my letter to Dr.
West, I said, or hinted, at what everybody is talking about,—that is,
you know, about your marrying Squire Russell, and this is the doctor’s
reply: ‘What you wrote of Miss Freeman took me by surprise, but it will
be a grand thing for the Squire. Tell her that if she decides to mother
those six children, she has my best wishes for her happiness. You say
you had picked her out for me. She would probably tell you differently,
as she has seemed to dislike rather than like me, and according to your
own story, bites her words off crisp and short when I am mentioned.’”
“O Jessie, how could you? What made you tell him that? It was cruel of
you, when I do like him,” Dora cried, her face for an instant crimsoning
with passion and then growing deathly white as she felt her destiny
crushing down upon her without a hope of escape.
“Because you do,” Jessie retorted, anxious to defend herself. “You are
just as spiteful as can be when I tease you about him, and I don’t
care!”
Jessie was vexed at herself for having told Dr. West what she had, and
vexed at Dora for resenting it; but she never dreamed of the terrible
pain throbbing in Dora’s heart, as with a mighty effort she forced back
the piteous, despairing cry rising to her lips, and brought there a
smile instead, saying pleasantly:
“Well, never mind it now. It does not matter; only Dr. West has been so
kind to us in sickness that I ought to like him, and do. Does he say
what time he will be home?”
Jessie was thoroughly deceived, and after ascertaining that he merely
spoke of coming in the autumn, went to her room, as there were a few
things she must yet do for her morrow’s journey.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE ENGAGEMENT.
_Extract from Dora’s Diary._
“Is it _I_? _Is_ it I? Oh, IS IT I, sitting here to-night with this
pressure on my brain, this tightness about my eyes, this anguish in my
heart, this feeling of desperation urging me on to meet anything,
everything, even death itself? If he received Jessie’s letter, he did
mine, of course, for they went together; and why not answer me, instead
of sending that cold, mocking message? If people ever die of shame
surely I ought to die, for did I not almost beg of him to say again what
he said at Anna’s grave,—to tell me that he loved me and would save me?
Yes, it all comes to me now,—all that I wrote and what it meant. And he
does not respond. If he ever cared, he does not now, and he spurns my
offered love. He wishes me happiness; aye, and why should I not be
happy? Many a woman would gladly be the mother of Margaret’s six
children; and shall I, her sister, who promised so solemnly, refuse? No,
John; no, Johnnie; no, Margaret; I will grant your wish. Dr. West, when
he comes home, shall have no reason to believe that Dora Freeman ever
thought of him, or spoke of him, except in the ‘crisp, cross manner’
which Jessie has described. John must wait a year from the time Margaret
died, but I can give him my decision now, and I will then go to Bell and
Jessie, and ask them to be my bridesmaids.”
There was a pause made in the diary, and leaning her aching head upon
her hands, Dora thought and thought until the hardness softened, when,
resuming her pen, she wrote as follows:
“I believe it is my duty to be John’s wife, and the mother of Margaret’s
children. It is true I did not so understand her, but that was what she
meant, and I promised solemnly. I can love John, or at least I can keep
myself from hating him, knowing how happy I make him, and I do love his
children, especially Johnnie. O Johnnie, I should die if it were not for
you!”
The pen dropped from the trembling fingers, and again the face was
buried in the hands, while Dora nerved herself to do what she vainly
imagined was her duty. Squire Russell she knew was in the library, Bell
and Jessie in their room, Johnnie in the street, and the other children
in bed. There was nothing in the way, and she would go at once, so that
the worst might be over as soon as possible. Without a moment longer in
which to consider, she rose, and gliding down the stairs, knocked at the
library door.
“Come in,” the Squire said, his voice and manner changing at once when
he saw who his visitor was.
“O Dora, is it you?” he said, rising to his feet, while his face glowed
with pleasure.
“Yes, John,” and Dora spoke hurriedly. “It is most seven weeks since I
said you must wait for my answer. I can give it now as well as any time.
I will be your wife.”
Not a muscle changed as she said this, neither did her voice tremble,
but rang out clear and decided, and it may be a little sharp and
unnatural. Dora was very calm, far more so than the Squire, who, taken
by surprise, started, and trembled, and blushed, and stammered like some
guilty school-boy. This state of things, however, lasted only for a
moment, and then rousing himself, Squire Russell drew the unresisting
girl to his side, and kissing her forehead, said tenderly:
“God bless you, Dora. You have made me very happy. I was beginning to
think it could not be, and was learning to live without you, but that
makes my joy the greater. God bless my Dora, and show me how to make her
happy!”
Had the Squire followed the promptings of his nature he would have
caressed her lovingly, just as he did Margaret when she stood thus
beside him; but remembering Johnnie’s warnings, he desisted, and it was
well he did, else Dora had hated him. Now she suffered him to wind his
arms around her, while he told her again how happy she had made him, and
blessed her for it.
“Dora,” he said, and now he smoothed her hair, “a man of forty is not
called old, and I am only that, but I am fourteen years your senior,
while my six children make me seem older still, but my heart is young,
and I will try so hard to stay with you till you too are old. I’ll go
with you wherever you wish to go, do anything you like, and never frown
upon the things which I know young girls love. I will not be an ogre
guarding my girlish wife, but a proud, happy husband, doing that wife’s
bidding.”
Dora could not repress her tears, he spoke so kindly, so earnestly, and
she knew he meant all he was saying, while she was deceiving him. She
did not think either that she was doing very wrong in thus deceiving
him. It was her duty to be his wife, and it was not her duty to analyze
her feelings in his sight, unless he asked her for such analysis, which
he was not likely to do, for his was not a mind quick to perceive, while
suspicion was something to which he was a total stranger. He had always
admired Dora, and latterly he had learned to love her devotedly, feeling
now that his affection was in part returned, else she had not
deliberately come to him and said, “I will be your wife.” It made him
very happy to know she had said so, and in his happiness he failed to
notice the pallor of her face, the drooping of her swollen eyelids, and
her apparent wish to get as far from him as possible. Margaret had never
been demonstrative, and he hardly expected Dora to be different, so the
poor, deluded man was satisfied, and when Dora, who would have
everything settled at once, said to him:
“We will wait a year,—till next autumn,” he knew what she meant, and
answered readily.
“Yes, if you like, though Margaret said it did not matter how soon, the
earlier the better for the children’s sake.”
“I’d rather it should be a year,” was Dora’s quiet reply, to which the
Squire assented, and then, though he so much wished her to stay, he
opened the door for her to pass out, as he saw that she desired it.
Half an hour later and Bell Verner, who was just falling to sleep, was
startled by a knock, and Dora asked permission to enter.
“What is it? Who’s come?” Jessie asked in a dreamy tone, lifting her
curly head from the pillow, just as Bell unlocked the door, and Dora
stepped into the room.
She was very calm now and decided. The matter was fixed now beyond
recall, and she felt a great deal better. Sitting down upon the foot of
the bed, she said to Bell and Jessie:
“I could not let you go home without telling you something which may
perhaps surprise you.”
“Oh, I know. I can guess. You are going to marry Mr. Russell,” Jessie
cried, and Dora answered:
“Yes. It was Margaret’s wish, expressed to both of us, but that is
nothing. I begin to feel old; oh, _so_ old,” and Dora shuddered as she
said it. “John is good and will make me a kind husband. It is true that
once, when a very young girl like Jessie, I had in my mind another idea
for a husband. All girls do in their teens, I guess, but when we get to
be twenty-six we begin to lose the fancy man and look for something
solid.”
This she said to Bell, as if expecting her concurrence rather than that
of madcap Jessie. But the contrary was the fact, for Jessie approved the
match far more than her sister. Squire Russell was splendid, she said,
and would let a body do just as she had a mind, which was a great deal
nicer than a dictatorial, overbearing fellow of twenty-eight. Yes, she’d
give her consent, and she began to whistle, “Come haste to the wedding,”
as she nestled back among the pillows, wondering how she should feel to
be engaged to Squire Russell. Bell on the contrary saw things in their
true light, and she merely replied:
“I am somewhat surprised, I will acknowledge, but if you love him that
is all that is necessary.”
She was looking directly at Dora, but in the dim moonlight the white,
haggard face was not plainly discerned, and Bell continued:
“I did think you liked Dr. West, and was positive he liked you.”
“Oh, fie,” and Jessie sprang up again, “Dora hates him, while he,—well,
I guess he likes all the girls,—that is, likes to talk with and flatter
them; any way, he has said a great many complimentary things to me, and
I knew he meant nothing. They say his heart is buried in that grave in
Morrisville. I picked him out for Dora once, you know, and that’s all
the good it did. Marry the Squire, and let me be bridesmaid.”
“Will you?” Dora asked. “Will you and Bell both officiate?”
Jessie assented eagerly, but Bell hesitated. She could not make it seem
real that Dora Freeman was to become the wife of Squire Russell.
Something would prevent it. At last, however, as Dora urged a reply, she
said:
“Perhaps I will, if when the time arrives you still wish for two.”
The clock was striking eleven when Dora quitted the apartment of the
Misses Verner, but late as it was Johnnie was waiting for her by her
door. He had heard the glad news from his father, and he caught Dora
round the neck, exclaiming:
“I know, I’ve heard,—the governor told me. You are,—you are my mother. I
never was so happy in my life, was you?”
They were now in Dora’s room, where the gas was burning, disclosing to
Johnnie a face which made him start with fear, it was so unnaturally
white.
“Auntie,” he exclaimed, bending over her, as, reclining upon the bed,
she buried her head in the pillows, “what makes you so white, when I’m
so glad, and father, too? I never saw him so pleased. Why, the tears
danced in his eyes as he told me, while I blubbered like a calf; and you
are crying, too, but not as father did, or I. O my! what is it? This is
so different. Auntie, Auntie, you are in a fit!” and Johnnie gazed
awe-struck upon the little form which shook convulsively as Dora tried
to smother her deep sobs. “I’ll go for father,” Johnnie continued, and
then Dora looked up, telling him to stay there where he was.
“But, Auntie, what is the matter?” he asked. “Do girls always cry so
when they are engaged? What makes your tears run so like rivers, and so
big? It must hurt awfully to be engaged. O dear, dear! I am crying,
too!” and then the excited boy wound both arms around Dora’s neck and
drew her head upon his shoulder, where it lay, while Dora’s tears
literally ran in rivers down her cheeks.
But the weeping did her good, and she grew very quiet at last, and
listened while Johnnie told her how good he was going to be, and how he
would influence the others to be good, too.
“We will all be so happy,” he said, “that mother, if she could look at
us, would be so glad. Father will read to us winter nights, or you’ll
play chess with him and sing to us youngsters, and summers we’ll go to
lots of places, and you shall have heaps of handsome dresses. You’re not
so tall as mother, and it won’t take so many yards, so you can have
more. I mean to buy _one_ anyhow, with some money I’ve laid up. I guess
it will be red silk, like Jessie’s, and you’ll have it made low-neck,
like hers, with little short sleeves. You’ve got nice, pretty arms,
whiter than Jessie’s.”
Remembering how much his mother had thought of dress, Johnnie naturally
concluded it to be the _Open Sesame_ to every woman’s heart, and so
talked on until she sent him away, for she would rather be alone with
her own tumultuous thoughts.
CHAPTER XVII.
EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST’S JOURNAL.
“SAN FRANCISCO, June.
“Do I believe it now, after the first stunning effect is over, and I sit
here alone thinking calmly of what came to me in Jessie Verner’s letter?
Do I believe that Dora will marry her brother-in-law, remembering as I
do the expression of her face when she sat by the two graves and I told
her of Anna? Can there be jealousy where there is no love? I think not,
and she was jealous of my commendations of Jessie. Oh, was I deceived,
and did her coldness and ill-nature mean more than I was willing to
admit? It is very hard to give her up, loving her as I do, but God knows
best what is for my good. When I set Anna above Him He took her away,
and now He will take my Dora. It is sheer selfishness, I know, and yet I
cannot help feeling that I would rather she were lying by Anna’s side
than to see her Squire Russell’s wife. It is a most unnatural match, for
there is no bond of sympathy in their natures. Dora must be unhappy
after the novelty is gone. Darling Dora,—it is not wicked to speak thus
of her now, as there is no certainty in the case, only a surmise, which,
nevertheless, has almost broken my heart, for I feel sure that whether
she marry the Squire or not, she is lost to me. She does not care for
me. She never did, else why does she grow so cross and crisp when my
name is mentioned? Alas! that I should ever have thought otherwise, and
built up a beautiful future which only Dora was to share with me. I am
afraid to record on paper how dear she is to me, or how constantly she
has been in my mind since I parted from her. How anxiously I waited for
some reply to my letter, and how disappointed I was in the arrival of
every mail. I wonder if I did well to answer Jessie so soon, and send
that message to Dora? I am confident now that it was not a right spirit
which prompted me to act so hastily. I felt that Dora had broken faith
with me,—that she should have waited at least the year,—that in some way
she was injuring me, and so vindictive pride dictated the words I sent
her. May I be forgiven for the wrong; and if Dora is indeed to be the
bride of her sister’s husband, may she be happy with him, and never know
one iota of the pain and suffering her marriage will bring to me.
“Our stay in California has been very pleasant, even though I have
failed thus far in what was the secret motive which led me here, the
hope of finding the man to whom that letter was addressed long years
ago, Robin’s father, and, as I believe, Anna’s husband. We have been at
this hotel just three weeks to-day, and mother likes it better than the
private boarding-house we left. Friends seem to spring up around us
wherever we go, and I believe I have nearly as many patients in San
Francisco as I ever had at home. For this good fortune, which I did not
expect, I thank my Heavenly Father, praying that the means I use may be
blessed to the recovery of those who so willingly put their lives in my
hands.
“How that poor fellow in the next room groans, and how the sound of his
moaning makes me long to hasten to his side and alleviate, if possible,
the fever which they say is consuming him. Poor fellow, he was making
money so fast, I hear, and hoarding it so carefully for his mother, he
told his acquaintance, and now he is dying here alone, far from his
mother, who would so gladly smooth his dying pillow. I saw him when they
carried him through the hall on his arrival from the mountains, and
something in the shape of his head and the way the hair curled around
it, made me start, it was so like Robert’s. But the name, when I asked
it, drove the hope away: _John Maxwell_, or _Max_, as he is generally
called by those who know him best. He has been here for years, steadily
accumulating money, and winning, as it would seem, scores of friends.
Even the head chamber-maid, when she heard ‘young Max’ was ill, and was
to be brought here, evinced more womanly interest than I supposed her
capable of doing. He must be growing worse, his moanings increase so
fast, and there seems to be a consultation going on within his room,
while my name is spoken by some one, a friend too it would seem, for he
says:
“‘I wish you would try him at least. I have great faith in that mode of
practice.’
“They are going to send for me; they are coming now to the door; they
are saying to me:
“‘Dr. West, will you step in and see what you think of poor Max’s
case?’”
CHAPTER XVIII.
POOR MAX.
That was what they called him at the hotel, which had been to him a home
for years, and you would know by the intonation of their voices that he
was a favorite with all. He was very sick, burning with fever, and
talking at intervals of his mother, of Dick, and of another whose name
the attendants could not well make out. It was of his sweetheart, the
chamber-maid surmised, for in the pocket of his vest, which she hung
away, she had found a daguerrotype of a young girl, whose marvellous
beauty she had never seen excelled.
“Poor Mr. Max! he must have loved her so much! I wonder where she is
to-day?” she said, softly, as she continued to scan the lovely face
smiling upon her from the worn, old-fashioned case.
Alas! the original of that picture had for many a year been mouldering
back to dust, and poor Max, who had loved and wronged her so much, was
whispering her name in vain. He was growing worse, his nurse feared, and
so at last she sent for Dr. West, of whose skill she had heard so much,
and who in a few minutes stepped into the closely darkened room.
“It seemed as if the light worried him,” the nurse said, in a whisper,
as she saw the doctor glance towards the curtained windows.
“Very likely; but I should like to see him for once,” was the doctor’s
reply, as he took the hot hand in his.
Max’s face, which, within a day or two, had grown very thin and was now
purple with fever, was turned away from the doctor, who counted the
rapid pulse, while the nurse admitted a ray of light, which shone full
upon the sick man’s pillow, and made Dr. West start suddenly, and turn
whiter even than the broad forehead round which the damp brown hair was
curling. Then he bent anxiously over his patient, turning him more to
the light, where he could see him distinctly. Did he recognize anything
familiar in that sunken face, where the beard was growing so
heavily,—anything which carried him back to his Northern home, where in
his childhood every pastime had been shared by another, and that other
his twin brother? Did he see anything which brought to him thoughts of
Anna, dead so long ago, or of Robin, who died when the last summer
flowers were blooming? Yes; and kneeling by the bedside he whispered,
“Robert, Robert, is it you?”
The bright eyes were open and fixed upon him, but with a vacant stare,
while a second look at the flushed face brought a doubt into the
doctor’s mind.
“He is like my brother Robert, and yet he is not like him,” he thought,
as he continued to scrutinize the features which puzzled him so much.
“Mother will know,” he said at last; and going to his mother, he said to
her hurriedly, “Come with me, and tell if you ever saw this Max before.”
He was greatly excited, but not more so than his mother, who felt
intuitively the shock awaiting her.
“Open that blind wide, and put back that heavy curtain,” the doctor said
to the frightened nurse, who quickly obeyed his orders, and then waited
to see what would happen next.
Max was talking and counting on his fingers till he came to twenty.
“Yes, twenty, that’s it,” he said; “that’s the way the paper read; just
twenty years of age, and Dick and I are six years older. Dick loved her,
too; he ought to have married her. Dick was a trump.”
“What does he say? What does he say? O Richard, what _does_ he say?”
Mrs. West almost screamed, as she bent down so low that the hot fever
breath lifted her silver hair.
Richard made no answer, nor was there need, for the mother instinct
recognized the _boy_, the wayward, wandering _Robert_, mourned for as
dead during so many dreary years, while the mother-love, forgetting all
the past, cried out, “My boy, my boy, my Robert, my child! God has given
you back to me at last! Praised be His name!”
For an instant something like reason flashed over the wasted face, but
it passed away, and to the mother’s continued murmurings of love there
came only incoherent mutterings of the mountains, the mines, and stocks
which seemed to have been substituted for the thoughts of the twenty
years and the trump of a Dick, now ministering to the mother, who had
fainted and was carried from the room. But she did not stay away long.
Her place was by Robert, she said, and she went back to his side, saying
to those around her, “He is my boy: he left me years ago, but I have
found him at last.”
People gossip in California as well as elsewhere, and the hotel was soon
full of surmises and wonder, as people repeated to each other that the
man known as Max was Robert West, who had taken another name and come
among them, for what reason none could guess. The doctor and his mother
knew the people would talk, but they did not heed it during the days
when with agonizing suspense they hung over the bed of the prodigal,
watching for some token of amendment, and praying that the erring one
might not be taken from them now and leave the past a darker mystery
than ever. He did not talk a great deal, but when he did it was mostly
of home scenes in which Anna and Dick were always associated.
Once when they sat alone and Mrs. West was resting in her room, Richard
said to Robert, who had spoken of Anna as of some one there with him,
“You mean your wife, Anna West; you know you married her privately.”
For an instant the wild eyes flashed in Richard’s face, and then the
delirious man replied, “Did _she_ tell you so?”
“Not exactly, but I inferred as much, for when she lay dying, she said,
‘Call my baby for his father,’ and when I whispered ‘Robert,’ she nodded
assent. They are both dead now, Anna and little Robin. Your wife, your
baby, which never saw its father,” Richard continued, wishing to impress
some idea upon his brother’s mind.
But in vain, for Robert did not take the sense of what he heard, except
indeed the word _baby_, which he kept repeating to himself, laughing
insanely as he did so, “Anna’s baby; very funny,—very queer, when she
was only a child herself,” he would whisper, and that was all which
Richard achieved by speaking of the dead.
But there came a day when the stupor passed from brain and head, leaving
the latter free from pain and the former clear and bright. He had been
sleeping, and when he woke only Richard was with him, and he was sitting
where he did not at first observe the eyes fastened so curiously upon
him, as Robert West’s heart alternately beat with hope and fear. He
could not be mistaken, he said to himself. It was no dream that his
brother had been there with him,—aye, was there still, looking older,
sadder, but his brother all the same. Dick, the kindest, best brother in
the world.
“Richard,” he said at last very softly, and Richard started, and bent
over the sick man, whose eyes read his face for an instant, and then
filled with great hot tears, as, winding his arms around the doctor’s
neck, he sobbed, “It is my brother, ’tis Dick; and you will forgive me.
I’ve got the money safe, honestly earned, too, every cent; more than
enough to pay the debt, which I heard you were paying for me. Dear old
Dick, we will be happy yet, but tell me first that you forgive me, tell
me second how you found me, and tell me third of mother, and all—”
He did not mention Anna, and Richard, in his reply, only answered the
questions directly put.
“Call mother,” Robert said, when told that she was there, and in a
moment she was weeping on the pillow of her erring, but, as it would
seem, deeply repentant child, for he repeated to her what he had said to
Richard about the money, adding, “And this fall I was coming home to buy
back the dear old place, if possible; I was, mother, I was; I’ve been so
bad and wicked, but you will forgive me now, for since I left New York I
have not been guilty of a single dishonorable act. Ask the people here,
they know. They will tell you that among them all there is no one more
popular than _Max_; I go by that name,” and Robert’s face crimsoned as
he said this last.
In his anxiety that his mother should forgive and think well of him, he
grew so much excited that all she and Richard could do was to soothe him
into quiet by assurances of forgiveness and love. He was too weak to
talk longer, and he lay perfectly still, holding his mother’s hand and
gazing into the dear face which bent so fondly over him. Once his lips
quivered with some deep emotion, and when Richard asked what he would
say, he answered:
“Mother has changed so much,—her hair has all turned white. Was it for
_me_, mother?”
“Not wholly, Robert; it turned about the time when we lost Anna,” was
Mrs. West answer.
Instantly the sick man’s eyelids closed, and one after another the big
tears rolled down his sunken cheeks, leaving a red, shining track, such
as bitter, scalding tears always leave, but he made no comment, and Anna
was not mentioned again until two days had passed, and he was so much
better that he sat up in bed, propped on pillows, with his mother at his
side, half supporting him. Then suddenly breaking a silence which had
fallen upon them, he exclaimed:
“It was an unfortunate hour that saw me installed as our great Uncle
Jason’s book-keeper and confidential clerk. He trusted me so entirely,
and there were such large sums of money daily passing through my hands,
that the temptation was a great one to a person of my expensive tastes
and habits. I cannot tell just when I took the first five dollars,
replacing it as soon as possible, and then finding the second sin so
much easier than the first. It was not a sin, I said then, as did others
of my companions who were in the habit of doing the same thing, and who
led me on from bad to worse, while all the time my uncle believed me a
pattern of honesty. If I had not heard that a part of Uncle Jason’s
fortune rightfully belonged to us, I do not believe I should have fallen
so low. As it was, I made myself think that what I took was mine, and
after I learned to gamble it was ten times worse. There is a fascination
about those dens of iniquity which you cannot understand, and it proved
my ruin. I played every night, sometimes losing, sometimes winning, and
gradually staking more and more, until at last I bet so heavily that
forgery was the consequence. I don’t know what made me do it, for I knew
I could not replace that 20,000 dollars, and when the deed was done
there was no alternative but to run away. Assuming the name of John
Maxwell, I went to England first, and then to California. Uncle Jason
had so much faith in me that you know he believed me murdered, until the
fraud was discovered, when it seems he behaved most generously,
suppressing the facts, and after an interview with you, my brother,
consented to keep the whole thing still, provided the money was in time
refunded.”
“Who told you this?” both Richard and his mother exclaimed, but Robert
only replied:
“I heard it, and resolved, if possible, to earn that money and pay it
back myself. The voyage out sobered me into a better man, for, mother,
your prayers, said over me when I was a child, rang continually in my
ears, until I, too, ventured to whisper each day the words, ‘Lead us not
into temptation,’ saying them at first more from habit than anything
else, and afterwards because I learned to have faith in them, learned to
believe there was something in that petition which did keep me from
falling lower. I was not good as you term goodness, and had I died I
should assuredly have been lost; but within a few short months there has
been a change, so that what I once was doing for your sakes I now do, I
trust, from higher, holier motives; and oh! I had so much need of
forgiveness, for had I not wronged everybody, and you, my brother, most
of all?”
There was a mutual pressure of hands between the brothers, and then they
who listened hoped to hear of Anna next, but of her Robert was still
silent, and they suffered him to take his own course, following him with
breathless interest as he told of his life in the mines, and how he had
been successful beyond his most sanguine hopes,—how friends had sprung
up around him, and all things had conspired to make him happy, were it
not for the dreadful memories of the past which haunted him continually.
“I should have written when I learned that I was safe from a felon’s
doom,” he said, “but with this information came news of so terrible a
nature that I was stunned for many months, so that I cared little what
became of me, and when feeling came back again, I said I’ll wait until I
have the money as a sure peace offering. I had it almost earned once,
two years ago, but by a great reverse I lost so much that I was
compelled to wait yet longer,—wait, as it seems, till you came here to
find me. It is all a dream to me yet that you are here, and that I,
perhaps, shall breathe again my native air, and visit the old home. Is
it greatly changed?”
“Many would think West Lawn improved,” Richard replied, “but to us who
loved Anna it can never be the same.”
There was another silence, and then Richard, who could no longer
restrain himself, exclaimed:
“Robert, if you know aught which can throw a ray of light on Anna’s dark
face, in pity tell us what it is! You do know,—you must know!—Was Anna
your wife?”
Richard could hear the beatings of his own and his brother’s heart as he
waited for the answer, which, when it came, was a decided “_Yes_, Anna
was my wife!”
CHAPTER XIX.
ANNA.
The summer moonlight was shining into the sick-room, where, with Richard
and his mother beside him, Robert West was summoning nerve and courage
to tell the story they were waiting so anxiously to hear. With the
assertion that “Anna was my wife,” he had fainted, and since then a
night and a day had intervened, during which no word of the past had
escaped his lips. But now that he was stronger, he had said to his
mother and brother, “Sit beside me, and if I can I will tell you of
Anna.”
They needed no second bidding, but gathered closely to him, and there,
in the quiet room, Robert West began the story, in which there was a
slight recapitulation of what he had before told, but which will help to
enlighten the reader with regard to Robert’s past.
“I cannot remember the time when I did not love Anna,” he said, fixing
his eyes upon the ceiling. “As a boy I made no secret of it, but as I
grew older I pretended not to care for her more than for any other, and
called her a little doll, you know, but it was mere pretense, for I
loved the very air she breathed; and when I heard she was engaged to
Dick, I cried as young men of twenty-two seldom cry. You know I had then
been in New York two years, and that soon after this I was received into
Uncle Jason’s employ, and trusted by him with everything. For my
father’s sake, he trusted me, he used to say, never dreaming how unlike
the father was the son.
“After losing Anna I cared little for my self-respect, and then first
commenced the process of taking five or ten dollars, as I chanced to
need it. This I always replaced, and so conscience was satisfied,
particularly after I found that other young men, who stood as well as
myself, did the same. I cannot account for it, but I now believe that my
apparent indifference to Anna attracted rather than repelled her, for
when I was at home I used to try the experiment of being very attentive,
just to see how she would brighten with pleasure, but it was not until
my last visit, made the August before I ran away, that the idea entered
my brain of taking her from Richard. He was gone for two weeks, you will
remember, and I improved my time to so good advantage that when I
finally left Morrisville, I had won a half promise from Anna that she
would talk with him and ask to be released. She did not promise this
willingly, for her strong sense of right made her question the justice
of such an act, and all my arguments were necessary to wring that
promise from her. We were out in the graveyard, Dick on that little
bench,—you know where.”
“Yes, I know;” and Richard’s reply was like a groan, as Anna and Dora
came up before him, connected with that rustic bench.
“It was a moonlight night, and we stayed there a long, long time, mother
thinking we were at some neighbor’s house, while you, my brother, were
away, never dreaming how falsely I was dealing with you. But Anna
thought of you, pleading most for you, even while she confessed her love
for me, and saying that daily interviews with you made you more like her
brother. And there I had the advantage; I was comparatively a stranger,
while the city air and manner I had studied to acquire were not without
their effect on Anna. She was almost an angel, but human still, and so
the old story was again repeated. The city fop, with sin enough upon his
soul to have driven that pure young girl from his sight forever, could
she have known it, was preferred to the country boy. But it was hard
work, and more than once I gave up in despair, as, wringing her little
hands, she cried:
“‘O Robert, don’t tempt me so. I do love Richard, or I did before you
came, and he is so good, so noble. God will never forgive me if I
deceive him so dreadfully. Please, Robert, don’t tempt me any more.’
“You can imagine how I answered her. There were kisses and caresses, and
assurances that you would rather give her up than take her when her
heart was not your own, and so the victory was won, and I acted a most
cowardly part. I made Anna promise not to speak of me when talking with
you, Richard, or hint in any way that I was the cause of her changed
feelings toward you. I then returned to New York, while she asked to be
released from her engagement. She wrote to me once, bitterly condemning
herself for her deception, as she termed it, and earnestly begging
permission to tell you all, but I refused, and held her to her promise;
and so matters stood when you decided upon sending her to Boston. You
know she came first to New York to Uncle Jason’s, whose wife is both
deaf and half blind, so she was not in my way at all. After you returned
home, Dick, I was there every night, and as Uncle Jason nodded over his
paper in his study, while Aunt Eliza nodded over her knitting in the
parlor, I had every opportunity for pressing my suit, rejoicing when I
saw how I could sway Anna at my will. She was easily influenced by those
she loved and trusted—”
Here Robert’s voice trembled, and he paused a moment ere he resumed:
“She believed that I was good, and this belief, more than anything I
could say, led her to listen to me. She was to leave on Monday for
Boston, and on Saturday I took her for a drive through the city, and
when she returned at night she was my wife. How I accomplished it I can
hardly tell, for at first Anna refused outright, but she was finally
persuaded, and at the house of a clergyman whom I knew by reputation the
ceremony was performed. It was the original plan that when her visit was
over I should accompany her home and announce our marriage, after which
she should return with me to New York, but subsequent events made this
impossible. My uncle had commissioned me to telegraph to the friends in
Boston that I would be there on Monday with Anna, and he kindly gave me
permission to remain a few days, or even longer if I liked. This I
professed to have done, but it was a lie I told my uncle, who, believing
Anna to be Dick’s betrothed, had no suspicion that I cared for her in
the least except as my sister. After leaving her at his door on Saturday
night, I purposely did not see her again until Monday, when, according
to arrangement, I went ostensibly to accompany her to Boston. Anna knew
nothing of my real intentions, and it was some time before she
understood that we were going to Albany instead of New Haven. In much
surprise she questioned me, turning very white and bursting into tears
when the truth dawned upon her, and she saw how she was becoming more
entangled in the deception. We stayed in Albany at the City Hotel until
Thursday morning, and in those three days I was, I believe, as perfectly
happy as is possible for mortal man to be. And Anna was happy too. In
her love for me she forgot all else, and I tasted fully of the bliss it
was to call that lovely, gentle creature wife. I remained in Boston one
night, but Friday found me again in New York, while one week from the
next Saturday night,—O, mother! if I could only blot out that Saturday
night from the past, but I cannot, and I must tell you how low your boy
fell. Knowing how good and pure Anna was I resolved that henceforth my
life should be such as she could approve, and to this end I would avoid
all my old associates, I said, and never again frequent their haunts or
come in contact with them. Chief among these associates was a Stanley,
who had first taught me to play, and who had constantly hovered near me
as my evil genius. On Saturday, he came into my office, and told me of a
rare specimen from Cincinnati who was terribly conceited, but whom _I_
could beat so easily. ‘He has heaps of money,’ he said, ‘and if you
choose you can make a fortune in an hour. Come to-night, and you are
sure to win.’
“Instantly there flashed over me the thought ‘if Anna could only dress
and live like the ladies of Madison Square,’ but with it came the
knowledge of how she would disapprove, and I hesitated. The temptation
was a strong one, and as I continued to listen I felt my good
resolutions giving way. Just for once, and that should be the last, I
said, consenting to join my comrade, who evidently believed all he said
of the stranger. Ten o’clock found me at Stanley’s rooms, opposite my
antagonist, whom I at once pronounced a fool. Eleven found me the winner
of a considerable amount. Twelve o’clock, my lucky star was still in the
ascendant, but when two o’clock of that Sunday morning struck, I was
ruined, and my opponent held my note for $20,000.
“Desperate, distracted, what could I do but forge my uncle’s name for
the amount, taking the precaution to draw from three or four banks where
he had funds deposited, and this I did without a thought of the
consequences; but when I woke to the peril of my situation I was mad
with fear, and determined to run away. But first I wrote to Anna,
telling her I was going, but withheld the reason why. After the letter
was sent I was seized with a terror lest she by some means should betray
me, and so I be brought to justice. My love for her was strong, but
dread of a prison life was stronger. Of Uncle Jason I asked and received
permission to visit Morrisville for a week, and when I left him he
thought I was going home, but I went instead to Boston, reaching there
in the night, and next morning hiring a boy to take a note to Anna. She
was alone when it was delivered, as the family were out on some shopping
expedition. In much alarm she came to the Revere, where I was to meet
her, and there the horrible truth was revealed that she was the wife of
a felon. She had not received my letter, and what I told her was wholly
unexpected. She did not faint, nor scream, nor even reproach me with my
sin. She merely sank upon her knees and prayed that I might be forgiven,
while into her eyes and face there stole a look which I know now to have
been the germ of insanity which afterwards came upon her.
“‘Anna,’ I said, when her prayer was ended and she sat with her face
upon the table, ‘I am going to England in a vessel which sails to-night,
and from there to California, assuming the name of John Maxwell, and you
must not betray me.’
“Betray you! O Robert!” and the face she lifted up looked as grieved as
if I had struck her.
“‘I know you will not do it voluntarily,’ I said, ‘but you must not make
yourself liable to be questioned. No one knows I am here. No one knows
you are my wife, and no one must know it. Not yet, at least not till it
is settled somehow, and I come back to claim you, or send for you to
join me.’
“Again she looked wistfully at me, and I continued: ‘If Uncle Jason knew
you were my wife, he would question and cross-question you until he
frightened it out of you, and I should be captured. I deserve to go to
prison, I know, but Anna, darling, think how terrible for one so young
to be shut out from this world, wearing my life away. Promise, Anna, and
I will be a better man; I will earn enough to pay it back. Promise, if,
indeed, you love me.’
“I was kneeling at her feet, sueing almost for my life. I was her
husband, and she loved me, erring as I was, and she promised at last to
keep her marriage a secret until I said she might tell. I ought to have
been satisfied with her word, but each moment the dread of arrest grew
greater, and taking the Bible which lay upon the table, I said, ‘Swear
with your hand on this.’
“Then she hesitated, but I carried my point, and with her hand on the
book she loved so much, she took an oath not to tell, and fell fainting
to the floor. I restored her as soon as possible, and led her through
obscure streets back to Mr. Haverleigh’s dwelling. I dared not kiss her
as I parted with her at the gate, for it was broad day, but I shall
never forget the look in her eyes as they rested on my face, while she
said, ‘Good-by, Robert. Ask God daily to forgive you as I shall do.’
“I wrung her cold, damp hand, and hurried away, seeing the Haverleigh
carriage drive up the street just as I turned into another, and knew
that Anna must have been safe in her room when the family returned.”
“Poor Anna,” sobbed Mrs. West. “That was the time when Rosa Haverleigh
found her upon the floor totally unconscious. She was never herself
after that, and as they could not rouse her to an interest in anything,
they sent her back to us, a white-faced, frightened, half crazed
creature even then. O Robert, my son, how much sorrow you have wrought,”
and the poor mother wept piteously as she remembered the young girl whom
she in thought had wronged, and who she now knew had died for the erring
Robert, and kept silence even when to do so was to bring disgrace and
death upon herself.
“Truly Anna died a martyr’s death,” Richard murmured, feeling now how
glad he was that he had held her in his arms and kissed her quivering
lips with the kiss of forgiveness, when all else stood aloof as from a
sinful thing.
“Yes, a martyr’s death,” Robert repeated sadly; “and some time you will
tell me how she died and about her child, but now I hasten on with the
part which concerns myself. I went to England and then to California,
working in the gold mines like a dog, and literally starving myself for
the sake of gain. I _would_ pay that debt, I said, and I would yet be
worthy of Anna. It was some time in October that I stumbled upon a
Boston paper in which was a notice of Anna’s death, put in by the
Haverleighs, I presume, as they were greatly attached to her. I knew it
was my Anna, and that I had killed her, and for a time reason and life
forsook me. I was sick for weeks, and when I came back to life,
_Stanley_, the man who first taught me to sin, was taking care of me.
He, too, had come to the land of gold, finding me by mere chance, and
knowing at once that I was not John Maxwell, as I had given out. But he
betrayed no secrets, and since then has proved the old adage that there
is honor even among thieves. By some means he had ascertained that in
consideration of a sum of money paid by you, together with your promise
of the whole, Uncle Jason had concluded to say nothing of my forgery. He
had also heard that West Lawn was sold, and I knew well what prompted
this sacrifice, and cursed myself for the sinful wretch I was. Stanley
did not remain in California longer than spring, but returned to New
York, from which place he has occasionally written and given me tidings
of home. At my request he has at four different times been to
Morrisville, and reported to me what he learned. In this way I heard of
_Robin_, and I know that thoughts of him have helped to make me a better
man.
“By some strange chance Stanley was there when Robin died, and mingling
with those who followed my child to the grave, he saw you, mother, and
Dick, and a young lady was with you, he said, a fair young girl, whom
Dick called Dora. Is she to be your wife?” and he turned towards
Richard, who, with a half moan, replied, “I hoped so once, but I have
lost her now.”
Robert pressed the hands of his brother in token of sympathy, and then
continued: “I never saw my boy, but I wept bitterly when I heard he was
dead, while my desire to return was materially lessened; but this
feeling wore away, and I came again to look eagerly forward to the time
when with the gold in my hand I could go back and pay the heavy debt I
owe you.”
“Did you never hear directly from Anna?” Richard asked, remembering the
letter sent to California.
“Yes, once; and it made me for a time almost as mad as my darling. I was
up in the mountains when I read it, and the live-long night I lay upon
the ground, crying as men are not apt to cry. I have that letter now. It
is in my wallet. Would you like to see it?”
A moment after Dr. West held in his hand a worn, yellow paper, on which
were traced the last words ever written by the unfortunate Anna, words
which made the doctor’s chest heave with anguish as he read them, while
his mother sobbed hysterically. A part of this letter we transcribe for
the reader:
* * * “I am in a mad-house, darling, where are so many, many crazy
people, and they say that I am crazy too. It’s only the secret in my
head and heart which makes them burn so cruelly. Richard and mother
brought me here. Poor Richard looks so white and sorry, and speaks so
kindly of you, wondering where you are, that once I bit my tongue until
it bled, to keep from telling what I knew. If I had not promised with my
hand upon the Bible, I am sure I should tell, but that oath haunts me
day and night, and I dare not break it, so now I never talk, and I was
glad when they brought me here, for it was safer so. It was dreadful at
first, and sometimes I most wished I could die, but God is here just as
He is in Morrisville, and at last I prayed to Him as I used to do. You
see I forgot to pray for a while, it was so terrible, and I thought I
was lost forever, but I’ve found God again, and I don’t mind the
dreadful place. Everybody is kind to me, everybody says ‘poor girl,’ and
you need not worry because I am here. I pray for you every minute, and
God will hear and save you, because He has promised, and God never lies.
Dear, darling Robert, if I dared tell you something, it might perhaps
bring you home to spare me from the shame which is surely coming, unless
I tell, and that I’ve sworn not to do. It makes me blush to write it,
and so I guess I won’t; but just imagine, if I was your wife before all
the world, and we were living somewhere alone, and Richard did not love
me, as I know he does, and folks called me Mrs. West instead of poor
Anna, and you always hurried home at night to see me, wouldn’t it be
nice if we had a little baby between us to love, you because it was
Anna’s, and I because it was Robert’s! But now, O Robert, what shall I
do, with you away, and that Bible oath in my heart. God will help me, I
hope, and perhaps take me home to him, where they know I am innocent.
Poor Richard, I pity him most when he comes to know it, but God will
care for him, and when I am gone he will find some other one more worthy
than I for him to love.
“There came a young girl here yesterday, not to stay, for her brains all
were sound, but with some more to look at us, and as they reached my
door I heard the attendant whisper something of me, while the stranger
came up to me and said:
“‘Poor girl, does your head ache very hard?’ and she put her hand so
gently on my hair; but I would not look up, and she went on with her
companion, who called her Dora. I don’t know why her voice made me think
of Richard, but it did, it was so soft and pitiful, just like his when
he speaks to me. It made me cry, and I prayed carefully to myself, ‘God
send to Richard another love, with a voice and manner like Dora.’” * * *
Richard could read no farther, but dropping the letter upon the bed, he
buried his face in his hands and moaned:
“Darling Anna, your prayer will never be answered, but I thank you for
it all the same, and I am so glad that I never forsook nor quite lost
faith in you. O Anna! O Dora! Dora!”
The last name was wrung from him inadvertently, but Robert caught it up
and said:
“Was the Dora who was with you at Robin’s grave the same of whom Anna
speaks?”
“I think so,—yes, I am sure, for she once told me of a visit made to the
asylum, and related an incident similar to this which Anna mentions.”
“Then Dick,” and Robert spoke reverently but decidedly, “then she will
be yours. Anna prayed for it once, and I have implicit faith in Anna’s
prayers. They followed me over land and sea, bringing me at last to the
fountain of all peace.”
Richard made no reply to this, but asked reproachfully why his brother
did not hasten home after receiving that touching message from Anna.
“The letter was a long time coming,” Robert said. “And as I was not
expecting it, I never inquired at the post-office until I saw it
advertised. It was then the first of September, and Anna was already
dead, but this I did not know, and I was making up my mind to brave even
a prison for her sake, when I saw that paper which told me of her death.
The rest you know, except, indeed, the debt of gratitude I owe to you
and mother for all your kindness to my wife and boy, and for the love
with which you have ever cherished me. If I get well, I trust my life
will show that a wretch like me can reform. I have money enough to pay
the debt with interest, and, Richard, it is all yours, earned for you,
and hoarded as carefully as miser ever hoarded his gains. But now tell
me of Anna at the last. Did no one suspect she was my wife?”
“No one but myself, and I did not till she was dying,” Richard replied.
“No one dreamed of questioning her of you, and so she was spared that
pain.”
And then he told Robert the sad story which our readers already know,
the story of Anna’s death, of Robin’s birth, and his short life, while
Robert, listening to it, atoned for all the wrong by the anguish he
endured and the tears he shed, as the narrative proceeded. At last, when
it was finished, he sank back upon his pillow, wholly exhausted with
excitement and fatigue.
For weeks after that he hovered so near the verge of death that even the
mother despaired, and looked each day to see the life go out from her
child, who in his boyhood had never been so dear to her as now. But
youth and a strong constitution triumphed, and again the fever abated,
leaving the sick man as weak and helpless as a child, but anxious for
the day when he would be able to make the homeward voyage.
CHAPTER XX.
RICHARD.
So absorbed was Mrs. West in Robert that she seldom noticed Richard, and
so she paid no heed when he one day came into the sick-room, looking
whiter even than his brother, by whose side he sat down as usual, doing
for him the many offices he had been accustomed to perform, and except
for his suffering face, giving no token of the terrible pain which wrung
his heart when he that morning read in Jessie’s letter that the worst he
had feared was true, and that Dora was to be married in September.
“For a person just engaged she acts very strangely,” Jessie wrote, “and
Bell will insist that she does not love her future lord, but is marrying
him from some mistaken sense of duty. What do you think?”
Dr. West could not tell what he thought, he only knew that his brain
grew giddy, and his soul faint and sick as he realized that Dora was
lost to him forever. Never even when Anna died had he suffered so keen a
pang as now, when in the solitude of his chamber he tried to pray, while
the words he would utter died away in unmeaning sounds. But God, who
readeth the inmost secrets of the heart, knew what his poor sorrowing
child would ask, and the needed strength to bear was given all the same.
It was very tedious now, waiting in that sick-room, for there crept into
Richard’s mind the half conviction that if he would see Dora for only
one brief moment, he could save her from the sacrifice. But Robert’s
improvement was slow, and day after day went by, until at last there
came a morning when there was put into Richard’s hand a soiled,
worn-looking letter, whose superscription made his heart for an instant
stop its beatings, for he recognized Dora’s handwriting, and
involuntarily pressed the missive to his lips ere he broke the seal. It
had been weeks and weeks upon the road, lying for a long time in another
office, but it had come to him at last; he had torn the envelope open;
he was reading Dora’s cry for help, written so long ago, a cry to which
he gave a far different interpretation from what she had intended.
“Oh, why did I not speak to her again!” he exclaimed; “why was I
permitted to form so wrong an estimate of woman’s character? But it is
not yet too late. The wedding is to be the 15th of September, Jessie
wrote. A steamer sails from here in a few days, and Robert must be able
by that time to leave California, or if he is not I shall leave him
behind with mother and fly to Dora. Oh if I could go to-day!”
An hour later, and Robert knew all there was to know of Dora as
connected with his brother, and warmly approved the plan of sailing in
the Raritan. I shall grow stronger on the sea, he said, and the result
proved that he was right, for when at last the Raritan was loosened from
her moorings and gliding swiftly over the blue waters of the Pacific, he
lay on her deck, drinking in new strength and vigor with each freshening
breeze. But with Richard it was different. Now that they were really
off, and Robert needed comparatively little of his help, he sank beneath
the load of anxiety and excitement, and taking to his berth, scarcely
lifted his head from the pillow while the ship went gliding on towards
home and Dora Freeman.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING.
Never had a summer passed so slowly to Dora Freeman as had the last, and
yet now that it was gone, it seemed to her scarcely more than a week
since the night she had said words from which resulted all the busy
preparations going on around her: the bridal dresses packed away in
heavy travelling trunks, for they were going to Europe too,—the perfect
happiness of Johnnie, who, twenty times each day, kissed her tenderly,
whispering, “I am so glad that you are to be my mother”—the noisy
demonstrations of the younger ones, and the great joy which beamed all
over the Squire’s honest face each time he looked at his bride-elect and
thought how soon she would be his. Gradually the pressure about Dora’s
heart and brain had loosened, and she did not feel just as she had done
when she first promised to be Squire Russell’s wife. She had accustomed
herself to the idea, until each thought did not bring a throb of pain,
while the excitement of getting ready, and the anticipated tour to
places she had never expected to see, had afforded her some little
satisfaction. She knew that the world generally looked at her in wonder,
while Bell and Mattie totally disapproved, both framing some excuse for
not being present at the wedding. But as is usually the case opposition
only helped the matter by making her more determined to do what she
really believed to be her duty. Besides this she was strengthened and
upheld by Johnnie, who was to be the companion of her travels, and who
always came between her and every sharp, rough point, smoothing the
latter down and making all so bright and easy that she blessed him as
her good angel. Owing to his constant vigilance, his father was not
often very demonstrative of his affection, except by looks and deeds
done for her gratification, but still there were times when, Johnnie
being off guard, the father acted the fond lover to the pale, shrinking
girl, who, shutting her teeth firmly together, suffered his caresses
because she must, but gave him back no answering token of affection.
Sometimes this quiet coldness troubled him, particularly as Letitia and
Jimmie both asked him at different times why Auntie cried so much,—“did
everybody just before they were married? Did mother?”
After Jessie came, Dora felt a great deal better, for Jessie made the
future anything but gloomy. Jessie was like a brilliant diamond,
flashing and sparkling, and singing and dancing and whistling until the
house seemed like a different place, and even Squire Russell wished he
could keep her there forever.
And now it was the day before the bridal. Every trunk was packed, and
everything was ready for the ceremony, which was to occur at an early
hour in the morning, as the bridal pair were to take the first train for
New York. Jessie upon the grassy lawn was romping with the children, and
occasionally addressing some saucy, teasing remark to the
bridegroom-elect, who was smoking his cigar demurely beneath the trees,
and wishing Dora would join them. But Dora was differently employed.
With the quiet which had suddenly fallen upon the household, a terrible
reaction had come to her, and as if waking from some horrid nightmare,
she began to realize her position, to feel that only a few hours lay
between herself and a living death. Vaguely, too, she began to see how,
with every morning mail, there had come a shadowy hope that something
might be received from Dr. West, that in some way he would yet save her
from Squire Russell. But for months no news had been received of him by
any one, and now the last lingering hope had died, leaving only a
feeling of despair. She could not even write a line in her journal, and
once she thought to burn it, but something stayed the act, and ’mid a
rain of tears, she laid it away, resolving never to open its lids again
until her heart ached less than it was aching now.
“I shall get over it, I know,” she moaned, as she seated herself by the
window. “If I thought I should not, I would go to Squire Russell before
the whole world, and on my knees would beg to be released; but I am
tired now, and excited, and everything looks so dark,—even my pleasant
chamber is so close that I can scarcely breathe. I wonder if the breeze
from the lake would not revive me. I’ll try it,—I’ll go there. I’ll sit
where Richard and I once sat. I’ll listen to the music of the waves just
as I listened then, and if this does not quiet me, if the horror is
still with me,—perhaps—”
There was a hard, terrible look in Dora’s eyes as the evil thought first
flashed upon her, a look which grew more and more desperate as she began
to wonder how deep the waters were near the shore, and if the verdict
would be “accidental drowning,” and if Dr. West would care.
Alas for Dora! the tempter was whispering horrible things to her, and
she, poor, half-crazed girl, was listening to him as she stole from the
back door, and took her way across the fields to where the waters of the
lake lay sparkling in the September sun now low in the western horizon.
CHAPTER XXII.
DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE.
The shadowy woods which skirt the lake shore tell no tales of what they
see, neither do the mossy rocks, nor yet the plashing waves kissing the
pebbly beach, and so Dora was free to pour out her griefs, knowing there
was no listening human ear, and forgetting for a time that there was an
eye which kept watch over her, as with her face upon the yielding sand
she moaned so piteously. She could not sit where she and Richard sat,
and so she chose the projecting trunk of a fallen tree, and sat where
her feet could touch the water below if she should wish it so, as once
she did, dipping the tip of her thin slipper, and holding it there till
it was wet through to see what the feeling was!
Dora did not try to pray. She never thought of that, but only remembered
how desolate, how miserable she was, vainly imagining that to rest
beneath the waters lying so calmly at her feet was to end all the pain,
the misery, and woe.
The sun was going down the west now very fast, and out upon the bosom of
the lake, at some distance from the shore, it cast a gleam like
burnished gold, and Dora, gazing wistfully upon it, fancied that if she
could but reach that spot, and sink into that golden glory, it would be
well with her. No thoughts of the hereafter crossed her disordered mind,
and so she sat and watched the shining spot, until there came to her a
memory of the night when Robin died, and the time when the sunshine
round Anna’s picture looked like the bed of fire upon the lake.
“They are in heaven,” she said; adding mournfully, “and where is that
heaven?”
“Not where they go who take their lives in their own hands,” seemed
whispered in her ear, and with a shudder she woke to the great peril of
her position.
“Save me, O God!” she sobbed, as she moved cautiously back from her seat
upon the tree, breathing freer when she knew that beneath her there was
no dark, cold water into which she could dip her feet at pleasure.
She had dipped them there until both hose and slippers were dripping
wet, but this she did not heed, and once off from the tree, she sat down
where Richard sat, and tried to look the present calmly in the face,—to
see if there were not some bright, happy spots, if she would but accept
them. With her head bowed down, she did not hear the footstep coming
through the woods, and drawing near to her; but when a strange voice
said interrogatively, “Miss Freeman?” she started and uttered a nervous
cry, for the face she saw was the face of a stranger. And yet it was so
like to Dr. West, that she looked again to reassure herself.
“I am Robert West,” the man began, abruptly. “I am Richard’s brother. He
sent me here,—he sent me to _his Dora_, and you are she.”
For an instant a tumultuous throb of joy shot through Dora’s heart, but
it quickly passed, as she answered Robert:
“You are mistaken, sir. I am to be Squire Russell’s wife to-morrow.”
Sitting down beside her, Robert repeated rapidly a part of what the
reader already knows, telling her of Anna, of his own sin, and
exonerating Richard from all blame. Then he told her of the meeting in
California, of his long illness,—of Richard’s anguish when he heard that
she was to be married,—of the reaction when that letter so long in
coming was received,—of his haste to embark for home, and his illness
during the voyage,—illness which made him so weak that he was brought
from New York on pillows, and partly in his brother’s arms.
“But he has reached here in safety,” Robert continued. “He arrived
perhaps an hour ago. He is at his old boarding-place, Miss Markham’s,
and mother is there with him. He knows you are not married yet, and
would have come to you himself, but for his illness, which made it
impossible, and so he sent me to say that even as he loves you, so he
believes that you love him, and to beg of you not to sacrifice your
happiness to a mistaken sense of duty. You could not be found when I
inquired for you, but a servant said she saw you going towards the lake,
and as she pointed me the way, I came on until I found you. Miss
Freeman, you know my brother, and know that there lives no better, more
upright man, or one who will make you happier as your husband. You have
heard my errand, and now what word shall I take back to Richard, or will
you go yourself and see him?”
Dora had sat like one stunned as Robert told his story; hope, joy, and
despair alternately succeeding each other in her heart as she listened.
At a glance, too, she took in all the difficulties of her position, and
saw how impossible it was for her to overcome them. This was in her mind
when Robert asked if she would go to Richard, and with a bitter moan she
answered:
“No, no; oh no! he has come too late. I cannot break my word to John,
and he trusting me so fully. Tell Richard it might have been, but cannot
be now.”
Again Robert West pleaded for his brother, and for the poor heart-broken
girl beside him, but her answer was just the same:
“It might have been, but cannot be now.”
At last as it grew darker around them, and the night dew made Dora
shiver, Robert gave up the contest, and said:
“You must go home, Miss Freeman. It is imprudent to stay here longer in
the damp night air. I am satisfied that you do not know what you are
saying, and so I shall see Squire Russell, and acquaint him with the
whole.”
In an instant Dora was on her knees, begging that her betrothed might be
spared this pain.
“Think of the sorrow, the disappointment, the disgrace,—for to-morrow
morning early is the wedding, and everybody knows. Why, our passage to
Europe is secured, and we must go.”
“Not if I have the power to prevent it,” was Robert’s reply, as he led
her across the fields, still insisting that he should see Squire
Russell.
At last, when she saw how much in earnest he was, she said, “I will tell
him myself; I can do it more gently, and it will not hurt so much. Don’t
go to him, but leave it with me.”
“Will you tell him all and ask to be released?” Robert said, making her
stand still while she replied, “I’ll tell him all, how I love Richard
best; but I shall not ask to be released.”
Robert was satisfied, for from what he had heard of Squire Russell he
believed he would never require of Dora so great a sacrifice.
“I shall be here with the early dawn,” he said, as he left her at the
gate.
Dora did not reply, but stood with her eyes riveted upon the house
across the street, where she knew was Dr. West. There was a light
shining from the windows of the upper room, while the figure of a woman
wearing a widow’s cap was occasionally seen passing to and fro.
“That is Richard’s room,” she whispered, feeling an intense desire to
fly at once to his side and assert her right to stay there.
Then, remembering her promise to Robert, she walked slowly to the house,
meeting in the door with Johnnie, who, wild with excitement, exclaimed,
“Hurrah, guess who has come! Dr. West,—and I have been in to see him.
He’s whiter than a ghost, and what is funny, his chin fairly shook when
I told him I was to have a new mother to-morrow, and what do you think,
that woman, his mother, put me out of the room and said too much talking
hurt him. Did you know he was here?”
“Yes, I knew, Johnnie; where’s your father?” Dora asked, feeling that if
she waited longer her courage would give way.
“Father’s in the library, and he’s ordered us youngsters to keep out. I
guess he’s expecting you, for he asked lots of times where you was, and
nobody knew, Jessie’s over there,” and Johnnie jerked his shoulder in
the direction of the doctor’s window.
Very slowly, as if going to her grave, Dora walked on till she came to
the library door. It was shut, and as she stood there trembling, she
caught the sound of a voice praying within, a voice which trembled with
happiness and gratitude as John Russell thanked the God who had given to
him Dora.
“I can’t; oh, I can’t,” Dora sighed, as, faint and sick, she leaned
against the wall, while that prayer proceeded.
Then, when it was finished, still feeling that she could not talk with
him that night, she went up to her room, and in the garments all damp
and stained with night dew, and the slippers wet with the waters of the
lake, she sat down by the open window and watched the light across the
way, until she heard Jessie coming and knew that Robert was with her.
They were talking, too, of her, for she heard her name coupled with Dr.
West’s, while Jessie said, “It’s dreadful, and I do so pity Squire
Russell,—he is such a nice, good man.”
And Jessie did pity him and Dora, too, hardly knowing what was best, or
what she ought to advise. She had been present when Robert returned from
his interview with Dora, and as Richard could not wait till she was gone
she came to know the whole, expressing great surprise, and wounding
Richard cruelly by saying, “It has gone so far that I do not believe it
can be prevented.”
But Robert thought differently, and repeated Dora’s promise to talk with
Squire Russell that night.
“Then he will give her up,” Jessie exclaimed, “he is so generous and so
wholly unselfish. Oh, how I do pity him!” and in the heat of her great
pity Jessie would almost have been Dora’s substitute, if by that means
she could have saved the Squire from pain.
She did admire and like him, and appreciated his kind, affable, pleasant
ways, all the more because they were so exactly the opposite of her
father’s quick, brusque, nervous manner. The door of the library was
open now, and she saw him sitting there as she passed, and longed so
much to go and comfort him if the blow had fallen, or prepare him for it
if it had not. I’ll see Dora first, she thought, and she hastened up to
Dora’s door, but it was locked, while to her whispered question, “Have
you told him yet?” Dora answered, “No, no, not yet; I can’t to-night.
Please leave me, Jessie; I want to be alone.”
It was the queerest thing she ever heard of, Jessie thought, as she
turned away,—queerer than a novel ten times over. Then, as she spied
Johnnie in the parlor, the little meddlesome lady felt a great desire to
see if he suspected anything; but Johnnie did not, and only talked of
Europe and the grand things he should see. Not a hint or insinuation,
however broad, would he take, and mentally styling him stupid and dull,
Jessie left him in disgust, and walked boldly into the library,
apologizing for her call by saying she had been to see Dr. West, and
thought the Squire might wish to hear directly from him. The Squire was
very glad to hear, and glad also to see Jessie, who amused and
interested him.
“I have been thinking of calling myself, with Dora, but have not seen
her this evening. Where is she?” he said.
“Locked in her room,” Jessie replied, as she took the chair he offered
her, and continued: “Dora acts queerly, but I suppose that is the way I
shall do the night before I am married. Wouldn’t I feel so funny,
though! Do you know you and Dora seem to me just like a novel, in which
I am a side character; but to keep up the romance some tall, handsome
knight ought at the last minute to appear and carry her off.”
“And so make a tragedy so far as I am concerned,” the Squire said,
playfully, as he smoothed the little black curly head moving so
restlessly.
“Oh, I guess you would not die,” Jessie replied; “not if Dora loved the
knight the best. You would rather she should have him, and some time you
would find another Dora who loved you best of all.”
Jessie was growing very earnest, very sympathetic, very sorry for the
unsuspecting bridegroom, and as his hand still continued to smooth her
curls, she suddenly caught it between her own, and giving it a squeeze
darted from the room, leaving the Squire to wonder at her manner, and to
style her mentally “a nice little girl, whom it would not be hard for
any man to love.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE BRIDAL DAY.
The morning was breaking in the east,—a bright, rosy morning, such as is
usual in early September,—a morning when the birds sang as gayly among
the trees as in the summer-time, and when the dew-drops glittered on the
flowers just as they had done in the mornings of the past. All night the
gas had burned dimly in the sick-room across the street, and all the
night the sick man had prayed that he might be prepared for what the
future had in store, whether of joy or sorrow. All night Jessie and
Johnnie had slept uneasily, dreaming, one of the Roman Forum, where he
repeated the speech made at his last exhibition, and the other that she,
instead of Dora, wore the bridal wreath and stood at John Russell’s
side, and found it not so very terrible after all. All night Squire
Russell had lain awake, with a strange, half sad, half delicious feeling
of unrest, which drove slumber from his pillow, but brought no shadow of
the storm gathering round his head. All night, too, Dora,—but over the
scene of agony, contrition, remorse, terror, hope, and despair which her
chamber witnessed, we draw a veil, and speak only of the results.
With the dawn the household was astir, for the elaborate breakfast was
to be served before the ceremony, which was to take place at half past
seven. In the children’s room there was first the opening of sleepy
little eyes, as Clem called out, “Come, come, wake up. This is your
father’s wedding-day.” Then there was a scampering across the floor, a
patter of tiny feet, a chorus of birdlike voices, mingled occasionally
with wrathful exclamations as Ben’s antagonistic propensities clashed
with those of Burt, who declared that “Aunt Dora was going to be
father’s mother, too, as well as theirs.” Then there were louder tones,
and finally a fight, which was quelled by Jessie, who appeared in
dressing-gown, with her brush in hand, and seemed in no hurry to finish
a toilet which she intuitively felt would be made for naught.
Across the yard came Squire John from visiting Margaret’s grave, where
he had left a tear and a bouquet of flowers. Up the walk, from the front
gate, came Robert West, a look of determination on his handsome face,
which boded no good to the bridegroom-elect, who, guessing at once that
he was the doctor’s brother, greeted him cordially and bade him sit down
till the breakfast was announced. Up the same gravel walk came the woman
who was to dress the bride, and just as Robert West was stammering some
apology for being there unbidden, she asked if Miss Freeman had come
down.
Nobody had seen her yet; nobody had heard her either, though Jessie had
been three times to her door, while Clem had been once, but neither
could get an answer.
“Would she be apt to sleep so soundly on this morning?” Squire John
asked, just as Jessie, who had again tried the door, came running to the
head of the stairs, her brush in her hands, and her dressing-gown flying
back as she breathlessly explained to the anxious group in the hall
below how she was positive she had heard a moan as if Dora was in
distress.
“Burst the door,” the Squire ordered, his face white as ashes, as he
hurried up the stairs, followed by Robert West.
Yes, there was a moan, a faint, wailing sound, which met the ears of
all, and half crazy with fear Squire John pressed heavily against the
bolted door until it gave way, when he stood modestly back while Jessie,
stooping under his arm, darted into the room, exclaiming:
“Dora, O Dora! what’s the matter? What makes her so sick?” and she cast
an appealing glance at her companions, who stood appalled at the change
a few hours had wrought in Dora, the bride of that morning.
In her soiled garments, damp and wet, she had sat or lain the entire
night, but the burning fever had dried them and stained her face with a
purplish red, while her eyes, bloodshot and heavy, had in them no ray of
intelligence. She was lying now upon the bed, her hands pressed to her
forehead, as if the pain was there, while she moaned faintly, and
occasionally talked of the light on the wall which had troubled her so
much.
“It would not go out,” she said to Jessie, who gently lifted up the
aching head and held it against her bosom. “It was there all the night,
and I know it burned for him. Does he know how sick I am?”
A glance of intelligence passed between Robert West and Jessie, for they
knew that the light from Richard’s room had shone into Dora’s through
the darkness, and this it was which troubled her. Squire John had no
such suspicions, and when she asked, “Does _he_ know how sick I am?” he
bent over her tenderly, and smoothing her brown hair, said, “Poor child,
poor darling, I do know, and I am so sorry. Is the pain very hard?”
At the sound of his voice Dora started, while there came into her face a
rational expression, and as he continued to caress her, her lip
quivered, her eyes filled with tears, and she said, pleadingly, as a
child would beg forgiveness of an injured parent:
“Dear John, don’t be angry, I could not help it. I tried to come to you
last night when everybody was asleep and the clock was striking twelve.
I tried to come, but I could not find the way for the light on the wall.
I can’t, I can’t. The trunks are all packed too, and the people are
coming. Tell them I can’t.”
“Poor little girl, never mind. I know you can’t, and it don’t make one
bit of difference, for I can wait, and I will tell the folks how sick my
Dora is,” John said, kissing her softly. Then in an aside to Jessie, he
added, “She thinks I’ll be disappointed because the wedding is deferred,
and it troubles her. There’s the door-bell now. I must go down to
explain,” and he hurried away to meet the guests, who were arriving
rapidly, and who, as they turned their steps homeward, seemed more
disappointed than the bridegroom himself.
Blessed Squire John! He was wholly unselfish, and as in his handsome
wedding-suit he stood bowing out his departing guests, he was not
thinking of himself, but of Dora and how she might be served.
“Margaret believed fully in homœopathy,” he said to the last lady, who
asked what doctor he would call; “but Dr. West is sick, and what can I
do?”
“He might prescribe,” returned the lady, who was also one of Dr. West’s
adherents. “You can tell him her symptoms, and he can order medicine.”
“Thank you; I never thought of that. I’ll go at once,” John said; and
bareheaded as he was, he crossed the street, and was soon knocking at
Mrs. Markham’s door.
“The doctor’s worse,” she said, in reply to his inquiry. “He seems
terribly excited, and acts as if he was possessed.”
“But I must see him,” Squire John continued. “Miss Freeman is very sick,
and he must prescribe.”
“Ain’t there no wedding after all? Wall, if that don’t beat me!” was
Mrs. Markham’s response, as she carried to Dr. West the message which
roused him from the hopeless, despairing mood into which he had fallen.
He had insisted upon sitting up by the window, where he could watch the
proceedings across the street, and as Robert did not return, while one
after another the invited guests went up the walk into the house, he
gave up all as lost, and sick with the crushing belief, went back to his
bed, whispering sadly:
“Dora is not for me. But God knows best!”
He did not see the bridegroom coming to his door, but when the message
was delivered it diffused new life at once.
“Yes, show him up; I must talk with him,” he said, and a moment after
Squire John stood before his rival, his honest face full of anxiety, and
almost bedewed with tears as he stated all he knew of Dora’s case. “If I
could see her I could do so much better,” Richard said; “but that is
impossible to-day, so I must send,” and with hands which shook as they
had never shaken before, he gave out the medicine which he hoped might
save Dora’s life.
“If you were able to go,” the Squire said, as he stood in the doorway,
“I would carry you myself; but perhaps it is not prudent.”
He looked anxiously at the doctor, who replied:
“If she gets no better, I’ll come.”
And then as the door closed upon the Squire, he gave a great pitying
groan as he thought how trustful and unsuspicious he was.
Holding fast to the medicine, and repeating the direction, Squire
Russell hastened back to the house, finding that Dora had been divested
of her soiled garments, and placed in bed, where she already seemed more
comfortable, though she kept talking incessantly of the light on the
wall which would not let her sleep.
“It’s perfectly dreadful, isn’t it?” Jessie said to Robert, who, ere
going home, stepped to the door of Dora’s room. “I’m sure I don’t know
what to do. I wish Bell was here.”
Dora heard the name, and said:
“Yes, Bell; she knows, she understands,—she said I ought not to do it.
Send for Bell.”
Accordingly Robert was furnished with the necessary directions, and left
the house for the telegraph office, just as the Squire entered.
Johnnie was nearly frantic. At first he had seemed to consider that his
trip to Europe was prevented, and, boy-like, only was greatly
disappointed; but when he was admitted into the room and saw Dora’s
burning cheeks and bright, rolling eyes, he forgot everything in his
great distress for her.
“Auntie must not die! Oh, she must not die!” he sobbed, feeling a keener
pang than any he had known when they brought home his dead mother.
Intuitively he seemed to feel that his father’s grief was greater than
his own, and keeping close to his side he held his hand, looking up into
his face, and whispering occasionally:
“Poor father, I hope she won’t die!”
The father hoped so too, but as the hours wore on and the fever
increased, those who saw her, shook their heads doubtingly, saying with
one accord:
“She must have help soon, or it will come too late.”
“Help from where? Tell me. Whom shall I get? Where shall I go?” John
asked, and the answer was always the same. “If _Dr. West_ could come,
but I suppose he can’t!”
“He _can_! he _shall!_!” Johnnie exclaimed, as the house seemed filled
with Dora’s delirious ravings. “Father and that Mr. West can bring him
in a chair! He shall!” and Johnnie rushed across the street, nearly
upsetting Mrs. West in his headlong haste, and bursting upon Richard
with the exclamation, “She’ll die! she is dying, and you shall go! You
must,—you will! We’ll take you in this big chair!” and Johnnie wound his
arm around the doctor’s neck, while he begged of him to go and save Aunt
Dora.
At first the doctor hesitated, but when his brother also joined in the
boy’s request, he said, “I’ll go.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SHADOWS OF DEATH.
It was a novel sight to see the little procession which half an hour
later left Mrs. Markham’s house and moved across the street. Wrapped in
a blanket and reclining in the huge arm-chair which Squire John, his
coachman, and Robert West were carrying was Dr. West, while behind him
walked his mother, with Johnnie and Jim and Burt and Ben bringing up the
rear.
“I think I had better go in alone. Too many may disturb her,” Richard
suggested, as, supported by his brother and the Squire, he reached the
upper hall and turned towards Dora’s chamber.
All saw the propriety of this, and so only Jessie was present when
Richard first sat down by Dora’s side, and taking her hot hand pressed
it between his own, calling her by name and asking if she knew him.
“Yes, Richard, and you have come to save me; I am so glad, and the night
was so long, with the light on the wall,” Dora replied, and over her
cheeks the tears fell refreshingly.
“You have done her good already,” Jessie whispered to the doctor, who,
repressing his intense desire to hug the sick girl to his bosom,
proceeded carefully to examine every symptom and then to prescribe.
She was very sick, he said, and the utmost quiet was necessary; only a
few must be allowed to see her, and no one should be admitted whose
presence disturbed her in the least. This was virtually keeping Squire
Russell away, for his presence did disturb her, as had been apparent all
the day, for she grew restless and talkative and feverish the moment he
appeared. It smote the doctor cruelly to see how meekly he received the
order.
“Save her, doctor,” he said, “save my Dora and I will not mind giving
you all I’m worth.”
But the power to save was not vested in Dr. West. He could only use the
means, and then with agony of soul pray that they might be blessed, that
Dora might live even though she should never be his. It was unnecessary
for him to return to Mrs. Markham’s, and yielding to what seemed best
for all, he remained at Squire Russell’s during the dreadful days of
suspense when Dora’s life hung on a thread, when Bell and Mattie, both
of whom came in answer to Robert’s telegram, bent over her pillow,
always turning away with the feeling that she must die, when Jessie,
yielding her place as nurse to more experienced hands, took the children
to the farthest part of the building, where she kept them quiet,
stifling her tears while she sang to them childish songs, or told them
fairy stories; and when Squire Russell, banished from the sick-room, sat
in the hall all the day long watching Dora’s door with a wistful,
beseeching look, which touched the hearts of those who saw it, and who
knew of the blow in store for him even if Dora lived. It was no secret
now, to five at least, that Dora could never be Squire Russell’s wife.
Mrs. West, Bell, Mattie, Jessie, and Robert all knew it, and while four
approved most heartily, _Jessie_ in her great pity hardly knew what she
should advise. She was so sorry for him sitting so patiently by the hall
window, and she wanted so much to comfort him. Sometimes, as she passed
near him, she did stop, and smoothing his hair, tell him how sorry she
was, while beneath the touch of those snowy fingers, his heart throbbed
with a feeling which prompted him to think much of Jessie, even while he
kept that tireless watch near Dora.
It was strange how the doctor bore up, appearing better than when he
first came to Dora. It was excitement, he knew, and he was glad of the
artificial strength which kept him at her side, noting every change with
minuteness which went far toward effecting the cure for which he prayed.
Two weeks had passed away, and then one night, just as the autumn
twilight was stealing into the room, Dora woke from a long, heavy sleep,
which Richard had watched breathlessly, for on its issue hung her life
or death. It was over now, and the hand Richard held was wet with
perspiration. Dora was saved, and burying his head upon her pillow, the
doctor said aloud:
“I thank thee, O my Father, for giving me back my darling.”
Richard was alone, for Bell and Mattie had both left the room to take
their supper, and there was no one present to see the look of
unutterable joy which crept into his face, when, in response to his
thanksgiving, a faint voice said:
“Kiss me once, Richard, for the sake of what might have been, then let
me die,—here, just as I am, alone with you.”
He kissed her more than once, more than twice, while he said to her:
“You will not die; the crisis is past; my darling will live.”
Neither thought of Squire Russell then, so full, so perfect was that
moment of bliss in which each acknowledged the deep love filling their
hearts with joy. Dora was the first to remember, and with a moan she
turned her face to the wall while the doctor still held and caressed the
little wasted hand which did not withdraw itself from his grasp. There
was joy in the household that night, for the glad news that Dora was
better spread rapidly, while smiles and tears of happiness took the
place of sorrow. Squire Russell was gone; business which required
attention had taken him away for several hours, and when he returned it
was too late to visit the sick-room; but he heard from Johnnie that Dora
would live, and from his room there went up a prayer of thanksgiving to
Heaven, who had not taken away one so dear as Dora.
CHAPTER XXV.
BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
“Poor Squire Russell,” Jessie kept repeating to herself, as she saw him
next morning going up to Dora, who would far rather not have seen him
until some one had told him what she knew now must be.
But there was no longer a reason why he should not be admitted to her
presence, and so he came, his kind face bathed in tears, and glowing all
over with delight as he stooped to kiss “his lily,” as he called her,
asking how she felt, and whispering to her of his joy that she was
better.
“I knew the doctor would help you,” he said, rubbing his hands
complacently. “You would have died but for him. We will always like Dr.
West, Dora, for he saved your life.”
“I guess I would not talk any more now,—it tires her,” Jessie said, in a
perfect tremor of distress; and taking his arm, she led him away; then,
closing the door upon him, she went back to Dora, who was weeping
silently.
“It seems dreadful to deceive him any longer,” Jessie said, and as Dr.
West just then came in she appealed to him to know if it were not a
shame for that nice man to be kept so in the dark. “If you and Dora love
each other, as I suppose you do, why, you’ll have each other of course,
and Squire Russell must console himself as best he can. For my part, I
pity him,” and Jessie flounced out of the room, leaving Dr. West alone
with Dora.
For a long time they talked, Dora weeping softly while the doctor
soothed and comforted, and told her of the love cherished so many years
for the little brown-eyed girl, who now confessed how dear he was to
her, but cried mournfully when she spoke of Squire Russell. It was cruel
when he trusted and loved her so much. Perhaps, too, it was wrong, she
said. It might be her imperative duty to take charge of those children,
and then she startled the doctor by saying:
“You know how much I love you. I am not ashamed to confess it, but I am
most afraid that when the time comes to talk with John, I shall tell him
that I will marry him.”
“_Not by a jug full!_ I’ll tend to that myself. I know now what has been
the matter!” was almost screamed in the ears of Dr. West and Dora, as
Johnnie rushed into the room.
He had started to come before, he said, but had been arrested at the
door by something Dora was saying to the doctor.
“I know it’s paltry mean to listen,” he continued, “but I could not help
it, and so I stood stiller than a mouse, and heard all you had to say.
That’s why Aunt Dora has looked so white and cried so much, and didn’t
want father to kiss her. I understand. She didn’t like him, but she’s
pesky willing to have _you_ slobber over her as much as you want to,”
and the boy turned fiercely toward the doctor. “I counted, and while I
stood there you kissed her _fourteen_ times! It was smack, smack, till I
was fairly sick, and sort of mad with all the rest. I know auntie always
_has_ done right, and so I s’pose she is right now, but somehow I can’t
help feeling as if the governor was abused, and _me_ too! How, I’d like
to know, am I ever going to Europe if you don’t have father? O Auntie,
think again before you quit entirely!” and overmastered with tears,
Johnnie buried his face in the bed-clothes, begging of Dora “to think
again, and not give poor father the mitten!”
“You are making her worse! You had better go out!” the doctor said
kindly, laying a hand on Johnnie’s shoulder; but the boy shook it off,
savagely exclaiming:
“You let me _be_, old Dr. West. I shall stay if I have a mind to!” But
when Dora said:
“Johnnie, Johnnie, please don’t,” he melted at once, and sobbed aloud.
“I was mad, Auntie; and I guess I’m mad yet, but I do love you. O
Auntie, poor father! I’m going right off to tell him. He shan’t be
fooled any longer!” and the excited child darted from the room ere Dora
had time to stop him.
Rushing down the stairs and entering the library, he called loudly for
his father, but he was not there. He had gone into the village, Jessie
said, asking if it was anything in particular which he wanted. “Yes, of
course. I want to tell him how it’s all day with him and Auntie. She
don’t like him, and she does like Dr. West. Poor father! was there ever
anything so mean?”
Here at last was one who in part expressed her own sentiments, and the
impulsive Jessie replied:
“It is mean, I think, and I am so sorry for your father. Of course Dora
intends to do right, and likes the doctor best, because he is not so old
as your father; but young as I am, I should not think it so awful to
marry a man of forty. Why, I think it would be rather jolly, for I could
do just as I pleased with him. Yes, I blame Dora some—”
“I won’t have Aunt Dora blamed,” Johnnie roared, a reaction taking place
the moment any one presumed to censure her. “No, I won’t have her
blamed, so you just hush up. If she don’t want father she shan’t have
him, and I’ll lick the first one who says she shall.”
Here Johnnie broke down entirely, and with a howling cry fled away into
the garden, leaving Jessie perfectly amazed as she thought “how very
unsatisfactory it was to meddle with a love-affair.”
Meanwhile Johnnie had seated himself beneath a tree in a sunny, quiet
spot, where he was crying bitterly, and feeling almost as much grieved
as when his mother died. Indeed, he fancied that he felt worse, for then
there was hope in the future, and now there was none. Hearing the sound
of the gate, and thinking his father had returned, he rose at last, and
drying his eyes, repaired to the house, finding his conjecture true, for
Squire Russell had come, and was reading his paper in the library. With
his face all flushed with excitement, and his eyes red with weeping,
Johnnie went to him at once, and bolting the door, began impetuously, “I
would not mind it a bit, father. I’d keep a stiff upper lip, just as if
I did not care.”
“What do you mean?” the Squire asked, in surprise, and Johnnie
continued: “I mean that you and Aunt Dora have _played out_, and you may
as well hang up your fiddle, for she don’t want you, and she does want
Dr. West, and that’s why she has grown poor as a shark and white as
chalk. I just found it out, standing by the door and hearing the
greatest lot of stuff,—how he asked her to marry him once, and she got
into a tantrum and wouldn’t say yes, though she wanted to all the time.
What makes girls act so, I wonder?”
Squire Russell was too deeply interested to offer any explanation with
regard to girls’ actions, and Johnnie went on:
“Then he went off to California, and didn’t write, as she hoped he
would, and you and I asked her to have you, and she did not want to, but
thought it was her duty, and wrote to ask the doctor, and he didn’t get
the letter for weeks and weeks, and when he did he was most distracted,
and cut stick for home; and Aunt Dora didn’t know it, and went off to
the Lake, and sat with both feet in the water, and Mr. Robert West found
her there and told her, and got her home, and she most had a fit, and, O
thunder! what a muss they have kicked up!”
Here Johnnie stopped for breath, while his father grasped the table with
both hands, as if he thus would steady himself, while he said slowly,
with long breaths between the words, “How—was it—my son? Tell me—again.
I—I do not—think—I understand.”
Briefly then Johnnie recapitulated, telling how he happened to find it
out, and adding, “Such kissing I never heard! _Fourteen_ smashers, for I
counted; and don’t you know, father, how, if you even touched her hand
or her hair, she would wiggle and squirm as if it hurt her? Well, I
peeked through the crack of the door, and instead of wigglin’ she
snugged up to him as if she liked it, and I know she did, for her eyes
fairly shone, they were so bright, when she looked at him. But, father,
she talked real good about you, and said that if you insisted she should
marry you just the same; but you won’t father, will you?”
“No, my son, no. O Dora!”
The words were a groan, while the Squire laid his face upon the table.
Instantly Johnnie was at his side comforting him as well as he was able,
and trying manfully to keep down his own choking sorrow.
“Never mind, father, never mind; we will get along, you and I. And I’ll
tell you now what folks say, and that is, that no chap has a right to
marry his wife’s sister, which I guess is so. Don’t cry, father, don’t.
Somebody will have you, if Aunt Dora won’t. There,—there,” and Johnnie
tried in vain to hush the grief becoming rather demonstrative as the
Squire began to realize what he had lost.
Noisy grief is never so deep as the calm, quiet sorrow which can find no
outlet for its tears, and so Squire Russell was the more sure to outlive
this bitter trial; but that did not help him now, or make the future
seem one whit less desolate. It was an hour before Johnnie left him, and
went into the hall, where he encountered Jessie, to whom he said, “I’ve
told him and he’ll do the handsome thing, but it almost kills him. Maybe
you, being a girl, can talk to him better than I,” and Johnnie went on
up to Dora’s chamber, while Jessie, after hesitating a moment, glided
quietly into the library, where Squire Russell still sat with his head
upon the table.
Jessie was a nice little comforter, and so the Squire found her as she
stood over him, just as she did when Margaret died, smoothing his hair,
her favorite method of expressing sympathy, and saying to him so softly,
“I pity you, and I think you so good to give her up.”
He could talk to Jessie; and bidding her to sit down, he asked what she
knew of Dora’s love-affair with the doctor, thereby learning some things
which Johnnie had not told him.
“It is well,” he said at last; “I see that Dora is not for me; I give
her to Dr. West; and, Miss Verner,—Jessie,—I thank, you for your
sympathy with both of us. I am glad you are here.”
Jessie was glad, too, for if there was anything she especially enjoyed,
it was the whirl and the excitement going on around her. Bowing, she too
quitted the library, and went up to corroborate what Johnnie had already
told to Dora.
After that Squire Russell sat no more in the upper hall watching Dora’s
door, but stayed downstairs with his little children, to whom he
attached himself continually, as if he felt that he must be to them
father and mother both. Now that the crisis was past, the doctor thought
it advisable to go back to Mrs. Markham’s, his boarding-place, but he
met Squire Russell first, and heard from his own lips a confirmation of
what Johnnie had said. There was no malice in John Russell’s nature, and
he treated the doctor as cordially and kindly as if he had not been his
rival.
“God bless you both,” he said; “I blame no one,—harbor no ill-feeling
towards any one. If Dora had told me frankly at first it might have
saved some pain, some mortification, but I do not lay it up against her.
She meant for the best. It is natural she should love you more than me.
God bless her; and doctor, if you like, marry her at once, but don’t
take her away from here yet; wait a little till I am more settled,—for
the children’s sake, you know.”
Dr. West could not understand the feeling which prompted Squire Russell
to want Dora to stay there, but he recognized the great unselfishness of
the man whose sunshine he had darkened, and with a trembling lip he,
too, said, “God bless you,” as he grasped the hand most cordially
offered, and then hurried away. It was a week before the Squire could
command sufficient courage to have an interview with Dora, as she had
repeatedly asked that he might do. With a faltering step he approached
her door, hesitating upon the threshold, until Jessie, coming suddenly
upon him, said to him, cheerily, “It will soon be over, never mind it;
go in.”
So he went in, and stayed a long, long time, but as they were alone, no
one ever knew all that had passed between them. The Squire was very
white when he came out, but his face shone with a look of one who felt
that he had done right, and after that the expression did not change
except that it gradually deepened into one of content and even
cheerfulness, as the days went by, and people not only came to know that
the wedding between himself and Dora would never be, but also to approve
the arrangement, and to treat him as a hero who had achieved a famous
victory. As for Dora, Jessie and Bell found her after the interview
weeping bitterly over what she called her own wicked selfishness and
John’s great generous goodness in giving her up so kindly, and making
her feel while he was talking to her that it really was no matter about
him. He was not injured so very much, although he had loved her dearly.
He still had his children, and with them he should be happy.
“Oh, he is the best man!” Dora said; “the very best man that ever lived,
and I wish he might find some suitable wife, whom he could love better
than he did me, and who would make him happy.”
“So do I! I guess I do!” retorted Jessie, industriously cutting a sheet
of note-paper in little slips and scattering them on the floor. “I’ve
thought of everybody that would be at all suitable, for I suppose he
must be married on account of the children; but there is nobody good
enough except—” and Jessie held the scissors and paper still a moment,
while she added, “except Bell. I think she would answer nicely. She is
twenty-nine,—almost that awful thirty,—which no unmarried woman ever
reaches, they say; and I’d like to be aunt to six children right well,
only I believe I should thrash Jim and Letitia—who, by the way, is not
very bright. Did you ever discover it, Dora?”
Dora had sometimes thought Letitia a little dull, she said, and then she
turned to Bell to see how she fancied the idea of being step-mother to
all those dreadful children; but Bell did not fancy it at all, as was
plainly indicated by the haughty toss of her head as she replied that:
“Thirty had no terrors for her, but was infinitely preferable to a
widower with six children.”
Jessie whistled, while Dora smiled softly as she caught the sound of a
well-known step upon the stairs, and knew her physician was coming.
Bell and Jessie always left her alone with him, and when they were gone
he kissed her pale cheek, which flushed with happiness, while her sunny
eyes looked volumes of love into the eyes meeting them so fondly.
“My darling has been crying,” the doctor said. “Will she tell me why?”
And then came the story of her interview with John, who had proved
himself so noble and good.
“Yes, I know; he came from you to me!” the doctor replied, and into
Dora’s eyes there crept a bashful, frightened look, as she wondered if
John had said to Richard what he did to her.
He had in part, viz., that he wished matters to proceed just as if he
had never thought of marrying Dora; that as soon as she was able he
would like to see her the doctor’s wife, and then if there were no
objections on the part of either, he would like to have her remain at
Beechwood awhile, at least until he could make some other arrangement
for his children.
“I told him you might,” Richard said, as he imprisoned the hand which
was raised to remonstrate. “I said I knew you would be willing to stay,
and that I should like my new boarding-place very much; and now nothing
remains but for you to get well as fast as possible, for the moment the
doctor pronounces you convalescent you are to be his wife. Do you
understand?”
He did not tell her then of the plan which was maturing, and for the
furtherance of which Robert was sent away, viz., the purchase of the
homestead whose loss Dora had so much deplored.
There was an opening in the town for a new physician, the doctor had
ascertained; and though he would dislike to leave his many friends in
Beechwood, still, for Dora’s sake, he could do so, and he had sent
Robert to open negotiations with the present proprietor of the place
once owned by Colonel Freeman, and for which there was ample means to
pay in the sum brought by the prodigal from the mines of California.
But this was a secret until something definite was known, and Richard
willingly acceded to the Squire’s proposition that he and Dora should
remain there until something was devised for the children.
Of this Dora was not much inclined to talk, and as she was tired and
excited, the doctor left her at last, stopping on his way from the house
to look at little Daisy, whom Jessie held in her lap, and who seemed
feverish and sick. The doctor did not then say what he feared, but when
later in the day he came again, the child’s symptoms had developed so
rapidly, that he had no hesitancy in pronouncing it the scarlet fever,
then prevailing to an alarming extent in an adjoining town.
Squire Russell had thought his cup full to overflowing, but in his
anxiety for Daisy, he forgot his recent disappointment, and, as a father
and mother both, nursed his suffering child, assisted by Jessie, whose
services there, as elsewhere, were invaluable. It was indeed a house of
mourning, and for weeks a dark cloud brooded over it as one after
another, Ben and Burt, Letitia and Jim, were prostrate with the disease
which Daisy had been the first to take, and from which she slowly
recovered. When Letitia was smitten down Jessie was filled with remorse,
for she remembered what she had said of the quiet child, and with a
sister’s tenderness she nursed the little girl, who would take her
medicine from no one else. From the first Ben and Burt were not very
ill, but for a time it seemed doubtful which would gain the mastery,
life or death, in the cases of Letitia and Jim. With regard to Letitia
that question was soon settled, and one October morning Jessie put
gently back upon the pillow the child who had died in her lap, kissing
her the last of all ere she went the dark road already trodden by the
mother, who in life would have chosen anybody else than Jessie Verner to
have soothed the last moments of her little girl.
But Jessie’s work was not yet done, and while the sad procession went on
its way to the village graveyard, where Margaret was lying, she sat by
Jimmie’s side fanning his feverish cheeks, and carefully administering
the medicines which were no longer of avail.
Two days after Jimmie, too, died in Jessie’s lap, and as she gave him
into his father’s arms the weeping man blessed her silently for all she
had been to him and his, and felt how doubly desolate he should be
without her.
CHAPTER XXVI.
GIVING IN MARRIAGE.
There were two little graves now by Margaret’s, and in the house two
vacant chairs, and two voices hushed, while Squire Russell counted four
children where he had numbered six, and yet the unselfish man would hear
of no delay to Dora’s marriage.
“Let it go on the same,” he said. “It will make me feel better to know
that there are around me some perfectly happy ones.”
And so the day was appointed, and Bell and Mattie were summoned again
from Morrisville, whither the latter had gone during the children’s
illness. Judge Verner was lonely with both of his daughters absent, and
as of the two he was most accustomed to Bell, he would have been quite
content with having her back again if she had not told him how Jessie
had turned nurse to Squire Russell’s children, and was consequently in
danger of taking the disease. This roused him, and in a characteristic
letter to Jessie he bade her “not make a fool of herself any longer by
tending children with canker-rash and feeding them with sweetened water,
but to pack up her traps and come home.”
To this the saucy Jessie replied that “she should not come home till she
was ready; that the Judge could shut up, and what he called sweetened
water was quite as strong as the medicine which once cured his colic so
soon.” Then, in the coaxing tone the Judge could never resist, she
added, “You know I’m just in fun, father, when I talk like that, but
really I must stay till after Dora is married, and you must let me,
that’s a dear, good old soul,” and so the “good old soul” was cajoled
into writing that Jessie might stay, adding in postscript, “Bell tells
me you say all sorts of extravagant things about that widower, and this
is well enough as long as they mean nothing, but for thunder’s sake
don’t go to offering yourself to him in a streak of pity. A nice wife
you would make for a widower with six children,—you who don’t know how
to darn a pair of stockings, nor make a bed so that the one who sleeps
the back side won’t roll out of the front. Mind, now, don’t be a fool.”
“I wonder what put that idea into father’s head,” Jessie said, as she
read the letter. “I would not have Squire Russell, let alone offering
myself to him. And I do know how to darn socks. Any way, I can pull the
holes together, which is just as well as to put in a ball and peek and
poke and weave back and forth, and make lacework of it just as Bell
does. It’s a real old-maidish trick, and I won’t be an old maid anyhow,
if I have to marry Squire Russell,” and crushing the letter into her
pocket Jessie went dancing down the stairs, whistling softly for fear of
disturbing the sick children.
That afternoon Dora found her, with her face very red and anxious,
bending over a basket of stockings and socks, which she was trying to
darn after the method most approved by Bell. “Clem had so much to do
that day,” she said, “that she had offered to help by taking the darning
off her hands.” But it was a greater task than Jessie had anticipated,
and Johnnie’s aid was called in before it was finished, the boy proving
quite as efficient as the girl, and as Clem secretly thought, succeeding
even better. This was before Letitia and Jimmie died, and since their
death the Judge had made no effort to call her home, but suffered her to
take her own course, which she did by remaining in Beechwood, where they
would have missed her so much, and where, if she could not darn socks
neatly, she made herself generally useful as the day for the wedding
approached. It was arranged to take place on Christmas Eve, and it was
Jessie who first suggested that the house should be trimmed even more
elaborately than the little church upon the common, where the ceremony
was to be performed. With Johnnie as her prime minister, Jessie could
accomplish almost anything, and when their work was done, every one
joined heartily in praise of the green festoons and wreaths, on which
were twined the scarlet berries of the mountain ash, with here and there
a blossom of purest white, purloined from the costly flowers which
Squire Russell ordered in such profusion from the nearest hothouse. Dora
took but little part in the preparations. She was very happy, but her
joy was of that quiet kind, which made her content to be still and rest,
after the turmoil and wretchedness through which she had passed. The
doctor was with her constantly, and to Jessie, who saw the look of
perfect peace upon his face and Dora’s, they seemed the impersonation of
bliss, while even Bertie noted the change in Dora, saying to her once as
she sat with the doctor:
“You don’t look now, Auntie, as you did when you was married to pa.”
Dora could only blush, while the doctor laughingly tossed the little
fellow upon his shoulder and carried him off to the office. If Squire
Russell suffered, it was not perceptible, and Jessie thought he had
recovered wonderfully, while Dora, too, hoped the wound had not been so
deep as even to leave a scar. He was very kind and thoughtful,
remembering everything that was needful to be done, and treating Dora as
if she had been his daughter. He wished her to forget the past; wished
to forget it himself; and by the cheerful, active course he took, he
bade fair to do so. He should give the bride away, he said, and when
Mattie Randall, to whom he was a study, asked kindly if he was sure he
was equal to it, he answered, “O yes, wholly so. I see now that Dora
would never have been happy with me. I should have laid her by Madge in
less than a year. I am glad it has all happened as it has.”
He did seem to be glad, and when, on the night of the 24th, the little
bridal party stood waiting in the parlor for the carriages which were to
take them to the church, his face was as serene and placid as if he had
never hoped to occupy the place the doctor occupied. Through much sorrow
he had been tried and purified, until now in his heart, always unselfish
and kind, there was room for the holier, gentler feelings which only the
peace of God can give. Not in vain had he in the solitude of his chamber
writhed and groaned over the crushing pang with which he gave Dora up,
while the tears wept over his dead children were to him a holier baptism
than any received before, washing him clean and making him a
noble-minded Christian man. Margaret’s grave had during those autumn
months witnessed many an earnest prayer for the strength and peace which
were found at last, and were the secret of his composure. Just before
the sun-setting of Dora’s bridal day, he had gone alone to the three
lonely graves and laid upon the longest the exquisite cross of evergreen
and white wax berries which Jessie’s fingers had fashioned for this very
purpose, Jessie’s brain having been the first to conceive the plan.
There was also a bouquet of buds for each of the smaller graves, and
Squire Russell placed them carefully upon the sod, which he watered with
his tears; then, with a whispered prayer, he went back across the fields
to where Dora, in her bridal dress, was waiting, but not for him. He was
not the bridegroom, and he stood aside as the doctor bounded up the
stairs, in obedience to Jessie’s call that he should come and see if
ever anybody looked so sweetly as his bride, but charging him not to
touch her lest some band, or braid, or fold, or flower should give way.
“It won’t be always so,” he said, standing off as Jessie directed. “By
and by she will be all my own, and then I can hug her,—_so_!” and in
spite of Jessie’s screams, he wound his arms around Dora’s neck, giving
her a most emphatic kiss as his farewell to Dora Freeman. “When I kiss
you again you will be Dora West,” he whispered, as he drew the blushing
girl’s arm in his, and led her down the stairs.
The church was crowded to its utmost capacity, and it was with some
difficulty that the colored sexton had kept a space cleared for the
bridal party, which passed slowly up the aisle, while the soft notes of
the organ floated on the air. Then the music ceased, and only the
rector’s voice was heard, uttering the solemn words, “I require and
charge you both,” etc.; but there was no need for this appeal, there was
no impediment, no reason why these two hearts, throbbing so lovingly,
should not be joined together, and so the rite went on, while amid the
gay throng only one heart was heavy and sad. Robert West, leaning
against a pillar, could not forget another ceremony, where he was one of
the principal actors, while the other was Anna, beautiful Anna, over
whose head the snows of many a wintry eve had fallen, and who but for
him might have been now among the living. He had visited her grave and
Robin’s, had knelt on the turf which covered them, and sued so earnestly
for pardon, had whispered to the winds words of deepest love and
contrition, as if the injured dead could hear, and then he had gone away
to seek the man whom he had so wronged, and who for the brother’s sake
had kept his sin a secret. Uncle Jason had forgiven him, had said that
all was right, that every trace of his error was destroyed, and Robert
had mingled fearlessly again among his fellowmen, who, only guessing in
part his guilt, and feeling intuitively that he had changed, received
him gladly into their midst.
Summoned by his brother’s letters, he had returned to Beechwood, and now
formed one of the party, who, when the rite was over, went back to the
brightly illuminated house, where the Christmas garlands, the box, and
the pine, and the fir were hung, and where the marriage festivities
proceeded rationally, quietly, save as Jessie’s birdlike voice pealed
through the house, as she played off her jokes, first upon one and then
another, adroitly trying to coax Bell and the young clergyman, Mr.
Kelly, under the mistletoe bough, and then screaming with delight as her
father and Mrs. David West were the first to pass within the charmed
circle. Jessie was alive with fun and frolic, and making Bell sit down
at the piano, she declared that somebody should dance at Dora’s wedding
if she had to dance alone.
“Take Johnnie,” Dora said, and the two were soon whirling through the
rooms, the boy’s head coming far above the black curls of the merry
little maiden, who flashed, and gleamed, and sparkled among the
assembled guests till more than one heart beat faster as it caught the
influence of her exhilarating presence.
Robert West dreamed of her that night; so did Mr. Kelly, the rector; and
so did Squire Russell; but the two first forgot her again next morning,
as each said good-by to the handsome, stately Bell,—a far more fitting
match for either than the black-eyed sprite who for a moment had made
their pulses quicken. But not so with the Squire. To him the house was
very desolate when he returned to it, after having accompanied the
bride, and groom, and guests to the cars, which all took for
Morrisville, whither they were going. It was Dora he missed, the
servants said, pitying him, he looked so sad, while he too believed it
was Dora; and still as he knelt that day in church, there was beside him
another face than Dora’s,—a saucy, laughing, face, which we recognize as
belonging to Jessie,—who, at that very moment, while keeping her
companions in a constant turmoil and her father in a constant scold, was
thinking of him and saying mentally:
“Poor Squire Russell! how I pity him,—left there all alone! and how I
wonder if he misses me!”
CHAPTER XXVII.
MORE OF MARRIAGE.
The homestead where Dora’s childhood had been passed “could not be
bought for love nor money;” so Robert, the negotiator, had reported to
his brother on the morning following the latter’s marriage, and so
Richard reported to Dora, as he sat with her at Mattie Randall’s, up in
the chamber which Dora called hers, and where Anna had died. Mattie had
wished to give the bridal pair another room, but Dora would take no
other; and as Richard was satisfied, they occupied the one whose walls
had witnessed so much sorrow in the days gone by. But there was no grief
there now, nothing but perfect bliss, as Richard held his darling to his
heart and told her for the thousandth time how dear she was to him, and
how he thanked the Father of all good for giving her to him at last. In
all his joy he never forgot his God, or placed Him second to Dora, who
listened and smiled and returned his fond caresses until he told her of
his plan to buy the homestead, and how that plan had been defeated by
the refusal of the present proprietor. Then Dora hid her face in his
bosom and wept softly to the memory of her old home, which Richard had
tried so hard to buy back for her.
“You are so good, so kind,” she said, as he asked her why she cried, and
pitied what he thought was her disappointment. “It is not that,” she
continued, as she dried her tears. “It is your thoughtful love for me. I
should be very happy at the old place, but, Richard, I am not sure that
I should not be happier in Beechwood, where I have lived so long, and
where you have so many friends. There John’s children would be nearer
me, and I must care for them.”
And so it was arranged that Richard should buy the fine building spot to
the right of Squire Russell’s, and that until the house he would erect
should be completed, Dora should remain at home and care for the
children.
This plan, when submitted to the Squire, met his hearty approval, and
made the future look less dreary than before. He should not be left
alone entirely, for Dora would be near to counsel and advise, and his
face was very bright and cheerful as he welcomed the travellers back
from their long trip, which lasted until February.
Towards the latter part of April, Jessie accepted of Dora’s cordial
invitation to visit them again, and came to Beechwood, the same bright,
laughing, gleeful creature as ever, the sunshiny being in whom, the
moment he saw her seated again by his fireside, Squire Russell
recognized the want he had felt ever since she left him the winter
previous. He was so glad to have her back,—his eldest child he called
her,—and treated her much as if he had been her father, notwithstanding
that she made ludicrous attempts at dignity, on the strength of being
twenty her next birthday, which was in June. Jessie was very pretty this
spring, Squire Russell thought when he thought of her at all, and so
thought the Rector of St. Luke’s, Mr. Kelly, who came nearly every day,
ostensibly to talk with Mrs. Dr. West about some new plan for advancing
the interests of the Sunday-school, but really to catch a glimpse of
Jessie’s sparkling beauty, or hear some of her saucy sayings. But
always, when he left the house and went back to his bachelor rooms, he
said to himself, “It would never do. She is a frolicsome, pretty little
plaything, who would amuse and rest me vastly, but she would shock my
parishioners out of all the good I could ever instill into their minds.
No, it won’t do.”
Robert West, too, whose pulse had beaten a little faster at the sight of
Jessie Verner, had given himself to his country, so there was no one to
contest the prize with Squire Russell, into whose brain the idea that he
could win it never entered until Johnnie put it there. To Johnnie it
came suddenly, making him start quickly from the book he was reading,
and hurry off to Dr. West, asking if Deacon Bowles was not a great deal
older than Mrs. Bowles, whom the villagers still called Amy, making her
seem so youthful. The doctor thought he was, but could not tell just how
many years, and as this was the point about which Johnnie was anxious,
he conceived the bold plan of calling on Mrs. Amy to ascertain, if
possible, her exact age, and also that of her husband. He found her
rocking her baby to sleep and looking very pretty and girlish in her
short hair, which she had taken a fancy to have cut off. Amy was fond of
Johnnie, and she smiled pleasantly upon him, speaking in a whisper and
keeping up a constant “sh-sh-sh” as she moved the cradle back and forth.
“What a nice baby,” Johnnie began, as if he had never seen it before;
“but it seems funny to see you with a baby, when you look so like a
girl. You can’t be very old.”
“Turned thirty. Sh-sh—” was the reply.
A gratified blush mounting Amy’s cheek, while Johnnie continued:
“Mother was thirty-two, and father was thirty-nine. He is most forty-one
now. Is the deacon older than that?”
“Going on fifty-one. Sh-sh—” Amy replied, her “sh-sh’s” being more
decided as baby showed signs of waking.
Johnnie had learned what he wished to know, and bidding Mrs. Bowles good
morning, he ran home, repeating to himself:
“Turned thirty,—going on fifty-one. Ought from one is one, three from
five is two. That makes twenty-one. Most twenty,—most forty-one. Ought
from one is one, two from four is two. _That_ makes twenty-one. Jemima!
It’ll do, it’ll do!” and Johnnie ran on with all his might till he
reached home, where he found Jessie, whom he astonished with a hug which
almost strangled her.
“It will do! it will do!” he exclaimed, as he kissed her, and when she
asked what would do, he answered, “I know, I know, but I shan’t tell!”
and he darted off, big with the important thing which he knew and should
not tell.
That night, as Squire Russell sat in his library, Johnnie came in and
startled him with the question:
“Father, who will take care of us when Aunt Dora is gone? Her new house
will be done in September.”
“I don’t know, my son;” and the Squire laid down his paper, for the
question which Johnnie asked had also been troubling him.
There was silence a moment, during which Johnnie almost twisted a button
from his jacket, and then he broke out abruptly:
“Why don’t you get married?”
“Married! To whom?” the Squire exclaimed; and Johnnie replied:
“You know. The nicest girl in all creation after Aunt Dora. She isn’t
too young, neither. Amy Bowles is twenty-one years younger than the
deacon, and Jessie ain’t any more.”
“Jessie! Jessie Verner!” the squire gasped, and Johnnie continued:
“Yes, Jessie Verner; I most know she’ll have you. Any way, I’ll make
her. You break the ice, and I’ll pitch in! Will you, father? Will you
have Jessie?”
“It would be better to ask first if she’ll have me,” the father replied,
rubbing his head, which seemed a little numb with the sudden shock.
“I hear her. I’ll send her in! You ask her, father!” Johnnie exclaimed,
darting to the door, as he heard Jessie in the upper hall whistling
“three hundred thousand more.”
As he reached the threshold he paused, while he added:
“I guess Jessie will stand a huggin’ better than Aunt Dora, so you might
come that game on her!” and Johnnie rushed after Jessie ere his father
had time to recover his breath.
Jessie could not at once be found, and as Johnnie would not tell her
what his father wanted of her, she was in no particular hurry to answer
the summons, so that Squire Russell had time to collect his thoughts,
and to discover that little Jessie Verner was very dear to him, and that
though he had never entertained an idea of making her his wife till
Johnnie suggested it, the idea was by no means distasteful, and if she
were willing, why of course he was. But would she come? Yes, she was
coming, for he heard her in the hall calling back to Johnnie:
“Mind, now, if you have played me a trick you will be sorry. I don’t
believe he wants me.”
“Yes he does; you ask him,” was Johnnie’s reply, and advancing into the
library, Jessie began innocently:
“Johnnie said you wanted me. Do you, Squire Russell!”
“Yes, Jessie, I do want you very much. Sit down while I tell you.”
He drew her chair near to himself, and wholly unsuspicious, Jessie sat
down to listen, while he told her how he wanted her.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
DORA’S DIARY.
“May 31st, 1863.—I did not think when last I closed this book, that I
could ever be as happy as I am now,—happy in everything, happy in
Richard’s love, happy in the love of God, for my precious husband has
been the means of leading me to the source of all happiness. He says I
was a Christian before, but I cannot believe it. At least, it was a
cold, tame kind of Christian, such as I never wish to be again! Dear
Richard, how good and true he is, and how he tries to make me happy.
Every day I see some new virtue in him, and the tears often come as I
wonder why God should have blessed me above the generality of womankind.
I know I have the kindest, and best, and dearest husband in the world.
He has gone for a few days to Fortress Monroe, where Robert is at
present with his men, while Mother West has gone into the hospital as
nurse. She felt it was her duty, and we did not oppose her, knowing how
much good she would do to the poor, suffering soldiers. My heart bleeds
for them, and yet I cannot feel it the doctor’s duty to go. Somebody
must stay at home, and when I see how his patients cling to him, and how
useful he is here, I think it is his place to stay. If I am wrong and
selfish, may I be forgiven.
“In the autumn our new house will be completed, and then I shall leave
Margaret’s family, but not alone, for Jessie is actually coming to be
John’s wife, and is now at home making her preparations. Does Margaret
know? If so, she surely feels kindly now toward the little girl, who
will make the best of mothers to the children.
“It was very strange, and though Richard and I had laughed together over
the possibility, it took me wholly by surprise. I was sitting in my room
one night last April, waiting for Richard, when Jessie came rushing in,
her eyes red with weeping, and her frame quivering with emotion. I was
startled, particularly as she threw herself on the floor beside me, and
exclaimed:
“‘O Dora, I’ve done the silliest thing, and father will scold, I know,
and call me a fool, and say _I_ proposed, when I didn’t, though I am
afraid I said yes too quick! Do you think I did? Tell me, do.’
“Then I managed to get from her that she was engaged to Squire Russell;
that Johnnie inveigled her in by saying his father wanted her; that she
asked if he did, and he told her, ‘Yes, he wanted her for his little
wife; wanted to keep her always!’ and she was so frightened.
“‘Oh, you don’t know anything about it!’ she said. ‘I felt just as I did
once when I took chloroform to have a tooth out, and acted just so, too,
foolish like, for I talked everything and told him everything; how I was
a little bit of a body who did not know anything, who had never learned
anything, but had always done as I pleased and always wanted to; how I
could not be sober if I tried, and would not if I could; how I was more
fit to be Johnnie’s wife than his; how father was not as rich as some
thought, but had two apoplectic fits ever so long ago, and might have
another any time and die, while Bell and I would have to take care of
ourselves,—go out governesses, or something; and, maybe, if he knew that
he would not want me, but if he didn’t, and I ever had to be a
governess, perhaps he would let me come here to teach his children, and
that was so silly for me to say, and I knew it all the time, just like
chloroform. And then, O Dora, how ridiculous the next thing was. He only
laughed at the governess, and held me tighter, and I guess,—I am most
sure,—he kissed me; and I am awfully afraid I kissed him back! Do you
think I did?’
“I thought it quite likely, I said, and with a groan Jessie continued:
“‘The very silliest thing of all was my telling him I could not darn his
socks, nor make his shirts, and he would have to wear big holes in them
or go without; and,—oh, do you believe, he laughed real loud, and said
he would go without? Do you think he meant it?’
“‘Yes, Jessie, undoubtedly he meant it,’ and Richard’s merry laugh broke
in upon us.
“So absorbed had I been in Jessie that I had not heard the doctor, who
entered in time to hear the last of Jessie’s confession, and who at the
recital of John’s magnanimity could restrain himself no longer, but
laughed long and loud, while Jessie wept silently. At last, however, we
managed to draw from her that in spite of all her faults, every one of
which she acknowledged, even to the fact that sometimes when going to
parties she powdered her arms, and that four of her teeth were filled,
John had persisted in saying that he loved her, and could not live
without her; that as to powder, Margaret always used it; that he knew a
place on Broadway where he could get the very best article in use; that
most everybody’s teeth were either false or filled by the time they were
twenty, and he guessed she was quite as genuine as any of the feminine
genus.
“‘Did you tell him about the cotton?’ Richard asked, wickedly, but
Jessie innocently replied:
“‘I don’t know what you mean, but if it’s the sheets and pillow-cases I
am expected to furnish, Bell bought four pieces just before the rise,
and I know she will let me have some. Any way, I shall not ask Squire
Russell to buy them,’ and thus Richard was foiled and I was glad.
“‘And so it is finally settled, and you are to be my little sister?’
Richard said, and Jessie replied:
“‘Yes; that is I told him to ask my father, and please, Dr. West, will
you write too and tell him how I did not do the courting, or ever think
of such a thing? Father will scold, I know, and maybe swear. He always
does, but I don’t care, I—’
“There was a call for Dr. West, who went out leaving us alone; and then
winding my arm around Jessie, I said:
“‘And are you sure you love Squire Russell well enough to be his wife?’
This question threw Jessie into another impetuous outburst, and she
exclaimed:
“‘That is just what he asked me, too; and if I had not loved him before
I should have done so when he said, “I wish you to be certain, Jessie,
so there need be no after-repentance. I have borne one disappointment,”
and he looked so white and sad. “A second would kill me. If I take you
now, and then have to give you up, my life will go with you. Can you
truly say you love me, Jessie, and are perfectly willing to be mine?”
“I was foolish then, Dora, for I told him straight out how it was very
sudden; but the knowing he loved me brought into life a feeling which
kept growing and growing so fast, that even in a few minutes it seemed
as if I had loved him all my life. He is so good and kind, and will let
me do just as I please. Don’t you believe he will?”
“I had no doubt of it, and I smoothed her short curls while she told me
how sorry she was that she ever thought Letitia stupid, or Jimmie less
interesting than the others.
“‘It seems as if they died just to be out of my way, and I do so wish
they were back.’
“Then she said that the wedding was to be the 25th of June, her
twentieth birthday, that is, if her father consented; that John had
promised to take her to Europe some time, but not this year, and they
were going instead to the White Mountains, to Newport, and lots of
places, and Johnnie was going with them. Then she settled her bridal
_trousseau_, even to the style of her gaiters, declaring she would not
have those horrid square toes, if they were fashionable, for they made
one’s foot so clumsy, and she put up her fairy little feet, which looked
almost as small as Daisy’s. Dear little Jessie, of whom I once was
jealous! What a child she is, and what a task she is taking upon
herself! But her heart is in it, and that makes it very easy. Had I
loved John one half as well as she seems to love him, I should not now
be Richard’s wife, waiting for him by the window as I wait for him many
nights, knowing that though he chides me for sitting up so late, he is
usually pleased to find me so, and kisses me so tenderly as he calls me
a naughty girl, and bids me hurry to bed.
“JUNE 28th.—The house is very still these days, for John and Johnnie are
gone, and with them all the bustle, the stir, and the excitement which
has characterized our home for the last few weeks. I invited Bell to
return with me from the wedding, but her father said no, he could not
spare both his daughters; and so she stayed, her tears falling so fast
as she said to me at parting: ‘You cannot guess how lonely I am, knowing
Jessie will never come home to us again, just as she used to come.’
“Poor Bell, I pity her; but amid her tears I saw, as I thought, a
rainbow of promise. As the clergyman at Morrisville chanced to be
absent, Mr. Kelly went down with us to perform the ceremony, and if I am
not mistaken he will go again and again until he brings Bell away with
him. The wedding was a quiet affair, save as Jessie and Johnnie laughed
and sported and played. The bride and groom were, however, perfectly
happy, I know, which was more than could be said for the Judge. At first
he had, as Jessie predicted, said all kinds of harsh things about the
match, but Bell and Jessie won him over, until he was ready to receive
his son-in-law with the utmost kindness, which he did, acting the
polite, urbane host to perfection, and only breaking down when Jessie
came to say good-by. Then he showed how much he loved his baby, as he
called her, commending her so touchingly to her husband’s patient care,
because ‘she was a wee, helpless thing,’ that we all cried, Richard and
all, while the Squire could not resist giving his fairy bride a most
substantial hug, right before us all, as he promised to care for her as
tenderly as if she were his little Daisy instead of his little wife. I
have no fears for them. It is a great responsibility which Jessie has
assumed, but her sunny nature, which sees only the brightest side, and
the mighty love which her husband and Johnnie have given her, will
interpose between her and all that otherwise might be hard to bear. God
bless her. God keep her in all her pleasant journeyings, and bring her
safely back to us, who wait and watch for her as for the refreshing
rain.
“DECEMBER 24th, 1863—CHRISTMAS EVE.—Just one year I have been Richard’s
wife, and in that time I cannot recall a single moment of sadness, or a
time when Richard’s voice and manner were not just as kind and loving as
at first. My noble husband, how earnestly I pray that I may be worthy of
him, and make him as happy as he makes me. We are in our new home now,
and I cannot think of a single wish ungratified. Everything is as I like
it. The furniture is of my own and Richard’s selecting, and is as good
as our means would afford,—not grand and costly like Mattie’s and
Jessie’s, but plain and nice, such as the furniture of a village
doctor’s wife ought to be. And Richard’s mother is with us now, resting
from the toils of life as nurse in the hospital. We would like so much
to keep her, but she says ‘No, not till the war is over; then if my life
is spared, I will come back to live and die with my children.’
“Captain Robert is coming to-night and to-morrow all take their
Christmas dinner with me; I said all, meaning John and Jessie, with
their four children, and Mr. Kelly, with his bride, Isabel. She has been
here just a week in the parsonage, which the people bought and fitted up
when they heard their clergyman was to bring his wife among them. Judge
Verner, too, is there, or rather at Squire Russell’s, where the children
call him grandpa, and where he seems very fond of staying. He will
divide his time between his daughters, and if that apoplectic fit of
which Jessie spoke ever does make its appearance, Richard will be near
to attend him, for the Judge will have no other physician. ‘Homœopathy
is all a humbug,’ he says, ‘but hanged if he will take any other
medicine.’ He has great pride now in Mrs. Squire Russell, who certainly
has developed into a wonderfully domestic woman, so that Richard even
cites her for my example. Perfectly happy at home, she seldom cares to
leave it, but stays contentedly with the children, to whom she is a
mother and a sister both. Johnnie calls her Jessie, but to the others
she is mamma to all intents and purposes, and could Margaret know, she
would surely bless the whistling, hoydenish girl, who is all the world
now to husband and children both.
“Dear Jessie! I might write volumes in her praise, but this is the very
last page of my journal, kept for so many years. The book is filled;
whatever there was of romance in my girl history is within its pages,
and here at its close I write myself a happy, happy woman. From the
church-tower on the common the clock is striking twelve, and Richard,
coming in from his long cold ride across the snow-clad hills, bids me a
merry Christmas; then glancing at what I have written, he says, ‘Yes,
darling, God has been very good to us. Let us love Him through the
coming year more than ever we have done before.’
“With a full heart I say Amen, and so the story is done.”
THE END.
THE RECTOR OF ST. MARK’S.
CHAPTER I.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
The Sunday sermon was finished, and the young rector of St. Mark’s
turned gladly from his study-table to the pleasant south window where
the June roses were peeping in, and abandoned himself for a few moments
to the feeling of relief he always experienced when his week’s work was
done. To say that no secular thoughts had intruded themselves upon the
rector’s mind, as he planned and wrote his sermon, would not be true,
for, though morbidly conscientious on many points and earnestly striving
to be a faithful shepherd of the souls committed to his care, Arthur
Leighton had all a man’s capacity to love and to be loved, and though he
fought and prayed against it, he had seldom brought a sermon to the
people of St. Mark’s in which there was not a thought of Anna Ruthven’s
soft, brown eyes, and the way they would look at him across the heads of
the congregation. Anna led the village choir, and the rector was
painfully conscious that far too much of earth was mingled with his
devotional feelings during the moments when, the singing over, he walked
from his chair to the pulpit, and heard the rustle of the crimson
curtain in the organ-loft as it was drawn back, disclosing to view five
heads, of which Anna’s was the centre. It was very wrong he knew, and on
the day when our story opens he had prayed earnestly for pardon, when,
after choosing his text, “Simon, Simon, lovest thou me?” instead of
plunging at once into his subject, he had, without a thought of what he
was doing, idly written upon a scrap of paper lying near, “Anna, Anna,
lovest thou me more than these?” the these referring to the wealthy
Thornton Hastings, his old classmate in college, who was going to
Saratoga this very summer for the purpose of meeting Anna Ruthven, and
deciding if she would do to become Mrs. Thornton Hastings, and mistress
of the house on Madison Square. With a bitter groan for the enormity of
his sin, and a fervent prayer for forgiveness, the rector had torn the
slips of paper in shreds and given himself so completely to his work,
that his sermon was done a full hour earlier than usual, and he was free
to indulge in reveries of Anna for as long a time as he pleased.
“I wonder if Mrs. Meredith has come,” he thought, as, with his feet upon
the window-sill, he sat looking across the meadow to where the chimneys
and gable roof of Captain Humphreys’ house were visible, for Captain
Humphreys was Anna Ruthven’s grandfather, and it was there she had lived
since she was three years old.
As if thoughts of Mrs. Meredith reminded him of something else, the
rector took from the drawer of his writing-table a letter received the
previous day, and opening to the second page, read as follows:
“Are you going anywhere this summer? Of course not, for so long as there
is an unbaptized child, or a bedridden old woman in the parish, you must
stay at home, even if you do grow as rusty as did Professor Cobden’s
coat before we boys made him a present of a new one. I say, Arthur,
there was a capital fellow spoiled when you took to the ministry, with
your splendid talents, and rare gift for making people like and believe
in you.
“Now, I suppose you will reply that for this denial of self you look for
your reward in heaven, and I suppose you are right; but as I have no
reason to think I have stock in that region, I go in for a good time
here, and this summer I take Saratoga, where I expect to meet one of
your lambs. I hear you have in your flock forty in all, their ages
varying from sixteen to fifty. But this particular lamb, Miss Anna
Ruthven, is, I think, the fairest of them all, and as I used to make you
my father confessor in the days when I was rusticated out in Winsted,
and fell so desperately in love with the six Miss Larkins, each old
enough to be my mother, so now I confide to you the programme as marked
out by Mrs. Julia Meredith, the general who brings the lovely Anna in
the field.
“We, that is, Mrs. Meredith and myself, are on the best of terms. I
lunch with her, dine with her, lounge in her parlors, drive her to the
park, take her to operas, concerts, and plays, and compliment her good
looks, which are wonderfully well-preserved for a woman of forty-five. I
am twenty-six, you know, and so no one ever associates us together in
any kind of gossip. She is the very quintessence of fashion, and I am
one of the danglers whose own light is made brighter by the reflection
of her rays. Do you see the point? Well, then, in return for my
attentions, she takes a very sisterly interest in my future wife, and
has adroitly managed to let me know of her niece, a certain Anna
Ruthven, who, inasmuch as I am tired of city belles, will undoubtedly
suit my fancy, said Anna being very fresh, very artless, and very
beautiful withal. She is also niece to Mrs. Meredith, whose only brother
married very far beneath him, when he took to wife the daughter of a
certain old-fashioned Captain Humphreys, a pillar, no doubt, in your
church. This young Ruthven was drowned, or hung, or something, and the
sister considers it as another proof of his wife’s lack of refinement
and discretion, that at her death, which happened when Anna was three
years old, she left her child to the charge of her parents, Captain
Humphreys and spouse, rather than to Mrs. Meredith’s care, and that,
too, in the very face of the lady’s having stood as sponsor for the
infant, an act which you will acknowledge as very unnatural and
ungrateful in Mrs. Ruthven, to say the least of it.
“You see I am telling you all this, just as if you did not know Miss
Anna’s antecedents even better than myself; but possibly you do not know
that, having arrived at a suitable age, she is this summer to be
introduced into society at Saratoga, while I am expected to fall in love
with her at once, and make her Mrs. Hastings before another winter. Now,
in your straightforward way of putting things, don’t imagine that Mrs.
Meredith has deliberately told me all this, for she has not; but I
understand her perfectly, and know exactly what she expects me to do.
Whether I do it or not depends partly upon how I like Miss Anna, partly
upon how she likes me, and partly upon yourself.
“You know I was always famous for presentiments or fancies, as you
termed them, and the latest of these is that you like Anna Ruthven. Do
you? Tell me, honor bright, and by the memory of the many scrapes you
got me out of, and the many more you kept me from getting into, I will
treat Miss Anna as gingerly and brotherly as if she were already your
wife. I like her picture, which I have seen, and believe I shall like
the girl, but if you say that by looking at her with longing eyes I
shall be guilty of breaking some one of the ten commandments,—I don’t
know which,—why, then, hands off at once. That’s fair, and will prove to
you that, although not a parson like yourself, there is still a spark of
honor, if not of goodness, in the breast of
“Yours truly,
“THORNTON HASTINGS.
“If you were here this afternoon, I’d take you to drive after a pair of
bays, which are to sweep the stakes at Saratoga this summer, and I’d
treat you to a finer cigar than often finds its way to Hanover. Shall I
send you out a box, or would your people pull down the church about the
ears of a minister wicked enough to smoke. Again adieu.
“T. H.”
There was a half-amused smile on the face of the rector as he finished
the letter, so like its thoughtless, light-hearted writer, and wondered
what the Widow Rider, across the way, would say of a clergyman who
smoked cigars, and rode after a race-horse with such a gay scapegrace as
Thornton Hastings. Then the amused look passed away, and was succeeded
by a shadow of pain, as the rector remembered the real import of
Thornton’s letter, and felt that he had no right to say, “I have a claim
on Anna Ruthven; you must not interfere.” For he had no claim on her,
though half his parishioners had long ago given her to him, while he had
loved her, as only natures like his can love, since that week before
Christmas, when their hands had met with a strange, tremulous flutter,
as together they fastened the wreaths of evergreen upon the wall, he
holding them up, and she driving the refractory tacks, which would keep
falling, so that his hand went often from the carpet or basin to hers,
and once accidentally closed almost entirely over the little soft white
thing, which felt so warm to his touch.
How prettily Anna had looked to him during those memorable days, so much
prettier than the other young girls of his flock, whose hair was tumbled
ere the day’s work was done, and whose dresses were soiled and
disordered; while hers was always so tidy and neat, and the braids of
her chestnut hair were always so smooth and bright. How well, too, he
remembered that brief ten minutes, when, in the dusky twilight which had
crept so early into the church, he stood alone with her and talked, he
did not know of what, only that he heard her voice replying to him, and
saw the changeful color on her cheek as she looked modestly into his
face. That was a week of delicious happiness, and the rector had lived
it over many times, wondering if, when the next Christmas came, it would
find him any nearer to Anna Ruthven than the last had left him.
“It must,” he suddenly exclaimed. “The matter shall be settled before
she leaves Hanover with Mrs. Meredith. My claim is superior to
Thornton’s, and he shall not take her from me. I’ll write what I lack
the courage to tell her, and to-morrow I will call and deliver it
myself.”
An hour later, and there was lying in the rector’s desk a letter, in
which he had told Anna Ruthven how much he loved her, and had asked her
to be his wife. Something whispered that she would not refuse him, and
with this hope to buoy him up, his two miles’ walk that warm afternoon
was neither warm nor tiresome, and the old lady by whose bedside he read
and prayed was surprised to hear him as he left her door, whistling an
old love-tune which she, too, had known and sang fifty years before.
CHAPTER II.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
Mrs. Julia Meredith had arrived, and the brown farm-house was in a state
of unusual excitement; not that Captain Humphreys or his good wife, Aunt
Ruth, respected very highly the great lady who so seldom honored them
with her presence, and who always tried to impress them with a sense of
her superiority, and the mighty favor she conferred upon them by
occasionally condescending to bring her aristocratic presence into their
quiet, plain household, and turn it topsy-turvy. Still she was Anna’s
aunt, and then it was a distinction which Aunt Ruth rather enjoyed,—that
of having a fashionable city woman for her guest,—and so she submitted
with a good grace to the breaking in upon all her customs, and uttered
no word of complaint when the breakfast-table waited till eight, and
sometimes nine o’clock, and the freshest eggs were taken from the nest,
and the cream all skimmed from the pans to gratify the lady who came
very charming and pretty in her handsome cambric wrapper, with rose-buds
in her hair. She had arrived the previous night, and while the rector
was penning his letter, she was running her eye rapidly over Anna’s face
and form, making an inventory of her charms, and calculating their
value.
“A very graceful figure, neither too short nor too tall. This she gets
from the Ruthvens. Splendid eyes and magnificent hair, when Valencia has
once taken it in hand. Complexion a little too brilliant, but a few
weeks of dissipation will cure that. Fine teeth, and features tolerably
regular, except that the mouth is too wide and the forehead too low,
which defects she takes from the Humphreys. Small feet and rather pretty
hands, except that they seem to have grown wide since I saw her before.
Can it be these horrid people have set her to milking the cows?”
These were Mrs. Meredith’s thoughts that first evening after her arrival
at the farm-house, and she had not materially changed her mind when the
next afternoon she went with Anna down to the Glen, for which she
affected a great fondness, because she thought it was romantic and
girlish to do so, and she was far from having passed the period when
women cease caring for youth and its appurtenances. She had criticised
Anna’s taste in dress,—had said that the belt she selected did not
harmonize with the color of the muslin she wore, and suggested that a
frill of lace about the neck would be softer and more becoming than the
stiff white linen collar.
“But in the country it does not matter,” she added. “Wait till I get you
to New York, under Madam Blank’s supervision, and then we shall see a
transformation such as will astonish the Hanoverians.”
This was up in Anna’s room; and when the Glen was reached Mrs. Meredith
continued the conversation, telling Anna of her plans for taking her
first to New York, where she was to pass through a reformatory process
with regard to dress. Then they were going to Saratoga, where she
expected her niece to reign supreme, both as a beauty and a belle.
“Whatever I have at my death I shall leave to you,” she said;
“consequently you will pass as an heiress expectant, and I confidently
expect you to make a brilliant match before the winter season closes,
if, indeed, you do not before we leave Saratoga.”
“O aunt,” Anna exclaimed, her eyes flashing with unwonted brilliancy,
and the rich color mantling her cheek. “You surely are not taking me to
Saratoga on such a shameful errand as that?”
“Shameful errand as what?” Mrs. Meredith asked, looking quickly up,
while Anna replied:
“Trying to find a husband. I cannot go if you are, much as I have
anticipated it. I should despise and hate myself forever. No, aunt, I
cannot go.”
“Nonsense, child. You don’t know what you are saying,” Mrs. Meredith
retorted, feeling intuitively that she must change her tactics and keep
her real intentions concealed if she would lead her niece into the snare
laid for her.
Cunningly and carefully for the next half hour she talked, telling Anna
that she was not to be thrust upon the notice of any one,—that she
herself had no patience with those intriguing mammas who push their bold
daughters forward, but that as a good marriage was the _ultima thule_ of
a woman’s hopes, it was but natural that she, as Anna’s aunt, should
wish to see her well settled in life, and settled, too, near herself,
where they could see each other every day.
“Of course there is no one in Hanover whom you, as a Ruthven, would
stoop to marry,” she said, fixing her eyes inquiringly upon Anna, who
was pulling to pieces the wild flowers she had gathered, and thinking of
that twilight hour when she had talked with their young clergyman as she
never talked before. Of the many times, too, when they had met in the
cottages of the poor, and he had walked slowly home with her, lingering
by the gate as if loth to say good-by, she thought, and the life she had
lived since he first came to Hanover, and she learned to blush when she
met the glance of his eye, looked fairer far than the life her aunt
marked out as the proper one for a Ruthven.
“You have not told me yet. Is there any one in Hanover whom you think
worthy of you?” Mrs. Meredith asked, just as a footstep was heard, and
the rector of St. Mark’s came round the rock where they were sitting.
He had called at the farm-house, bringing the letter, and with it a book
of poetry, of which Anna had asked the loan.
Taking advantage of her guest’s absence, Grandma Humphreys had gone to a
neighbor’s after a receipt for making a certain kind of cake, of which
Mrs. Meredith was very fond, and only Esther, the servant, and Valencia,
the smart waiting-maid, without whom Mrs. Meredith never travelled, were
left in charge.
“Miss Anna’s down in the Glen with Mrs. Meredith. Will you be pleased to
wait while I call them?” Esther said, in reply to the rector’s inquiries
for Miss Ruthven.
“No, I will find them myself,” Mr. Leighton rejoined. Then, as he
thought how impossible it would be to give the letter to Anna in the
presence of her aunt, he slipped it into the book, which he bade Esther
take to Miss Ruthven’s room.
Knowing how honest and faithful Esther was, the rector felt that he
could trust her without a fear for the safety of his letter, and went to
the Glen, where the tell-tale blushes which burned on Anna’s cheek at
sight of him more than compensated for the coolness with which Mrs.
Meredith greeted him. She, too, had detected Anna’s embarrassment, and
when the stranger was presented to her as “Mr. Leighton, our clergyman,”
the secret was out.
“Why is it that since the beginning of time girls have run wild after
young ministers?” was her mental comment, as she bowed to Mr. Leighton,
and then quietly inspected his _personnel_.
There was nothing about Arthur Leighton’s appearance with which she
could find fault. He was even finer-looking than Thornton Hastings, her
_beau ideal_ of a man, and as he stood a moment by Anna’s side, looking
down upon her, the woman of the world acknowledged to herself that they
were a well-assorted pair, and as across the chasm of twenty years there
came to her an episode in her life, when, on just such a day as this,
she had answered “no” to one as young and worthy as Arthur Leighton,
while all the time the heart was clinging to him, she softened for a
moment, and by the memory of the weary years passed with the rich old
man whose name she bore, she was tempted to leave alone the couple
standing there before her, and looking into each other’s eyes with a
look which she could not mistake. But when she remembered that Arthur
was only a poor clergyman, and thought of that house on Madison Square
which Thornton Hastings owned, the softened mood was changed, and Arthur
Leighton’s chance with her was gone.
Awhile they talked together in the Glen, and then walked back to the
farm-house, where the rector bade them good-evening, after casually
saying to Anna:
“I brought the book you spoke of when I was here last. You will find it
in your room, where I asked Esther to take it.”
That Mr. Leighton should bring her niece a book did not seem strange at
all, but that he should be so very thoughtful as to tell Esther to take
it to her room struck Mrs. Meredith as rather odd, and as the practised
war-horse scents the battle from afar, so she at once suspected
something wrong, and felt a curiosity to know what the book could be.
It was lying on Anna’s table as she reached the door on her way to her
own room, and pausing for a moment, she entered the chamber, took it in
her hands, read the title page, and then opened it where the letter lay.
“Miss Anna Ruthven,” she said. “He writes a fair hand;” and then, as the
thought, which at first was scarce a thought, kept growing in her mind,
she turned it over, and found that, owing to some defect, it had become
unsealed, and the lid of the envelope lay temptingly open before her. “I
would never break a seal,” she said, “but surely, as her protector, and
almost mother, I may read what this minister has written to my niece.”
And so she read what he had written, while a scowl of disapprobation
marred the smoothness of her brow.
“It is as I feared. Once let her see this, and Thornton Hastings may woo
in vain. But it shall not be. It is my duty, as the sister of her dead
father, to interfere, and not let her throw herself away.”
Perhaps Mrs. Meredith really felt that she was doing her duty. At all
events she did not give herself much time to reason upon the matter,
for, startled by a slight movement in the room directly opposite, the
door of which was ajar, she thrust the letter into her pocket, and
turned to see—Valencia, standing with her back to her, and arranging her
hair in a mirror which hung upon the wall.
“She could not have seen me; and, even if she did, she would not suspect
the truth,” was the guilty woman’s thought, as with the stolen missive
in her pocket she went down to the parlor, and tried, by petting Anna
more than her wont, to still the voice of conscience, which clamored
loudly of the wrong, and urged a restoration of the letter to the place
whence it was taken.
But the golden moment fled, and when, later in the evening, Anna went up
to her chamber, and opened the book which the rector had brought, she
never suspected how near she had been to the great happiness she had
sometimes dared to hope for, or dreamed how fervently Arthur Leighton
prayed that night, that if it were possible, God would grant the boon he
craved above all others,—the priceless gift of Anna Ruthven’s love.
CHAPTER III.
SUNDAY.
There was an unnatural flush on the rector’s face, and his lips were
very white, when he came before his people that Sunday morning, for he
felt that he was approaching the crisis of his fate; that he had only to
look across the row of heads, up to where Anna sat, and he should know
the truth. Such thoughts savored far too much of the world which he had
renounced, he knew, and he had striven to banish them from his mind; but
they were there still, and would be there until he had glanced once at
Anna, who was occupying her accustomed seat, and quietly turning to the
chant she was so soon to sing: “Oh, come, let us sing unto the Lord; let
us heartily rejoice in the strength of His salvation.” The words echoed
through the house, filling it with rare melody, for Anna was in perfect
tone that morning, and the rector, listening to her with hands folded
upon his prayer-book, felt that she could not thus “heartily rejoice,”
meaning all the while to darken his whole life, as she surely would if
she told him “no.” He was looking at her now, and she met his eyes at
last, but quickly dropped her own, while he was sure that the roses
burned a little brighter on her cheek, and that her voice trembled just
enough to give him hope, and help him in his fierce struggle to cast her
from his mind, and think only of the solemn services in which he was
engaging. He could not guess that the proud woman who had sailed so
majestically into church, and followed so reverently every prescribed
form, bowing in the creed far lower than ever bow was made before in
Hanover, had played him false, and was the dark shadow in his path.
That day was a trying one for Arthur, for, just as the chant was ended,
and the psalter was beginning, a handsome carriage dashed up to the
door, and had he been wholly blind, he would have known, by the sudden
sound of turning heads, and the suppressed hush which ensued, that a
perfect hailstorm of dignity was entering St. Mark’s.
It was the Hethertons, from Prospect Hill, whose arrival in town had
been so long expected. There was Mrs. Hetherton, who, more years ago
than she cared to remember, was born in Hanover, but who had lived most
of her life either in Paris, New York, or New Orleans, and who this year
had decided to fit up her father’s old place, and honor it with her
presence for a few weeks at least; also, Fanny Hetherton, a brilliant
brunette, into whose intensely black eyes no one could long look, they
were so bright, so piercing, and seemed so thoroughly to read one’s
inmost thoughts; also, Colonel Hetherton, who had served in the Mexican
war, and retiring on the glory of having once led a forlorn hope, now
spent his time in acting as attendant on his fashionable wife and
daughter; also, young Simon Bellamy, who, while obedient to the flashing
of Miss Fanny’s black eyes, still found stolen opportunities for
glancing at the fifth and last remaining member of the party, filing up
the aisle to the large, square pew, where old Judge Howard used to sit,
and which was still owned by his daughter. Mrs. Hetherton liked being
late at church, and, notwithstanding that the colonel had worked himself
into a tempest of excitement, had tied and untied her bonnet-strings
half a dozen times, changed her rich basquine for a thread lace
mantilla, and then, just as the bell from St. Mark’s gave forth its last
note, and her husband’s impatience was oozing out in sundry little
oaths, sworn under his breath, she produced and fitted on her fat, white
hands a new pair of Alexanders, keeping herself as cool, and quiet, and
ladylike as if outside upon the gravelled walk there was no wrathful
husband threatening to drive off and leave her, if she did not “quit her
cussed vanity, and come along.”
Such was the Hetherton party, and they created quite as great a
sensation as Mrs. Hetherton could desire, first upon the people nearest
the door, who rented the cheaper pews; then upon those farther up the
aisle, and then upon Mrs. Meredith, who, attracted by the rustling of
heavy silk and the perfume emanating from Mrs. Hetherton’s handkerchief,
slightly turned her head at first, and as the party swept by, stopped
her reading entirely, and involuntarily started forward, while a smile
of pleasure flitted across her face as Fanny’s black, saucy eyes took
her, with others, within their range of vision, and Fanny’s black head
nodded a quick nod of recognition. The Hethertons and Mrs. Meredith were
evidently friends, and in her wonder at seeing them there, in stupid
Hanover, the great lady forgot for a while to read, but kept her eyes
upon them all, especially upon the fifth and last-mentioned member of
the party, the graceful little blonde, whose eyes might have caught
their hue from the deep blue of the summer sky, and whose long silken
curls fell in a golden shower beneath the fanciful French hat. She was a
beautiful young creature, and even Anna Ruthven leaned forward to look
at her as she shook out her airy muslin and dropped into her seat. For a
moment the little coquettish head bowed reverently, but at the first
sound of the rector’s voice it lifted itself up quickly, and Anna saw
the bright color which rushed into her cheeks, and the eager joy which
danced in the blue eyes, fixed so earnestly upon the rector, who, at
sight of her, started suddenly, and paused an instant in his reading.
Who was she, and what was she to Arthur Leighton, Anna asked herself,
while, by the fierce pang which shot through her heart as she watched
the stranger and the clergyman, she knew that _she_ loved the rector of
St. Mark’s, even if she had doubted it before.
Anna was not an ill-tempered girl, but the sight of those gay city
people annoyed her, and when, as she sang the Jubilate Deo, she saw the
soft blue orbs of the blonde and the coal-black eyes of the brunette
turned wonderingly towards her, she was conscious of returning their
glance with as much of scorn as it was possible for her to show. Anna
tried to ask forgiveness for that feeling in the prayers which followed;
but when the services were over, and she saw a little figure in blue and
white flitting up the aisle to where Arthur, still in his robes, stood
waiting for her, an expression upon his face which she could not define
she felt that she had prayed in vain; and with a bitterness she had
never before experienced, she watched the meeting between them, growing
more and more bitter as she saw the upturned face, the wreathing of the
rose-bud lips into the sweetest of smiles, and the tiny white hand,
which Arthur took and held while he spoke words she would have given
much to hear.
“Why do I care? It’s nothing to me,” she thought, and, with a proud
step, she was leaving the church, when her aunt, who was shaking hands
with the Hethertons, signed for her to join her.
The blonde was now coming down the aisle with Mr. Leighton, and joined
the group just as Anna was introduced as “My niece, Miss Anna Ruthven.”
“Oh, you are the Anna of whom I have heard so much from Ada Fuller. You
were at school together in Troy,” Miss Fanny said, her searching eyes
taking in every point as if she were deciding how far her new
acquaintance was entitled to the praise she had heard bestowed upon her.
“I knew Miss Fuller,—yes;” and Anna bowed haughtily, turning next to the
blonde, Miss Lucy Harcourt, who was telling Colonel Hetherton how she
had met Mr. Leighton first among the Alps, and afterwards travelled with
him until their party returned to Paris, where he left them for America.
“I was never so surprised in my life as I was to find him here. Why, it
actually took my breath for a moment,” she went on, “and I greatly fear
that, instead of listening to his sermon, I have been roaming amid that
Alpine scenery, and basking again in the soft moonlight of Venice. I
heard you singing, though,” she said, when Anna was presented to her,
“and it helped to keep up the illusion, it was so like the music heard
from a gondola that night when Mr. Leighton and myself made a voyage
through the streets of Venice. Oh, it was so beautiful,” and the blue
eyes turned to Mr. Leighton for confirmation of what the lips had
uttered.
“Which was beautiful?—Miss Ruthven’s singing or that moonlight night in
Venice?” young Bellamy asked, smiling down upon the little lady, who
still held Anna’s hand, and who laughingly replied:
“Both, of course, though the singing is just now freshest in my memory,
I liked it so much. You must have had splendid teachers,” and she turned
again to Anna, whose face was suffused with blushes as she met the
rector’s eyes, for to his suggestions and criticisms and teachings she
owed much of that cultivation which had so pleased and surprised the
stranger.
“Oh, yes, I see it was _Arthur_. He tried to train me once, and told me
I had a squeak in my voice. Don’t you remember?—those frightfully rainy
days in Rome?” Miss Harcourt said, the _Arthur_ dropping from her lips
as readily as if they had always been accustomed to speak it.
She was a talkative, coquettish little lady, but there was something
about her so genuine and cordial, that Anna felt the ice thawing around
her heart, and even returned the pressure of the fingers which had
twined themselves around her, as Lucy rattled on until the whole party
left the church. It had been decided that Mrs. Meredith should call at
Prospect Hill as early as Tuesday, at least; and, still holding Anna’s
hand, Miss Harcourt whispered to her the pleasure it would be to see her
again.
“I know I am going to like you. I can tell directly I see a
person,—can’t I, Arthur?” and kissing her hand to Mrs. Meredith, Anna,
and the rector, too, she sprang into the carriage, and was whirled
rapidly away.
“Who is she?” Anna asked, and Mr. Leighton replied:
“She is an orphan niece of Colonel Hetherton’s and a great heiress, I
believe, though I never paid much attention to the absurd stories told
concerning her wealth.”
“You met in Europe,” Mrs. Meredith said, and he replied:
“Yes, she has been quite an invalid, and has spent four years abroad,
where I accidently met her. It was a very pleasant party, and I was
induced to join it, though I was with them in all not more than four
months.”
He told this very rapidly, and an acute observer would have seen that he
did not care particularly to talk of Lucy Harcourt, with Anna for an
auditor. She was walking very demurely at his side, pondering in her
mind the circumstances which could have brought the rector and Lucy
Harcourt in such familiar relations as to warrant her calling him
Arthur, and appearing so delighted to see him.
“Can it be there was anything between them?” she thought, and her heart
began to harden against the innocent Lucy, at that very moment chatting
so pleasantly of her and of Arthur, too, replying to Mrs. Hetherton, who
suggested that _Mr. Leighton_ would be more appropriate for a clergyman:
“I shall say Arthur, for he told me I might when we were in Rome. I
could not like him as well if I called him Mr. Leighton. Isn’t he
splendid though in his gown, and wasn’t his sermon grand?”
“What was the text?” asked Mr. Bellamy mischievously, and with a toss of
her golden curls and a merry twinkle of her eyes, Lucy replied, “Simon,
Simon, lovest thou me?”
Quick as a flash of lightning the hot blood mounted to his face, while
Fanny cast upon him a searching glance as if she would read him through.
Fanny Hetherton would have given much to know the answer which Mr. Simon
Bellamy mentally gave to that question, put by one whom he had known but
little more than three months. It was not fair for Lucy to steal away
all Fanny’s beaux, as she surely had been doing ever since her feet
touched the soil of the New World, and truth to tell Fanny had borne it
very well, until young Mr. Bellamy showed signs of desertion. Then the
spirit of resistance was roused, and she watched her lover narrowly,
gnashing her teeth sometimes when she saw his ill-concealed admiration
for her sprightly little cousin, who could say and do with perfect
impunity so many things which in another would have been improper to the
last degree. She was a tolerably correct reader of human nature, and
from the moment she witnessed the meeting between Lucy and the rector of
St. Mark’s she took courage, for she readily guessed the channel in
which her cousin’s preference ran. The rector, however, she could not
read so well; but few men she knew could withstand the fascinations of
her cousin, backed as they were by the glamour of half a million; and
though her mother, and possibly her father too, would be shocked at the
_mésalliance_ and throw obstacles in its way, she was capable of
removing them all, and she would do it, too, sooner than lose the only
man she had ever cared for. These were Fanny’s thoughts as she rode home
from church that Sunday afternoon, and by the time Prospect Hill was
reached Lucy Harcourt could not have desired a more powerful ally than
she possessed in the person of her resolute, strong-willed cousin.
CHAPTER IV.
BLUE MONDAY.
It was to all intents and purposes “blue Monday” with the rector of St.
Mark’s, for aside from the weariness and exhaustion which always
followed his two services on Sunday, and his care of the Sunday-school,
there was a feeling of disquiet and depression, occasioned partly by
that _rencontre_ with pretty Lucy Harcourt, and partly by the
uncertainty as to what Anna’s answer might be. He had seen the look of
displeasure on her face as she stood watching him and Lucy, and though
to many this would have given hope, it only added to his nervous fears
lest his suit should be denied. He was sorry that Lucy Harcourt was in
the neighborhood, and sorrier still for her tenacious memory, which had
evidently treasured up every incident which he could wish forgotten.
With Anna Ruthven absorbing every thought and feeling of his heart, it
was not pleasant to remember what had been a genuine flirtation between
himself and the sparkling belle he had met among the Alps.
It was nothing but a flirtation he knew, for in his inmost soul he
absolved himself from ever having had a thought of matrimony connected
with Lucy Harcourt. He had admired her greatly and loved to wander with
her amid the Alpine scenery, listening to her wild bursts of enthusiasm,
and watching the kindling light in her blue eyes, and the color coming
to her thin, pale cheeks, as she gazed upon some scene of grandeur, and
clung close to him as for protection, when the path was fraught with
peril.
Afterwards in Venice, beneath the influence of those glorious moonlight
nights, he had been conscious of a deeper feeling, which, had he tarried
longer at the syren’s side, might have ripened into love. But he left
her just in time to escape what he felt would have been a most
unfortunate affair for him, for sweet and beautiful as she was, Lucy was
not the wife for a clergyman to choose. She was not like Anna Ruthven,
whom both young and old had said was so suitable for him.
“And just because she is suitable, I may not win her, perhaps,” he
thought, as he paced up and down his library, wondering when she would
answer his letter, and wondering next how he could persuade Lucy
Harcourt that between the young theological student, sailing in a
gondola through the streets of Venice, and the rector of St. Mark’s,
there was a vast difference; that while the former might be Arthur with
perfect propriety, the latter should be Mr. Leighton, in Anna’s
presence, at least.
And yet the rector of St. Mark’s was conscious of a pleasurable emotion,
even now, as he recalled the time when she had, at his request, first
called him Arthur, her birdlike voice hesitating just a little, and her
soft eyes looking coyly up to him, as she said:
“I am afraid that Arthur is hardly the name by which to call a
clergyman.”
“I am not in orders yet, so let me be Arthur to you. I love to hear you
call me so, and you to me shall be Lucy,” was his reply.
A mutual clasp of hands had sealed the compact, and that was the nearest
to a love-making of anything which had passed between them, if we except
the time when he had said good-by, and wiped away the tear which came
unbidden to her eye as she told him how lonely she should be without
him.
Hers was a nature as transparent as glass, and the young man, who for
days had paced the ship’s deck so moodily, was fighting back the
thoughts which whispered that in his intercourse with her he had not
been all guileless, and that if in her girlish heart there was feeling
for him stronger than that of friendship, he had helped to give it life.
Time and absence and Anna Ruthven had obliterated all such thoughts till
now, when Lucy herself had brought them back again with her winsome
ways, and her evident intention to begin just where they had left off.
“Let Anna tell me yes, and I will at once proclaim our engagement, which
will relieve me from all embarrassments in that quarter,” the clergymen
was thinking, just as his housekeeper came up, bringing him two notes,
one in a strange handwriting, and the other in the graceful running hand
which he recognized as Lucy Harcourt’s.
This he opened first, reading as follows:
“PROSPECT HILL, June —.”
“MR. LEIGHTON.—DEAR SIR:—Cousin Fanny is to have a picnic down in the
west woods to-morrow afternoon, and she requests the pleasure of your
presence. Mrs. Meredith and Miss Ruthven are to be invited. Do come.
“Yours truly,
“LUCY.”
Yes, he would go, and if Anna’s answer did not come before, he would ask
her for it. There would be plenty of opportunities down in those deep
woods. On the whole, it would be pleasanter to hear the words from her
own lips, and see the blushes on her cheeks when he tried to look into
her eyes.
The imaginative rector could almost see those eyes, and feel the touch
of her hand as he took the other note, which Mrs. Meredith had shut
herself in her room to write, and sent slyly by Valencia, who was to
tell no one where she had been.
A gleam of intelligence had shone in Valencia’s eyes as she took the
note and carried it safely to the parsonage, never yielding to the
temptation to read it as she had read the one found in her mistress’s
pocket, while the family were at church.
Mrs. Meredith’s note was as follows:
“MY DEAR MR. LEIGHTON:—It is my niece’s wish that I answer the letter
you were so kind as to enclose in the book left for her last Saturday.
She desires me to say that though she has a very great regard for you as
her clergyman and friend, she cannot be your wife, and she regrets
exceedingly if she has in any way led you to construe the interest she
has always manifested in you into a deeper feeling.
“She begs me to say that it gives her great pain to refuse one as noble
and good as she knows you to be, and she only does it because she cannot
find in her heart the love without which no marriage can be happy.
“She is really very wretched about it, because she fears she may lose
your friendship, which she prizes so much; and, as a proof that she will
not, she asks that the subject may never, in any way, be alluded to;
that when you meet it may be exactly as heretofore, without a word or
sign on your part that you ever offered her the highest honor a man can
offer a woman.
“And I am sure, my dear Mr. Leighton, that you will accede to her
wishes. I am very sorry it has occurred, sorry for you both, and
especially sorry for you; but believe me, you will get over it in time,
and come to see that my niece is not a proper person to be a clergyman’s
wife.
“Come and see us as usual. You will find Anna appearing very natural.
“Yours cordially and sincerely,
“JULIE MEREDITH.”
This was the letter which the cruel woman had written, and it dropped
from the rector’s fingers, as, with a groan, he bent his head upon the
back of a chair, and tried to realize the magnitude of the blow which
had fallen so suddenly upon him. Not till now did he realize how, amid
all his doubts, he had still been sure of winning her, and the shock was
terrible.
He had staked his all on Anna, and lost it; the world, which before had
been so bright, looked very dreary now, while he felt that he could
never again come before his people weighed down with so great a load of
pain and humiliation; for it touched the young man’s pride that, not
content to refuse him, Anna had chosen another than herself as the
medium through which her refusal must be conveyed to him. He did not
fancy Mrs. Meredith. He would rather she did not possess his secret, and
it hurt him to know that she did.
It was a bitter hour for the clergyman, for strong and clear as was his
faith in God, he lost sight of it for a time, and poor, weak human
nature cried:
“It’s more than I can bear.”
But as the mother does not forget her child, even though she passes from
its sight, so God had not forgotten, and the darkness broke at last and
the lips could pray again for strength to bear and faith to do all that
God might require.
“Though He slay me I will trust Him,” came like a ray of sunlight into
the rector’s mind; and ere the day was over he could say with a full
heart, “Thy will be done.”
He was very pale, and his lip quivered occasionally as he thought of all
he had lost, while a blinding headache, induced by strong excitement,
drove him nearly wild with pain. He had been subject to headaches all
his life, but he had never suffered as he was suffering now but once,
and that on a rainy day in Rome, when, boasting of her mesmeric power,
Lucy had stood by him, and passed her hands soothingly across his
throbbing temples.
How soft and cool they were,—but they had not thrilled him as the touch
of Anna’s did when they hung the Christmas wreaths and she wore that
bunch of scarlet berries in her hair.
That time seemed very far away, farther even than Rome and the moonlight
nights of Venice. He did not like to think of it, for the bright hopes
which were budding then were blighted now, and dead; and with a moan, he
laid his aching head upon his pillow, and tried to forget all he had
ever hoped or longed for in the future.
“She will marry Thornton Hastings. He is a more eligible match than a
poor clergyman,” he said, and then, as he remembered Thornton’s letter,
and that his man Thomas would be coming soon to ask if there were
letters to be taken to the office, he arose, and going to the study
table, wrote hastily:
“DEAR THORNE:—I am suffering from one of those horrid headaches which
used to make me as weak and helpless as a woman, but I will write just
enough to say that I have no claim on Anna Ruthven, and you are free to
press your suit as urgently as you please. She is a noble girl, worthy
even to be Mrs. Thornton Hastings, and if I cannot have her, I would
rather give her to you than any one I know. Only don’t ask me to perform
the ceremony.
“There, I’ve let the secret out, but no matter, I have always confided
in you, and so I may as well confess that I have offered myself and been
refused.
“Yours truly,
“ARTHUR LEIGHTON.”
The rector felt better after that letter was written. He had told his
grievance to some one, and it seemed to have lightened half the load.
“Thorne is a good fellow,” he said, as he directed the letter. “A little
fast, it’s true, but a splendid fellow after all. He will sympathize
with me in his way, and I would rather give Anna to him than any other
living man.”
Arthur was serious in what he said, for, wholly unlike as they were,
there was between him and Thornton Hastings one of those strong
friendships which sometimes exist between two men, but rarely between
two women, of so widely different temperaments. They had roomed together
four years in college, and countless were the difficulties from which
the sober Arthur had extricated the luckless Thorne, while many a time
the rather slender means of Arthur had been increased in a way so
delicate that expostulation was next to impossible.
Arthur was better off now in worldly goods, for by the death of an uncle
he had come in possession of a few thousand dollars, which had enabled
him to travel in Europe for a year, and left a surplus, from which he
fed the poor and needy with no sparing hand.
St. Mark’s was his first parish, and though he could have chosen one
nearer to New York, where the society was more congenial to his taste,
he had accepted of what God offered to him, and had been very happy
there since Anna Ruthven came home from Troy and made such havoc with
his heart. He did not believe he should ever be quite so happy again,
but he would try to do his work, and take thankfully whatever of good
might come to him.
This was his final decision, and when at last he laid down to rest, the
wound, though deep and sore, and bleeding yet, was not quite as hard to
bear as it had been earlier in the day, when it was fresh and raw, and
faith and hope seemed swept away.
CHAPTER V.
TUESDAY.
That open grassy spot in the dense shadow of the west woods was just the
place for a picnic, and it looked very bright and pleasant that warm
June afternoon, with the rustic table so fancifully arranged, the
camp-stools scattered over the lawn, and the bouquets of flowers
depending from the trees.
Fanny Hetherton had given it her whole care, aided and abetted by Mr.
Bellamy, what time he could spare from Lucy, who, endued with a mortal
fear of insects, seemed this day to gather scores of bugs and worms upon
her dress and hair, screaming with every worm, and bringing Simon
obediently to her aid.
“I’d stay at home, I think, if I was silly enough to be afraid of a
harmless caterpillar like that,” Fanny had said, as with her own hands
she took from Lucy’s curls and threw away a thousand-legged thing, the
very sight of which made poor Lucy shiver, but did not send her to the
house.
She was too much interested and too eagerly expectant of what the
afternoon would bring, and so she perched herself upon the fence where
nothing but ants could molest her, and finished the bouquets which Fanny
hung upon the trees until the lower limbs seemed one mass of blossoms
and the air was filled with the sweet perfume.
Lucy was bewitchingly beautiful that afternoon in her dress of white,
with her curls tied up with a blue ribbon, and her fair arms bare nearly
to the shoulders. Fanny, whose arms were neither plump nor white, had
expostulated with her cousin upon this style of dress, suggesting that
one as delicate as she could not fail to take a heavy cold when the dews
began to fall; but Lucy would not listen. Arthur Leighton had told her
once that he liked her with bare arms, and bare they should be. She was
bending every energy to please and captivate him, and a cold was of no
consequence provided she succeeded. So like some little fairy, she
danced and flitted about, making fearful havoc with Mr. Bellamy’s wits,
and greatly vexing Fanny, who hailed with delight the arrival of Mrs.
Meredith and Anna. The latter was very pretty and very becomingly
attired in a light, airy dress of blue, finished at the throat and
wrists with an edge of soft, fine lace. She, too, had thought of Arthur
in the making of her toilet, and it was for him that the white rose-buds
were placed in her heavy braids of hair, and fastened on her belt. She
was very sorry that she had allowed herself to be vexed with Lucy
Harcourt for her familiarity with Mr. Leighton, very hopeful that he had
not observed it, and very certain now of his preference for herself. She
would be very gracious that afternoon, she thought, and not one bit
jealous of Lucy, though she called him Arthur a hundred times.
Thus it was in the most amiable of moods that Anna appeared upon the
lawn, where she was warmly welcomed by Lucy, who, seizing both her
hands, led her away to see their arrangements, chatting gayly all the
time, and casting rapid glances up the lane as if in quest of some one.
“I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve thought of you so much. Do you know it
seems to me there must be some bond of sympathy between us, or I should
not like you so well at once. I drove by the rectory early this morning,
the dearest little place, with such a lovely garden. Arthur was working
in it, and I made him give me some roses. See, I have one in my curls.
Then, when he brought them to the carriage, I kept him there while I
asked numberless questions about you, and heard from him just how good
you are, and how you help him in the Sunday-school and everywhere,
visiting the poor, picking up ragged children, and doing things I never
thought of doing; but I am not going to be so useless any longer, and
the next time you visit some of the very miserablest, I want you to take
me with you.
“Do you ever meet Arthur there? Oh, here he comes,” and with a bound,
Lucy darted away from Anna towards the spot where the rector stood
receiving Mrs. and Miss Hetherton’s greeting.
As Lucy had said, she had driven by the rectory, with no earthly object
but the hope of seeing the rector, and had hurt him cruelly with her
questionings of Anna, and annoyed him a little with her anxious
inquiries as to the cause of his pallid face and sunken eyes; but she
was so bewitchingly pretty, and so thoroughly kind withal, that he could
not be annoyed long, and he felt better for having seen her bright,
coquettish face, and listened to her childish prattle. It was a great
trial for him to attend the picnic that afternoon, but he met it
bravely, and schooled himself to appear as if there were no such things
in the world as aching hearts and cruel disappointments. His face was
very pale, but his recent headache would account for that, and he acted
his part successfully, shivering a little, it is true, when Anna
expressed her sorrow that he should suffer so often from these attacks,
and suggested that he take a short vacation and go with them to
Saratoga.
“I should so much like to have you,” she said, and her clear honest eyes
looked him straight in the face, as she asked why he could not.
“What does she mean?” the rector thought. “Is she trying to tantalize
me? I expected her to be _natural_, as her aunt laid great stress on
that, but she need not overdo the matter by showing me how little she
cares for having hurt me so.”
Then, as a flash of pride came to his aid, he thought, “I will at least
be even with her. She shall not have the satisfaction of guessing how
much I suffer,” and as Lucy then called to him from the opposite side of
the lawn, he asked Anna to accompany him thither, just as he would have
done a week before. Once that afternoon he found himself alone with her
in a quiet part of the woods, where the long branches of a great oak
came nearly to the ground, and formed a little bower which looked so
inviting that Anna sat down upon the gnarled roots of the tree, and
tossing her hat upon the grass, exclaimed, “How nice and pleasant it is
in here. Come sit down, too, while I tell you again about my class in
Sunday-school, and that poor Mrs. Hobbs across the millstream. You won’t
forget her, will you? I told her you would visit her the oftener when I
was gone. Do you know she cried because I was going? It made me feel so
badly that I doubted if it was right for me to go,” and pulling down a
handful of the oak-leaves above her head, Anna began weaving a chaplet,
while the rector stood watching her with a puzzled expression upon his
face. She did not act as if she ever could have dictated that letter,
but he had no suspicion of the truth, and answered rather coldly, “I did
not suppose you cared how much we might miss you at home.”
Something in his tone made Anna look up into his face, and her eyes
immediately filled with tears, for she knew that in some way she had
displeased him.
“Then you mistake me,” she replied, the tears still glittering on her
long eyelashes, and her fingers trembling among the oaken leaves. “I do
care whether I am missed or not.”
“Missed by whom?” the rector asked, and Anna impetuously replied,
“Missed by the parish poor, and by you, too, Mr. Leighton. You don’t
know how often I shall think of you, or how sorry I am that—”
She did not finish the sentence, for the rector had leaped madly at a
conclusion, and was down in the grass at her side with both her hands in
his.
“Anna, O Anna,” he began so pleadingly, “have you repented of your
decision? Tell me that you have and it will make me so happy. I have
been so wretched ever since.”
She thought he meant her decision about going to Saratoga, and she
replied, “I have not repented, Mr. Leighton. Aunt Meredith thinks it’s
best, and so do I, though I am sorry for you, if you really do care so
much.”
Anna was talking blindly, her thoughts upon one subject, while the
rector’s were upon another, and matters were getting somewhat mixed
when, “Arthur, Arthur, where are you?” came ringing through the woods,
and Lucy Harcourt appeared, telling them that the refreshments were
ready. “We are only waiting for you two, wondering where you had gone,
but never dreaming that you had stolen away to make love,” she said
playfully, adding more earnestly as she saw the traces of agitation
visible in Anna’s face, “and I do believe you were. If so, I beg pardon
for my intrusion.”
She spoke a little sharply, and glanced inquiringly at Mr. Leighton,
who, feeling that he had virtually been repulsed a second time by Anna,
answered her, “On the contrary, I am very glad you came, and so I am
sure is Miss Anna. I am ready to join you at the table. Come, Anna, they
are waiting,” and he offered his arm to the bewildered girl, who
replied, “Not just now, please. Leave me for a moment. I won’t be long.”
Very curiously Lucy looked at Anna, and then at Mr. Leighton, who, fully
appreciating the feelings of the latter, said, by way of explanation,
“You see she has not quite finished that chaplet which I suspect is
intended for you. I think we had better leave her,” and drawing Lucy’s
arm under his own, he walked away, leaving Anna, more stunned and pained
than she had ever been before. Surely if _love_ had ever spoken in voice
and manner, it had spoken when Mr. Leighton was kneeling on the grass,
holding her hands in his. “Anna, O Anna;” how she had thrilled at the
sound of those words and waited for what might follow next. Why had his
manner changed so suddenly, and why had he been so glad to be
interrupted. Had he really no intention of making love to her; and if
so, why did he rouse her hopes so suddenly and then cruelly dash them to
the ground? Was it that he loved Lucy best, and that the sight of her
froze the words upon his lips?
“Let him take her, then. He is welcome for all of me,” she thought; and
as a keen pang of shame and disappointment swept over her, she laid her
head for a moment upon the grass and wept bitterly. “He must have seen
what I expected, and I care most for that,” she sobbed, resolving
henceforth to guard herself at every point, and do all that lay in her
power to further Lucy’s interests. “He will thus see how little I really
care,” she said, and lifting up her head she tore in fragments the
wreath she had been making but which she could not now place on the head
of her rival.
Mr. Leighton was flirting terribly with Lucy when she joined the party
assembled around the table, and he never once looked at Anna, though he
saw that her plate was well supplied with the best of everything, and
when at one draught she drained her glass of ice-water, he quietly
placed another within her reach, standing a little before her and trying
evidently to shield her from too critical observation. There were two at
least who were glad when the picnic was over, and various were the
private opinions of the company with regard to the entertainment. Mr.
Bellamy, who had been repeatedly foiled in his attempts to be especially
attentive to Lucy Harcourt, pronounced the whole thing “a bore,” Fanny,
who had been highly displeased with his deportment, came to the
conclusion that the enjoyment did not compensate for all the trouble;
and while the rector thought he had never spent a more thoroughly
wretched day, and Anna would have given worlds if she had stayed at
home, Lucy declared that never in her life had she had so perfectly
delightful a time, always excepting, of course, “that moon light sail in
Venice.”
CHAPTER VI.
WEDNESDAY.
There was a heavy shower the night succeeding the picnic, and the
morning following was as balmy and bright as June mornings are wont to
be after a fall of rain. They were always early risers at the
farm-house, but this morning Anna, who had slept but little, arose
earlier than usual, and leaning from the window to inhale the bracing
air and gather a bunch of roses fresh with the glittering rain-drops,
felt her spirits grow lighter, and wondered at her discomposure of the
previous day. Particularly was she grieved that she should have harbored
a feeling of bitterness towards Lucy Harcourt, who was not to blame for
having won the love she had been foolish enough to covet.
“He knew her first,” she said, “and if he has since been pleased with
me, the sight of her has won him back to his allegiance, and it is
right. She is a pretty creature, but strangely unsuited, I fear, to be
his wife,” and then, as she remembered Lucy’s wish to go with her when
next she visited the poor, she said:
“I’ll take her to see the Widow Hobbs. That will give her some idea of
the duties which will devolve upon her as a rector’s wife. I can go
directly there from Prospect Hill, where, I suppose, I must call with
Aunt Meredith.”
Anna made herself believe that in doing this she was acting only from a
magnanimous desire to fit Lucy for her work, if, indeed, she was to be
Arthur’s wife,—that in taking the mantle from her own shoulders, and
wrapping it around her rival, she was doing a most amiable deed, when
down in her inmost heart, where the tempter had put it, there was an
unrecognized wish to see how the little dainty girl would shrink from
the miserable abode, and recoil from the touch of the dirty hands, which
were sure to be laid upon her dress if the children were at home, and
she waited impatiently to start on her errand of mercy.
It was four o’clock when, with her aunt, she arrived at Colonel
Hetherton’s, and found the family assembled upon the broad piazza,—Mr.
Bellamy dutifully holding the skein of worsted from which Miss Fanny was
crocheting, and Lucy playing with a kitten, whose movements were
scarcely more graceful than her own, as she sprang up and ran to welcome
Anna.
“Oh yes; I shall be delighted to go with you. Pray let us start at
once,” she exclaimed, when after a few moments’ conversation Anna told
where she was going.
Lucy was very gayly dressed, and Anna smiled to herself as she imagined
the startling effect the white muslin and bright ribbons would have upon
the inmates of the shanty where they were going. There was a
remonstrance from Mrs. Hetherton against her niece walking so far, and
Mrs. Meredith suggested that they should ride, but to this Lucy
objected. She meant to take Anna’s place among the poor when she was
gone, she said, and how was she ever to do it if she could not walk so
little ways as that. Anna, too, was averse to the riding, and felt a
kind of grim satisfaction when, after a time, the little figure, which
at first had skipped along with all the airiness of a bird, began to
lag, and even pant for breath, as the way grew steeper and the path more
stony and rough. Anna’s evil spirit was in the ascendant that afternoon,
steeling her heart against Lucy’s doleful exclamations, as one after
another her delicate slippers were torn, and the sharp thistles, of
which the path was full, penetrated to her soft flesh. Straight and
unbending as a young Indian, Anna walked on, shutting her ears against
the sighs of weariness which reached them from time to time. But when
there came a half-sobbing cry of actual pain, she stopped suddenly and
turned towards Lucy, whose breath came gaspingly, and whose cheeks were
almost purple with the exertions she had made.
“I cannot go any farther until I rest,” she said, sinking down exhausted
upon a large flat rock beneath a walnut-tree.
Touched with pity at the sight of the heated face, from which the sweat
was dripping, Anna too sat down beside her, and laying the curly head in
her lap, she hated herself cordially, as Lucy said:
“You’ve walked so fast I could not keep up. You do not know, perhaps,
how weak I am, and how little it takes to tire me. They say my heart is
diseased, and an unusual excitement might kill me.”
“No, oh no!” Anna answered with a shudder, as she thought of what might
have been the result of her rashness, and then she smoothed the wet
hair, which, dried by the warm sunbeams, coiled itself up in golden
masses, which her fingers softly threaded.
“I did not know it until that time in Venice when Arthur talked to me so
good, trying to make me feel that it was not hard to die, even if I was
so young and the world so full of beauty,” Lucy went on, her voice
sounding very low, and her bright shoulder-knots of ribbon trembling
with the rapid beating of her heart. “When he was talking to me I could
be almost willing to die, but the moment he was gone the doubts and
fears came back, and death was terrible again. I was always better with
Arthur. Everybody is, and I think your seeing so much of him is one
reason why you are so good.”
“No, no, I am not good,” and Anna’s hands pressed hard upon the girlish
head lying in her lap. “I am wicked beyond what you can guess. I led you
this rough way when I might have chosen a smooth though longer road, and
walked so fast on purpose to worry you.”
“To worry _me_. Why should you wish to do that?” and lifting up her
head, Lucy looked wonderingly at the conscience-stricken Anna, who could
not confess to the jealousy, but who in all other respects answered
truthfully: “I think an evil spirit possessed me for a time, and I
wanted to show you that it was not so nice to visit the poor as you
seemed to think, but I am sorry, oh so sorry, and you’ll forgive me,
won’t you?”
A loving kiss was pressed upon her lips and a warm cheek was laid
against her own, as Lucy said, “Of course I’ll forgive you, though I do
not quite understand why you should wish to discourage me or tease me
either, when I liked you so much from the first moment I heard your
voice, and saw you in the choir. You don’t dislike me, do you?”
“No, oh no. I love you very dearly,” Anna replied, her tears falling
like rain upon the slight form she hugged so passionately to her, and
which she would willingly have borne in her arms the remainder of the
way, as a kind of penance for her past misdeeds; but Lucy was much
better, and so the two, between whom there was now a bond of love which
nothing could sever, went on together to the low dismal house where the
Widow Hobbs lived.
The gate was off the hinges, and Lucy’s muslin was torn upon a nail as
she passed through, while the long fringe of her fleecy shawl was caught
in the tall tufts of thistle growing by the path. In a muddy pool of
water, a few rods from the house, a flock of ducks were swimming, pelted
occasionally by the group of dirty, ragged children playing on the
grass, and who, at sight of the strangers and the basket Anna carried,
sprang up like a flock of pigeons, and came trooping towards her. It was
not the sweet, pastoral scene which Lucy had pictured to herself, with
Arthur for the background, and her ardor was greatly dampened even
before the threshold was crossed, and she stood in the low, close room
where the sick woman lay, her eyes unnaturally bright, and turned
wistfully upon them as she entered. There were ashes upon the hearth and
ashes upon the floor, a hair-brush upon the table and an empty plate
upon the chair, with swarms of flies sipping the few drops of molasses
and feeding upon the crumbs of bread left there by the elfish-looking
child now in the bed beside its mother. There was nothing but
poverty,—squalid, disgusting poverty, visible everywhere, and Lucy grew
sick and faint at the, to her, unusual sight.
“They have not lived here long. We only found them three weeks ago; they
will look better by and by,” Anna whispered, feeling that some apology
was necessary for the destitution and filth visible everywhere.
Daintily removing the plate to the table, and carefully tucking up her
skirts, Lucy sat down upon the wooden chair and looked dubiously on
while Anna made the sick woman more tidy in appearance, and then fed her
from the basket of provisions which Grandma Humphreys had sent.
“I never could do that,” Lucy thought, as shoving off the little dirty
hand fingering her shoulder-knots she watched Anna washing the poor
woman’s face, and bending over her pillow as unhesitatingly as if it had
been covered with ruffled linen like those at Prospect Hill, instead of
the coarse soiled rag which hardly deserved the name of pillow-case.
“No, I never could do that,” and the possible life with Arthur which the
maiden had more than once imagined began to look very dreary, when
suddenly a shadow darkened the door, and Lucy knew before she turned her
head that the rector was standing at her back, and the blood tingled
through her veins with a delicious feeling; as, laying both his hands
upon her shoulders, and bending over her so that she felt his breath
upon her brow, he said:
“What, my lady Lucy here? I hardly expected to find two ministering
angels, though I was almost sure of one,” and his eye rested on Anna
with a wistful look of tenderness, which neither she nor Lucy saw.
“Then you knew she was coming,” Lucy said, an uneasy thought flashing
across her mind as she remembered the picnic, and the scene she had
stumbled upon.
But Arthur’s reply, “I did not know she was coming; I only knew it was
like her,” reassured her for a time, making her resolve to emulate the
virtues which Arthur seemed to prize so highly. What a difference his
presence made in that wretched room. She did not mind the poverty now,
or care if her dress was stained with the molasses left in the chair,
and the inquisitive child with tattered gown and bare, brown legs was
welcome to examine and admire the bright plaid ribbons as much as she
chose.
Lucy had no thought for anything but Arthur, and the subdued expression
of his face, as kneeling by the sick woman’s bedside he said the prayers
she had hungered for more than for the contents of Anna’s basket, which
were now purloined by the children crouched upon the hearth and fighting
over the last bit of gingerbread.
“Hush-sh, little one,” and Lucy’s hand rested on the head of the
principal belligerent, who, awed by the beauty of her face and the
authoritative tone of her voice, kept quiet till the prayer was over and
Arthur had risen from his knees.
“Thank you, Lucy; I think I must constitute you my deaconess when Miss
Ruthven is gone. Your very presence has a subduing effect upon the
little savages. I never knew them so quiet before so long a time,”
Arthur said to Lucy in a low tone, which, low as it was, reached Anna’s
ear, but brought no pang of jealousy or sharp regret for what she felt
was lost forever.
She was giving Lucy to Arthur Leighton, resolving that by every means in
her power she would further her rival’s cause, and the hot tears which
dropped so fast upon Mrs. Hobbs’s pillow while Arthur said the prayer
were but the baptism of that vow, and not, as Lucy thought, because she
felt so sorry for the suffering woman who had brought so much comfort to
her.
“God bless you wherever you go,” she said, “and if there is any great
good which you desire, may He bring it to pass.”
“He never will,—no, never,” was the sad response in Anna’s heart, as she
joined the clergyman and Lucy, who were standing outside the door, the
former pointing to the ruined slippers, and asking her how she ever
expected to walk home in such dilapidated things.
“I shall certainly have to carry you,” he said, “or your blistered feet
will evermore be thrust forward as a reason why you cannot be my
deaconess.”
He seemed to be in unusual spirits that afternoon, and the party went
gayly on, Anna keeping a watchful care over Lucy, picking out the
smoothest places, and passing her arm round her waist as they were going
up a hill.
“I think it would be better if you both leaned on me,” the rector said,
offering each an arm, and apologizing for not having thought to do so
before.
“I do not need it, thank you, but Miss Harcourt does. I fear she is very
tired,” said Anna, pointing to Lucy’s face, which was so white and
ghastly and so like the face seen once before in Venice, that without
another word, Arthur took the tired girl in his strong arms and carried
her safely to the summit of the hill.
“Please put me down; I can walk now,” Lucy pleaded; but Arthur felt the
rapid beatings of her heart, and kept her in his arms until they reached
Prospect Hill, were Mrs. Meredith was anxiously awaiting their return,
her brow clouding with distrust when she saw Mr. Leighton, for she was
constantly fearing lest her guilty secret should be exposed.
“I’ll leave Hanover this very week, and remove her from danger,” she
thought, as she rose to say good-night.
“Just wait a minute, please. There’s something I want to say to Miss
Ruthven,” Lucy cried, and leading Anna to her own room, she knelt down
by her side, and looking up in her face, began:
“There’s one question which I wish to ask, and you must answer me
truly. It is rude and inquisitive, perhaps, but,—tell me,—has
Arthur—ever—ever—”
Anna guessed what was coming, and with a sob, which Lucy thought was a
long-drawn breath, she kissed the pretty, parted lips, and answered:
“No, darling, Arthur never did, and never will, but some time he will
ask you to be his wife. I can see it coming so plain.”
Poor Anna! her heart gave one great throb as she said this, and then lay
like a dead weight in her bosom, while with sparkling eyes and blushing
cheeks, Lucy exclaimed:
“I am so glad,—so glad. I have only known you since Sunday, but you seem
like an old friend, and you won’t mind my telling you that ever since I
first met Arthur among the Alps, I have lived in a kind of ideal world,
of which he was the centre. I am an orphan, you know, and an heiress,
too. There is half a million, they say; and Uncle Hetherton has charge
of it. Now, will you believe me, when I say that I would give every
dollar of this for Arthur’s love if I could not have it without?”
“I do believe you,” Anna replied, inexpressibly glad that the gathering
darkness hid her white face from view as the childlike, unsuspecting
girl went on: “The world, I know, would say that a poor clergyman was
not a good match for me, but I do not care for that. Cousin Fanny favors
it, I am sure, and Uncle Hetherton would not oppose me when he saw I was
in earnest. Once the world, which is a very meddlesome thing, picked out
Thornton Hastings, of New York, for me; but my! he was too proud and
lofty even to talk to me much, and I would not speak to him after I
heard of his saying that ‘I was a pretty little plaything, but far too
frivolous for a sensible man to make his wife.’ Oh, wasn’t I angry
though, and don’t I hope that when he gets a wife she will be exactly
such a frivolous thing as I am.”
Even through the darkness Anna could see the blue eyes flash, and the
delicate nostrils dilate as Lucy gave vent to her wrath against the
luckless Thornton Hastings.
“You will meet him at Saratoga. He is always there in the summer, but
don’t you speak to him, _the hateful_. He’ll be calling you frivolous
next.”
An amused smile flitted across Anna’s face as she asked, “But won’t you
too be at Saratoga? I supposed you were all going there.”
“_Cela depend_,” Lucy replied. “I would so much rather stay here, the
dressing, and dancing, and flirting tire me so, and then you know what
Arthur said about taking me for his deaconess in your place.”
There was a call just then from the hall below. Mrs. Meredith was
getting impatient of the delay, and with a good-by kiss, Anna went down
the stairs, and stood out upon the piazza, where her aunt was waiting.
Mr. Leighton had accepted Fanny’s invitation to stay to tea, and he
handed the ladies to their carriage, lingering a moment while he said
his parting words, for he was going out of town to-morrow, and when he
returned Anna would be gone.
“You will think of us sometimes,” he said, still holding Anna’s hand.
“St. Mark’s will be lonely without you. God bless you and bring you
safely back.”
There was a pressure of the hand, a lifting of Arthur’s hat, and then
the carriage moved away; but Anna, looking back, saw Arthur standing by
Lucy’s side, fastening a rose-bud in her hair, and at that sight the
gleam of hope which for an instant had crept into her heart passed away
with a sigh.
CHAPTER VII.
AT NEWPORT.
Moved by a strange impulse, Thornton Hastings took himself and his fast
bays to Newport instead of Saratoga, and thither, the first week in
August, came Mrs. Meredith, with eight large trunks, her niece, and her
niece’s wardrobe, which had cost the pretty sum of eighteen hundred
dollars.
Mrs. Meredith was not naturally lavish of her money, except where her
own interests were concerned, as they were in Anna’s case. Conscious of
having come between her niece and the man she loved, she determined that
in the procuring of a substitute for this man, no advantages which dress
could afford should be lacking. Besides, Thornton Hastings was a perfect
connoisseur in everything pertaining to a lady’s toilet, and it was with
him and his preference before her mind that Mrs. Meredith opened her
purse so widely and bought so extensively. There were sun hats and round
hats, and hats _à la cavalier_,—there were bonnets and veils, and
dresses, and shawls of every color and kind, with the lesser matters of
sashes, and gloves, and slippers, and fans, the whole making an array
such as Anna had never seen before, and from which she had at first
shrank back appalled and dismayed. But she was not now quite so much of
a novice as when she first reached New York, the Saturday following the
picnic at Prospect Hill. She had passed successfully and safely through
the hands of mantua-makers, milliners, and hair-dressers since then. She
had laid aside every article brought from home. She wore her hair in
puffs and waterfalls, and her dresses in the latest mode. She had seen
the fashionable world as represented at Saratoga, and sickening at the
sight, had gladly acquiesced in her aunt’s proposal to go on to Newport,
where the air was purer, and the hotels not so densely packed. She had
been called a beauty and a belle, but her heart was longing still for
the leafy woods and fresh, green fields of Hanover; and Newport, she
fancied, would be more like the country than sultry, crowded Saratoga,
and never since leaving home had she looked so bright and pretty as the
evening after her arrival at the Ocean House, when, invigorated by the
bath she had taken in the morning, and gladdened by sight of the
glorious sea and the soothing tones it murmured in her ear, she came
down to the parlor, clad in simple white, with only a bunch of violets
in her hair, and no other ornament than the handsome pearls her aunt had
given to her. Standing at the open window, with the drapery of the lace
curtain sweeping gracefully behind her, she did not look much like the
Anna who led the choir in Hanover and visited the Widow Hobbs, nor yet
much like the picture which Thornton Hastings had formed of the girl who
he knew was there for his inspection. He had been absent the entire day,
and had not seen Mrs. Meredith, when she arrived early in the morning,
but he found her card in his room, and a smile curled his lip as he
said:
“And so I have not escaped her.”
Thornton Hastings had proved a most treacherous knight, and overthrown
his general’s plans entirely. Arthur’s letter had affected him
strangely, for he readily guessed how deeply wounded his sensitive
friend had been by Anna Ruthven’s refusal, while added to this was a
fear lest Anna had been influenced by a thought of himself, and what
might possibly result from an acquaintance. Thornton Hastings had been
flattered and angled for until he had grown somewhat vain, and it did
not strike him as at all improbable that the unsophisticated Anna should
have designs upon him.
“But I won’t give her a chance,” he said, when he finished Arthur’s
letter. “I thought once I might like her, but I shan’t, and I’ll be
revenged on her for refusing the best man that ever breathed. I’ll go to
Newport instead of Saratoga, and so be clear of the entire Meredith
clique, the Hethertons, the little Harcourt, and all.”
This, then, was the secret of his being at the Ocean House. He was
keeping away from Anna Ruthven, who never had heard of him but once, and
that from Lucy Harcourt. After that scene in the Glen, where Anna had
exclaimed against intriguing mothers and their bold, shame-faced
daughters, Mrs. Meredith had been too wise a manœuvrer to mention
Thornton Hastings, so that Anna was wholly ignorant of his presence at
Newport, and looked up in unfeigned surprise at the tall, elegant man
whom her aunt presented as Mr. Hastings. With all Thornton’s affected
indifference, there was still a curiosity to see the girl who could say
“no” to Arthur Leighton, and he did not wait long after receiving Mrs.
Meredith’s card before going down to find her.
“That’s the girl, I’ll lay a wager,” he thought of a high-colored,
showily dressed hoyden, who was whirling around the room with Ned
Peters, from Boston, and whoso corn-colored dress swept against his
boots as he entered the parlor.
How, then, was he disappointed in the apparition Mrs. Meredith presented
as “my niece,” the modest, self possessed young girl, whose cheeks grew
not a whit the redder, and whose pulse did not quicken at the sight of
him, though a gleam of something like curiosity shone in the brown eyes
which scanned him so quietly. She was thinking of Lucy, and her
injunction “not to speak to the _hateful_ if she saw him;” but she did
speak to him, and Mrs. Meredith fanned herself complacently as she saw
how fast they became acquainted.
“You don’t dance,” Mr. Hastings said, as she declined an invitation from
Ned Peters, whom she had met at Saratoga. “I am glad, for you will
perhaps walk with me outside upon the piazza. You won’t take cold, I
think,” and he glanced thoughtfully at the white neck and shoulders
gleaming beneath the gauzy muslin.
Mrs. Meredith was in rhapsodies, and sat a full hour with the tiresome
dowagers around her, while up and down the broad piazza Thornton
Hastings walked with Anna, talking to her as he seldom talked to women,
and feeling greatly surprised to find that what he said was fully
appreciated and understood. That he was pleased with her he could not
deny to himself, as he sat alone in his room that night, feeling more
and more how keenly Arthur Leighton must have felt her refusal.
“But why did she refuse him?” he wished he knew, and ere he slept he
resolved to study Anna Ruthven closely, and ascertain, if possible, the
motive which prompted her to discard a man like Arthur Leighton.
The next day brought the Hetherton party, all but Lucy Harcourt, who,
Fanny laughingly said, was just now suffering from clergyman on the
brain, and, as a certain cure for the disease, had turned my Lady
Bountiful, and was playing the pretty patroness to all Mr. Leighton’s
parishioners, especially a Widow Hobbs, whom she had actually taken to
ride in the carriage, and to whose ragged children she had sent a bundle
of cast-off party dresses; and the tears ran down Fanny’s cheeks as she
described the appearance of the elder Hobbs, who came to church with a
soiled pink silk skirt, her black, tattered petticoat hanging down
below, and one of Lucy’s opera hoods upon her head.
“And the clergyman on her brain? Does he appreciate his situation? I
have an interest there. He is an old friend of mine,” Thornton Hastings
asked.
He had been an amused listener to Fanny’s gay badinage, laughing merrily
at the idea of Lucy’s taking an old woman out to air, and clothing her
children in party dresses. His opinion of Lucy, as she had said, was
that she was a pretty but frivolous plaything, and it showed upon his
face as he asked the question he did, watching Anna furtively as Fanny
replied:
“Oh yes, he is certainly smitten, and I must say I never saw Lucy so
thoroughly in earnest. Why, she really seems to enjoy travelling all
over Christendom to find the hovels and huts, though she is mortally
afraid of the small-pox, and always carries with her a bit of chloride
of lime as a disinfecting agent. I am sure she ought to win the parson.
And so you know him, do you?”
“Yes; we were in college together, and I esteem him so highly that, had
I a sister, there is no man living to whom I would so readily give her
as to him.”
He was looking now at Anna, whose face was very pale, and who pressed a
rose she held so tightly that the sharp thorns pierced her flesh, and a
drop of blood stained the whiteness of her hand.
“See, you have hurt yourself,” Mr. Hastings said. “Come to the
water-pitcher and wash the stain away.”
She went with him mechanically, and let him hold her hand in his while
he wiped off the blood with his own handkerchief, treating her with a
tenderness for which he could hardly account. He pitied her, and
suspected she had repented of her rashness, and because he pitied her he
asked her to ride with him that day after the fast bays, of which he had
written to Arthur. Many admiring eyes were cast after them as they drove
away, and Mrs. Hetherton whispered softly to Mrs. Meredith:
“A match in progress, I see. You have done well for your charming
niece.”
And yet matrimony, as concerned himself, was very far from Thornton
Hastings’ thoughts that afternoon, when, because he saw that it pleased
Anna to have him do so, he talked to her of Arthur, hoping, in his
unselfish heart, that what he said in his praise might influence her to
reconsider her decision and give him a different answer. This was the
second day of Thornton Hastings’ acquaintance with Anna Ruthven, but as
time went on, bringing the usual routine of life at Newport, the drives,
the rides, the pleasant piazza talks, and the quiet moonlight rambles,
when Anna was always his companion, Thornton Hastings came to feel an
unwillingness to surrender even to Arthur Leighton the beautiful girl
who pleased him better than any one he had known.
Mrs. Meredith’s plans were working well, and so, though the autumn days
had come, and one after another the devotees of fashion were dropping
off, she lingered on, and Thornton Hastings still rode and walked with
Anna Ruthven, until there came a night when they wandered farther than
usual from the hotel, and sat down together on a height of land which
overlooked the placid waters, where the moonlight lay softly sleeping.
It was a most lovely night, and for awhile they listened in silence to
the music of the sea, and then talked of the breaking-up which would
come in a few days, when the hotel was to be closed, and wondered if
next year they would come again to the old haunts and find them
unchanged.
There was witchery in the hour, and Thornton felt its spell, speaking
out at last, and asking Anna if she would be his wife. He would shield
her so tenderly, he said, protecting her from every care, and making her
as happy as love and money could make her. Then he told her of his home
in the far-off city, which needed only her presence to make it a
paradise, and then he waited for her answer, watching anxiously the
limp, white hands, which, when he first began to talk, had fallen
helplessly upon her lap, and then had crept up to her face, which was
turned away from him, so that he could not see its expression, or guess
at the struggle going on in Anna’s mind. She was not wholly surprised,
for she could not mistake the nature of the interest which, for the last
two weeks, Thornton Hastings had manifested in her. But now that the
moment had come, it seemed to her that she had never expected it, and
she sat silent for a time, dreading so much to speak the words which she
knew would inflict pain on one whom she respected so highly, but whom
she could not marry.
“Don’t you like me, Anna?” Thornton asked at last, his voice very low
and tender, as he bent over her and tried to take her hand.
“Yes, very much,” she answered; and emboldened by her reply, Thornton
lifted up her head, and was about to kiss her forehead, when she started
away from him, exclaiming:
“No, Mr. Hastings. You must not do that. I cannot be your wife. It hurts
me to tell you so, for I believe you are sincere in your proposal; but
it can never be. Forgive me, and let us both forget this wretched
summer.”
“It has not been wretched to me. It has been a very happy summer, since
I knew you at least,” Mr. Hastings said, and then he asked again that
she should reconsider her decision. He could not take it as her final
one. He had loved her too much, had thought too much of making her his
own, to give her up so easily, he said, urging so many reasons why she
should think again, that Anna said to him, at last:
“If you would rather have it so, I will wait a month, but you must not
hope that my answer will be different then from what it is to-night. I
want your friendship, though, the same as if this had never happened. I
like you, because you have been kind to me, and made my stay in Newport
so much pleasanter than I thought it could be. You have not talked to me
like other men. You have treated me as if I at least had common-sense. I
thank you for that; and I like you because—”
She did not finish the sentence, for she could not say “Because you are
Arthur’s friend.” That would have betrayed the miserable secret tugging
at her heart, and prompting her to refuse Thornton Hastings, who had
also thought of Arthur Leighton, wondering if it were thus that she
rejected him, and if in the background there was another love standing
between her and the two men to win whom many a woman would almost have
given her right hand. To say that Thornton was not piqued at her refusal
would be false. He had not expected it, accustomed as he was to
adulation; but he tried to put that feeling down, and his manner was
even more kind and considerate than ever as he walked back to the hotel,
where Mrs. Meredith was waiting for them, her practised eye detecting at
once that something was amiss. Thornton Hastings knew Mrs. Meredith
thoroughly, and, wishing to shield Anna from her displeasure, he
preferred stating the facts himself to having them wrung from the pale,
agitated girl, who, bidding him good-night, went quickly to her room;
so, when she was gone, and he stood for a moment alone with Mrs.
Meredith, he said:
“I have proposed to your niece, but she cannot answer me now. She wishes
for a month’s probation, which I have granted, and I ask that she shall
not be persecuted about the matter. I must have an unbiassed answer.”
He bowed politely and walked away, while Mrs. Meredith almost trod on
air as she climbed the stairs and sought her niece’s chamber. Over the
interview which ensued that night we pass silently, and come to the next
morning, when Anna sat alone on the piazza at the rear of the hotel,
watching the playful gambols of some children on the grass, and
wondering if she ever could conscientiously say yes to Thornton
Hastings’ suit. He was coming towards her now, lifting his hat politely,
and asking what she would give for news from home.
“I found this on my table,” he said, holding up a dainty little missive,
on the corner of which was written “In haste,” as if its contents were
of the utmost importance. “The boy must have made a mistake, or else he
thought it well to begin at once bringing your letters to me,” he
continued with a smile, as he handed Anna the letter from Lucy Harcourt.
“I have one, too, from Arthur, which I will read while you are devouring
yours, and then, perhaps, you will take a little ride. The September air
is very bracing this morning,” he said, walking away to the far end of
the piazza while Anna broke the seal of the envelope, hesitating a
moment ere taking the letter from it, and trembling as if she guessed
what it contained.
There was a quivering of the eyelids, a paling of the lips as she
glanced at the first few lines, then with the low moaning cry, “No, no,
oh no, not that,” she fell upon her face.
To lift her in his arms and carry her to her room was the work of an
instant, and then, leaving her to Mrs. Meredith’s care, Thornton
Hastings went back to finish Arthur’s letter, which might or might not
throw light upon the fainting-fit.
“Dear Thornton,” Arthur wrote, “you will be surprised, no doubt, to hear
that your old college chum is at last engaged; but not to one of the
fifty lambs about whom you once jocosely wrote. The shepherd has
wandered from his flock, and is about to take into his bosom a little
stray ewe-lamb,—Lucy Harcourt by name—”
“The deuce he is,” was Thornton’s ejaculation, and then he read on:
“She is an acquaintance of yours, I believe, so I need not describe her,
except to say that she is somewhat changed from the gay butterfly of
fashion she used to be, and in time will make as demure a little
Quakeress as one could wish to see. She visits constantly among my poor,
who love her almost as well as they once loved Anna Ruthven.
“Don’t ask me, Thorne, in your blunt, straightforward manner if I have
so soon forgotten Anna. That is a matter with which you’ve nothing to
do. Let it suffice that I am engaged to another, and mean to make a kind
and faithful husband to her. Lucy would have suited you better, perhaps,
than she does me; that is, the world would think so, but the world does
not always know, and if I am satisfied, surely it ought to be.
“Yours truly,
“A. LEIGHTON.”
“Engaged to Lucy Harcourt! I never could have believed it. He’s right in
saying that she is far more suitable for me than him,” Thornton
exclaimed, dashing aside the letter and feeling conscious of a pang as
he remembered the bright airy little beauty in whom he had once been
strongly interested, even if he did call her frivolous and ridicule her
childish ways.
She was frivolous, too much so by far to be a clergyman’s wife, and for
a full half hour Thornton paced up and down the room, meditating on
Arthur’s choice and wondering how upon earth it ever happened.
CHAPTER VIII.
SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED.
Lucy had insisted that she did not care to go to Saratoga. She preferred
remaining in Hanover, where it was cool and quiet, and where she would
not have to dress three times a day and dance every night until twelve.
She was beginning to find that there was something to live for besides
consulting one’s own pleasure, and she meant to do good the rest of her
life, she said, assuming such a sober, nun-like air, that no one who saw
her could fail to laugh, it was so at variance with her entire nature.
But Lucy was in earnest. Hanover had a greater attraction for her than
all the watering-places in the world, and she was very grateful when
Fanny threw her influence on her side and so turned the scale in her
favor.
Fanny was glad to leave her dangerous cousin at home, especially after
Mr. Bellamy decided to join their party at Saratoga; and as she carried
great weight with both her parents it was finally decided to let Lucy
remain at Prospect Hill in peace, and one morning in July she saw the
family depart without a single feeling of regret that she was not of
their number. She had far too much on her hands to spend her time in
regretting anything: there was the parish school to visit, and a class
of children to hear, children who were no longer ragged, for Lucy’s
money had been expended till even Arthur had remonstrated with her, and
read her a long lecture on the subject of misapplied charity. Then there
was Widow Hobbs waiting for the jelly which Lucy had promised, and for
the chapter which Lucy now read to her, sitting where she could watch
the road and see just who turned the corner, her voice always sounding a
little more serious and good when the footsteps belonged to Arthur
Leighton, and her eyes always glancing at the bit of a cracked mirror on
the wall, to see that her dress and hair and ribbons were right before
Arthur came in. It was a very pretty sight to see her thus and hear her
as she read to the poor, whose surroundings she had so greatly improved;
and Arthur always smiled gratefully upon her, and then walked back with
her to Prospect Hill, where he lingered while she played or talked to
him, or brought the luscious fruits with which the garden abounded.
This was Lucy’s life, which she preferred to Saratoga, and they left her
to enjoy it, somewhat to Arthur’s discomfiture, for, much as he valued
her society, he would rather she had gone where the Hethertons did, for
he could not be insensible to the remarks which were being made by the
curious villagers, who watched this new flirtation, as they called it,
and wondered if their minister had forgotten Anna Ruthven. He had not
forgotten her, and many a time was her loved name upon his lips and a
thought of her in his heart, while he never returned from an interview
with Lucy that he did not contrast the two, and sigh for the olden time
when Anna was his coworker instead of pretty Lucy Harcourt. And yet
there was about the latter a powerful fascination which he found it hard
to resist. It rested him just to look at her, she was so fresh, so
bright, and so beautiful; and then she flattered his self-love by the
unbounded deference she paid to his opinions, studying all his tastes
and bringing her will into perfect subjection to his, until she could
scarcely be said to have a thought or feeling which was not a reflection
of his own. And so the flirtation, which at first had been a one-sided
affair, began to assume a more serious form, and the rector went oftener
to Prospect Hill, while the Hetherton carriage stood daily at the gate
of the parsonage, and people talked and gossiped, until Captain
Humphreys, Anna’s grandfather, concluded it was his duty as senior
warden of St. Mark’s, to talk with the young rector and know “what his
intentions were.”
“You have none?” he said, fixing his mild eyes reproachfully upon his
clergyman, who recoiled a little beneath the gaze. “Then, if you have no
intentions, my advice to you is that you quit it and let the gal alone,
or you’ll ruin her, if she ain’t spoilt already, as some of the women
folks say she is. It don’t do no gal any good to have a chap, and
’specially a minister, gallivantin’ after her, as I must say you’ve been
after this one for the last few weeks. She’s a pretty little creeter,
and I don’t blame you for liking her. It makes my old blood stir faster
when she comes purring around me, with her soft ways and winsome face,
and so I don’t wonder at you, but when you say you’ve no intentions, I
blame you greatly. You or’to have. Excuse my plainness; I’m an old man,
and I like my minister, and don’t want him to go wrong; and then I feel
for her, left all alone by all her folks; more’s the shame to them, and
more’s the harm to you, to tangle up her affections as you are doing if
you are not in earnest; and so I speak for her just as I should want
some one to speak for Anna!”
The old man’s voice trembled a little here, for it had been a wish of
his that Anna should occupy the parsonage, and he had at first felt a
little resentment against the gay young creature who seemed to have
supplanted her, but he was over that now, and in all honesty of heart he
spoke both for Lucy’s interest and that of his clergyman. And Arthur
listened to him respectfully, feeling when he was gone that he merited
the rebuke,—that he had not been guiltless in the matter,—that if he did
not mean to marry Lucy Harcourt he should let her alone. And he would,
he said,—he would not go to Prospect Hill again for two whole weeks, nor
visit at the cottages where he was sure to find her; he would keep
himself at home; and he did, and shut himself up among his books, not
even going to make a pastoral call on Lucy when he heard that she was
sick. And so Lucy came to him, looking dangerously charming in her blue
riding-habit with the white feather streaming from her hat. Very
prettily she pouted, too, as she chided him for his neglect, and asked
why he had not been to see her nor anybody;—there was the Widow Hobbs,
and Mrs. Briggs, and those miserable Donelsons, whom he had not been
near for a fortnight.
“What is the reason?” she asked, beating her foot upon the carpet and
tapping the end of her riding-whip upon the sermon he was writing. “Are
you displeased with me, Arthur,” she continued, her eyes filling with
tears as she saw the expression of his face. “Have I done anything
wrong; I am so sorry if I have.”
Her voice had in it the grieved tones of a little child, and her eyes
were very bright with the tears quivering on her long eyelashes. Leaning
back in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, a position he
usually assumed when puzzled and perplexed, the rector looked at her a
moment before he spoke. He could not define to himself the nature of the
interest he took in Lucy Harcourt. He admired her greatly, and the
self-denials and generous exertions she had made to be of use to him
since Anna went away, had touched a tender chord and made her seem very
near to him. Habit with him was everything, and the past two weeks’
isolation had shown him how necessary she had become to him. She did not
satisfy his higher wants as Anna Ruthven had done. No one could ever do
that, but she amused and soothed and rested him, and made his duties
lighter by taking half of them upon herself. That she was more attached
to him than he could wish he greatly feared, for since Captain
Humphreys’ visit he had seen matters differently from what he saw them
before, and had unsparingly questioned himself as to how far he would be
answerable for her future weal or woe.
“Guilty, verily I am guilty in leading her on if I meant nothing by it,”
he had written against himself, pausing in his sermon to write it just
as Lucy came in, appealing to him to know why he had neglected her so
long.
She was very beautiful this morning, and Arthur felt his heart beat
rapidly as he looked at her, and thought any man who had not known Anna
Ruthven would be glad to gather that bright creature in his arms and
know she was his own. One long, long sigh to the memory of all he had
hoped for once,—one bitter pang as he remembered Anna and that twilight
hour in the church, and then he made a mad plunge in the dark and said:
“Lucy, do you know people are beginning to talk about my seeing you so
much?”
“Well, let them talk; who cares?” Lucy replied, with a good deal of
asperity of manner for her, for that very morning the housekeeper at
Prospect Hill had ventured to remonstrate with her for “running after
the parson.” “Pray where is the wrong? What harm can come of it?”
“None, perhaps,” Arthur replied, “if one could keep their affections
under control. But if either of us should learn to love the other very
much and the love was not reciprocated, harm would surely come of that.
At least that was the view Captain Humphreys took of the matter when he
was speaking to me about it.”
There were red spots on Lucy’s face, but her lips were very white and
the buttons on her riding-dress rose and fell rapidly with the beating
of her heart as she looked steadily at Arthur. Was he going to send her
from him,—back to the insipid life she had lived before she knew him? It
was too terrible to believe, and the great tears rolled slowly down her
cheeks. Then as a flash of pride came to her aid, she dashed them away
and said to him haughtily:
“And so for fear I shall fall in love with you, you are sacrificing both
comfort and freedom, and shutting yourself up with your books and
studies to the neglect of other duties. But it need be so no longer. The
necessity for it, if it existed once, certainly does not now. I will not
be in your way; forgive me that I ever have been.”
Lucy’s voice began to tremble as she gathered up her riding-habit and
turned to find her gauntlets. One of them had dropped upon the floor
between the table and the rector, and as she stooped to reach it her
curls almost swept the young man’s lap.
“Let me get it for you,” he said, hastily pushing back his chair and
awkwardly entangling his foot in her long sweeping dress, so that when
she arose she stumbled backward and would have fallen, but for the arm
he quickly passed around her.
Something in the touch of that quivering form completed the work of
temptation, and he held it for an instant, when she said to him
pettishly:
“Please let me go, sir.”
“No, Lucy, I can’t let you go. I want you to stay with me.”
Instantly the drooping head was uplifted, and Lucy’s eyes looked into
his with such a wistful, pleading, wondering look that Arthur saw or
thought he saw his duty plain, and gently touching his lips to the brow
glistening so white within their reach, he continued:
“There is a way to stop the gossip and make it right for me to see you.
Promise to be my wife, and not even Captain Humphreys can say aught
against it.”
Arthur’s voice trembled now, for the mention of Captain Humphreys had
brought a thought of Anna, whose eyes seemed for an instant to look
reproachfully upon that wooing. But he had gone too far to retract; he
had only to wait for Lucy’s answer. There was no deception about her;
hers was a nature as clear as crystal, and with a gush of glad tears she
promised to be the rector’s wife; and hiding her face on his bosom, told
him, brokenly, how unworthy she was of him; how foolish, and how
unsuited to the place, but promising to do the best she could not to
bring him into disgrace on account of her shortcomings.
“With the knowledge that you love me I can do anything,” she said, and
her white hand crept slowly into the cold, clammy one which lay so
listlessly on Arthur’s lap.
He was already repenting, for he felt that it was sin to take that warm,
trusting, loving heart in exchange for the cold, half lifeless one he
should render in return, and in which scarcely a pulse of joy was
beating, even though he held his promised wife; and she was fair and
beautiful as ever promised wife could be.
“But I can make her happy, and I will,” he thought, pressing the warm
fingers which quivered to his touch.
But he did not kiss her again; he could not for the eyes, which still
seemed looking at him and asking what he did. There was a strange spell
about those phantom eyes, and they made him say to Lucy, who was now
sitting demurely at his side:
“I could not clear my conscience if I did not confess that you are not
the first woman whom I have asked to be my wife.”
There was a start, and Lucy’s face was pale as ashes, while her hand
went quickly to her side, where the heartbeats were visible, warning
Arthur to be careful how he startled one whose life hung on so slender a
thread as Lucy’s; so, when she asked, “Who was it, and why did you not
marry her? Did you love her very much?” he answered indifferently, “I
would rather not tell you who it was, as that might be a breach of
confidence. She did not care to be my wife, and so that dream was over
and I was left for you.”
He did not say how much he loved her who had discarded him, but Lucy
forgot the omission, and asked, “Was she very young and pretty?”
“Young and pretty both, but not as beautiful as you,” Arthur replied,
his fingers softly putting back the golden curls from the face looking
so trustingly into his.
And in that he answered truly. He had seen no face as beautiful of its
kind as Lucy’s was, and he was glad that he could tell her so. He knew
how that would please her and partly make amends for the tender words
which he could not speak,—for the phantom eyes still haunting him so
strangely.
And Lucy, who took all things for granted, was more than content,
although she wondered that he did not kiss her again, and wished she
knew the girl who had come so near being in her place. But she respected
his wishes too much to ask after what he had said, and she tried to make
herself glad that he had been so frank with her and not left his other
love-affair to the chance of her discovering it afterwards, at a time
when it might be painful to her.
“I wish I had something to confess,” she thought; but from the score of
her flirtations, and even offers, for she had not lacked for them, she
could not find one where her own feelings had been enlisted in ever so
slight a degree until she remembered Thornton Hastings, who for one
whole week had paid her such attentions as had made her dream of him,
and even drive round once on purpose to look at the house on Madison
Square where the future Mrs. Hastings was to live.
But his coolness afterwards, and his comments on her frivolity had
terribly angered her, making her think that she hated him, as she had
said to Anna. Now, however, as she remembered the drive and the house,
she nestled closer to Arthur and told him all about it, fingering the
buttons on his dressing-gown as she told him it, and never dreaming of
the pang she was inflicting as Arthur thought how mysterious were God’s
ways, and wondered that He had not reversed the matter and given Lucy to
Thornton Hastings, rather than to him, who did not half deserve her.
“I know now I never cared a bit for Thornton Hastings, though I might if
he had not been so mean as to call me frivolous,” Lucy said, as she
arose to go; then suddenly turning to the rector, she added: “I shall
never ask who your first love was, but would like to know if you have
quite forgotten her?”
“Have you forgotten Thornton Hastings?” Arthur asked, laughingly; and
Lucy replied, “Of course not; one never forgets, but I don’t care a pin
about him now, and did I tell you, Fanny writes that rumor says he will
marry Anna Ruthven?”
“Yes,—no,—I did not know; I am not surprised;” and Arthur stooped to
pick up a book lying on the floor, thus hiding his face from Lucy, who,
woman-like, was glad to report a piece of gossip, and continued:
“She is a great belle, Fanny says; dresses beautifully and in perfect
taste, besides talking as if she knew something, and this pleases Mr.
Hastings, who takes her out to ride and drive, and all this after I
warned her against him and told her just what he said of me. I am
surprised at her!”
Lucy was drawing on her gauntlets, and Arthur was waiting to see her
out, but she still lingered on the threshold, and at last said to him:
“I wonder you never fell in love with Anna yourself. I am sure, if I
were you I should prefer her to me. She knows something and I do not,
but I am going to study; there are piles of books in the library at
Prospect Hill, and you shall see what a famous student I will become. If
I get puzzled will you help me?”
“Yes, willingly,” Arthur replied, wishing that she would go, before she
indulged in any more speculation as to why he did not love Anna Ruthven.
But Lucy was not done yet; the keenest pang was yet to come, and Arthur
felt as if the earth was giving way beneath his feet, when, as he lifted
her into the saddle and took her hand at parting, she said:
“You remember I am not going to be jealous of that other girl. There is
only one person who could make me so, and that is Anna Ruthven; but I
know it was not she, for that night we all came from Mrs. Hobbs’s and
she went with me upstairs, I asked her honestly if you had ever offered
yourself to her, and she told me you had not. I think you showed a lack
of taste; but I am glad it was not Anna.”
Lucy was far down the road ere Arthur recovered from the shock her last
words had given him. What did it mean, and why had Anna said he never
proposed? Was there some mistake, and he the victim of it? There was a
blinding mist before the young man’s eyes, and a gnawing pain at his
heart as he returned to his study and went over again with all the
incidents of Anna’s refusal, even to the reading of the letter which, he
already knew by heart. Then, as the thought came over him that possibly
Mrs. Meredith played him false in some way, he groaned aloud, and the
great sweat-drops fell upon the table where he leaned his head. But this
could not be, he reasoned. Lucy was mistaken. She had not heard aright.
Somebody surely was mistaken, or he had committed a fatal error.
“But I must abide by it,” he said, lifting up his pallid face. “God
forgive the wrong I have done in asking Lucy to be my wife when my heart
belonged to another. God help me to forget the one and love the other as
I ought. She is a lovely little girl, trusting me so wholly that I can
make her happy,—and I will!—but Anna,—O Anna!”
It was a despairing cry, such as a newly-engaged man should never have
sent after another than his affianced bride; and Arthur thought so too,
fighting back his first love with an iron will, and after that hour of
anguish burying it so far from sight that he went that night to Captain
Humphreys and told of his engagement; then called upon his bride-elect,
and tried so hard to be satisfied, that, when at a late hour he returned
to the parsonage, he was more than content; and by way of fortifying
himself still more, wrote the letter which Thornton Hastings read at
Newport.
And that was how it happened.
CHAPTER IX.
ANNA.
Through the rich curtains which shaded the windows of a room looking out
on Fifth Avenue the late October sun was shining; and as its red light
played among the flowers on the carpet, a pale young girl sat watching
it and thinking of the Hanover hills, now decked in their autumnal
glory, and of the ivy on St. Mark’s, growing so bright and beautiful
beneath the autumnal frosts. Anna had been very sick since that morning
in September when she sat on the piazza at the Ocean House and read Lucy
Harcourt’s letter. The faint was a precursor of fever, the physician
said when summoned to her aid; and in a tremor of fear and distress Mrs.
Meredith had had her removed at once to New York, and that was the last
Anna remembered. From the moment her aching head had touched the soft
pillows in Aunt Meredith’s home, all consciousness had fled, and for
weeks she had hovered so near to death that the telegraph-wires bore
daily messages to Hanover, where the aged couple who had cared for her
since her childhood wept, and prayed, and watched for tidings from their
darling. They could not go to her, for Grandpa Humphreys had broken his
leg, and his wife could not leave him; so they waited with what patience
they could for the daily bulletins which Mrs. Meredith sent,
appreciating their anxiety, and feeling glad withal of anything which
kept them from New York.
“She had best be prayed for in church,” the old man said; and so, Sunday
after Sunday, Arthur read the prayer for the sick, his voice trembling
as it had never trembled before, and a keener sorrow in his heart than
he had ever known when saying the solemn words.
Heretofore the persons prayed for had been comparative strangers,—people
in whom he felt only the interest a pastor feels in all his flock; but
now it was _Anna_, whose case he took to God, and he always smothered a
sob during the moment he waited for the fervent response the
congregation made, the _Amen_ which came from the pew where Lucy sat
being louder and heartier than all the rest, and having in it a sound of
the tears which dropped so fast on Lucy’s book, as she asked that her
dear friend might not die. Oh, how he longed to go to her! But this he
could not do, and so he had sent Lucy, who bent so tenderly above the
sick girl, whispering loving words in her ear, and dropping kisses upon
the lips which uttered no response, save once, when Lucy said, “Do you
remember Arthur?”
Then they murmured faintly: “Yes,—Arthur,—I remember him, and the
Christmas song, and the gathering in the church. But that was long ago;
there’s much happened since then.”
“And I am to marry Arthur,” Lucy had said again; but this time there was
no sign that she was understood, and that afternoon she went back to
Hanover loaded with tickets for the children of St. Mark’s and new books
for the Sunday-school, and accompanied by Valencia, who, having had a
serious difference with her mistress, Mrs. Meredith, had offered her
services to Miss Harcourt, and been at once accepted.
That was near the middle of October; now it was the last, and Anna was
so much better that she sat up for an hour or more and listened with
some degree of interest to what Mrs. Meredith told her of the days when
she lay so unconscious of all that was passing around her, never heeding
the kindly voice of Thornton Hastings, who more than once had stood by
her pillow with his hand on her feverish brow, and tokens of whose
thoughtfulness were visible in the choice bouquets he sent each day,
with notes of anxious inquiry when he did not come himself. Anna had not
seen him yet since her convalescence. She would rather not see any one
until strong enough to talk, she said. And so Thornton waited patiently
for the interview she had promised him when she should be stronger, but
every day he sent her fruit, and flowers, and books which he thought
would interest her, and which always made her cheeks grow hot and her
heart beat regretfully, for she knew of the answer she must give him
when he came, and she shrank from wounding him.
“He is too good, too noble, to have an unwilling wife,” she thought; but
that did not make it the less hard to tell him so, and when at last she
was well enough to see him, she waited his coming nervously, starting
when she heard his step, and trembling like a leaf as he drew near her
chair.
It was a very thin, wasted hand which he took in his, holding it for a
moment between his own, and then laying it gently back upon her lap. He
had come for the answer to a question put six weeks before, and Anna
gave it to him,—kindly, considerately, but decidedly. She could not be
his wife, she said, because she did not love him as he ought to be
loved.
“It is nothing personal,” she added, working nervously at the heavy
fringe of her shawl. “I respect you more than any man I ever
knew,—except one; and had I met you years ago,—before—before—”
“I understand you,” Thornton said, coming to her aid. “You have tried to
love me, but you cannot, because your affections are given to another.”
Anna bowed her head in silence; then, after a moment, she continued:
“You must forgive me, Mr. Hastings, for not telling you this at once. I
did not know then but I could love you; at least, I meant to try, for
you see this other one,”—the fingers got terribly tangled in the fringe
as Anna gasped for breath and went on,—“he does not know, and never
will,—that is,—he never cared for me, nor guessed how foolish I was to
give him my love unsought.”
“Then it is _not_ Arthur Leighton, and that is why you refused him too,”
Mr. Hastings said involuntarily; and Anna looked quickly up, her cheeks
growing paler than they were before, as she replied: “I don’t know what
you mean. I never refused Mr. Leighton,—never!”
“You never refused Mr. Leighton?” Thornton exclaimed, forgetting all
discretion in his surprise at this flat contradiction. “I have Arthur’s
word for it, written to me last June, while Mrs. Meredith was there, I
think.”
“He surely could not have meant it, because it never occurred; there is
some mistake,” Anna found strength to say; and then she lay back in her
easy-chair panting for breath, her brain all in a whirl as she thought
of the possibility that she was once so near the greatest happiness she
had ever desired, and which was lost to her now.
He brought her smelling-salts; he gave her ice-water to drink, and then,
kneeling beside her, he fanned her gently, while he continued: “There
surely _is_ a mistake, and, I fear, a great wrong, too, somewhere. Were
all your servants trusty? Was there no one who would withhold a letter
if he had written? Were you always at home when he called?”
Thornton questioned her rapidly, for there was a suspicion in his mind
as to the real culprit, but he would not hint it to Anna unless she
suggested it herself. And this she was not likely to do. Mrs. Meredith
had been too kind to her during the past summer, and especially during
her recent illness, to allow of such a thought concerning her; and in a
maze of perplexity she replied to his inquiries: “We keep but one
servant,—Esther,—and she I know is trusty. Besides, who could have
refused him for me? Grandfather would not, I know, because—because—” she
hesitated a little, and her cheeks blushed scarlet as she added, “I
sometimes thought he wanted it to be.”
If Thornton had previously had a doubt as to the other man who stood
between himself and Anna, that doubt was now removed, and laying aside
all thoughts of self, he exclaimed:
“I tell you there is a great wrong somewhere. Arthur never told an
untruth; he thought that you refused him; he thinks so still, and I
shall never rest till I have solved the mystery. I will write to him
to-day.”
For an instant there swept over Anna a feeling of unutterable joy as she
thought what the end might be; then, as she remembered Lucy, her heart
seemed to stop its beating, and with a moan she stretched her hands
towards Thornton, who had risen as if to leave her.
“No, no, you must not interfere,” she said. “It is too late, too late.
Don’t you remember Lucy? don’t you know she is to be his wife? Lucy must
not be sacrificed for me. _I_ can bear it the best.”
She knew she had betrayed her secret, and she tried to take it back, but
Thornton interrupted her with, “Never mind now, Anna. I guessed it all
before, and it hurts my self-pride less to know that it is Arthur whom
you prefer to me. I do not blame you for it.”
He smoothed her hair pityingly, while he stood over her a moment,
wondering what his duty was. Anna told him plainly what it was. He must
leave Arthur and Lucy alone. She insisted upon having it so, and he
promised her at last that he would not interfere. Then taking her hand,
he pressed it a moment between his own and went out from her presence.
In the hall below he met with Mrs. Meredith, who he knew was waiting
anxiously to hear the result of that long interview.
“Your niece will never be my wife, and I am satisfied to have it so,” he
said; then, as he saw the lowering of her brow, he continued, “I have
long suspected that she loved another, and my suspicions are confirmed,
though there’s something I cannot understand,” and fixing his eyes
searchingly upon Mrs. Meredith, he told what Arthur had written and of
Anna’s denial of the same. “Somebody played her false,” he said, rather
enjoying the look of terror and shame which crept into the haughty
woman’s eyes, as she tried to appear natural and express her own
surprise at what she heard.
“I was right in my conjecture,” Thornton thought as he took his leave of
Mrs. Meredith, who could not face Anna then, but paced restlessly up and
down her spacious rooms, wondering how much Thornton suspected, and what
the end would be.
She had sinned for naught; Anna had upset all her cherished plans, and
could she have gone back for a few months and done her work again, she
would have left the letter lying where she found it. But that could not
be now. She must reap as she had sown, and resolving finally to hope for
the best and abide the result, she went up to Anna, who, having no
suspicion of her, hurt her ten times more cruelly, by the perfect faith
with which she confided the story to her, than bitter reproaches would
have done.
“I know you wanted me to marry Mr. Hastings,” Anna said, “and I would if
I could have done so conscientiously, but I could not, for I may confess
it now to you. I did love Arthur so much, and I hoped that he loved me.”
The cold, hard woman, who had brought this grief upon her niece, could
only answer that it did not matter. She was not very sorry, although she
had wanted her to marry Mr. Hastings, but she must not fret about that
now, or about anything. She would be better by and by, and forget that
she ever cared for Arthur Leighton.
“At least,” and she spoke entreatingly now, “you will not demean
yourself to let him know of the mistake. It would scarcely be womanly,
and he may have gotten over it. Present circumstances seem to prove as
much.”
Mrs. Meredith felt now that her secret was comparatively safe, and with
her spirits lighter she kissed her niece lovingly and told her of a trip
to Europe which she had in view, promising that Anna should go with her,
and so not be at home when the marriage of Arthur and Lucy took place.
It was appointed for the 15th of January, that being the day when Lucy
came of age, and the very afternoon succeeding Anna’s interview with Mr.
Hastings the little lady came down to New York to direct about her
bridal trousseau making, in the city. She was brimming over with
happiness and her face was a perfect gleam of sunshine, when she came
next day to Anna’s room, and throwing off her wrappings plunged at once
into the subject uppermost in her thoughts, telling first how she and
Arthur had quarrelled,—“not quarrelled as uncle and aunt Hetherton and
lots of people do, but differed so seriously that I cried and had to
give up, too,” she said. “I wanted you for bridesmaid, and do you think,
he objected; not objected to you, but to bridesmaids generally, and he
carried his point, so that we are just to stand up stiff and straight
alone, except as you’ll all be round me in the aisle. You’ll be well by
that time, and I want you very near to me,” Lucy said, squeezing the icy
hand, whose coldness made her start and exclaim, “Why, Anna, how cold
you are, and how pale you are looking. You have been so sick, and I am
so well; it don’t seem quite right, does it? And Arthur, too, is so thin
that I have coaxed him to raise whiskers to cover the hollows in his
cheeks. He looks a heap better now, though he was always handsome. I do
so wonder that you two never fell in love, and I tell him so most every
time I see him, for I always think of you then.”
It was terrible to Anna to sit and hear all this, and the room grew dark
as she listened, but she forced back her pain, and stroking the curly
head almost resting on her lap, and said kindly, “You love him very
much, don’t you, darling,—so much that it would be hard to give him up?”
“Yes, oh yes, I could not give him up now, except to God. I trust I
could do that, though once I could not, I am sure,” and nestling closer
to Anna, Lucy whispered to her of the hope that she was better than she
used to be,—that daily intercourse with Arthur had not been without its
effect, and now she believed she tried to do right from a higher motive
than just to please him.
“God bless you, darling,” was Anna’s response, as she clasped the hand
of the young girl, who was now far more worthy to be Arthur’s wife than
once she had been.
If Anna had ever had a thought of telling Arthur, it would have been put
aside by that interview with Lucy. She could not harm that pure, loving,
trusting girl, and she sent her from her with a kiss and a blessing,
praying silently that she might never know a shadow of the pain which
she was suffering.
CHAPTER X.
MRS. MEREDITH’S CONSCIENCE.
She had one years before, but since the summer day when she sent from
her the white-faced man, whose heart she knew she had broken, it had
been hardening,—searing over with a stiff crust which nothing, it
seemed, could penetrate. And yet there were times when she was softened
and wished that much which she had done might be blotted out from the
great book in which even she believed. There was many a misdeed recorded
there against her, she knew, and occasionally there stole over her a
strange disquietude as to how she should confront them when they all
came up before her. Usually she could cast such thoughts aside by a
drive down gay Broadway, or at most by a call at Stewart’s, but the
sight of Anna’s white face and the knowing what made it so white were a
constant reproach, and conscience gradually wakened from its torpor,
enough to whisper of the only restitution in her power, that of
confession to Arthur. But from this she shrank nervously. She could not
humble herself thus to any one, and she would not either, she said. Then
came the fear lest by another than herself her guilt should come to
light. What if Thornton Hastings should find her out? She was half
afraid he suspected her now, and that gave her the heaviest pang of all,
for she respected Thornton highly, and it would cost her much to lose
his good opinion. She had lost him for her niece, but she could not
spare him from herself, and so in sad perplexity, which wore upon her
visibly, the autumn days went on until at last she sat one morning in
her dressing-room and read in a foreign paper:
“Died at Strasburg, Aug. 31st, Edward Coleman, Esq. aged 46.”
That was all, but the paper dropped from the trembling hands, and the
proud woman of the world bowed her head upon the cold marble of the
table and wept aloud. She was not Mrs. Meredith now, she was Julia
Ruthven again, and she stood with Edward Coleman out in the grassy
orchard where the apple-blossoms were dropping from the trees, and the
air was full of the insects’ hum and the song of mating birds. Many
years had passed since then. She was the wealthy Mrs. Meredith now, and
he was dead in Strasburg. He had been true to her to the last, for he
had never married, and those who had met him abroad had brought back the
same report of a “white-haired man, old before his time, and with a
tired, sad look on his face.” That look she had written there, and she
wept on as she recalled the past and murmured softly: “Poor Edward, I
loved you all the while, but I sold myself for gold, and it turned your
brown locks snowy white,—poor darling,—” and her hands moved up and down
the folds of her cashmere robe as if it were the brown locks they were
smoothing just as they used to do. Then came a thought of Anna, whose
face wore much the look which Edward’s did when he went slowly from the
orchard and left her there alone with the apple-blossoms dropping on her
head, and the hum of the bees in her ear.
“I can at least do right in that respect,” she said. “I can undo the
past to some extent and lessen the load of sin upon my shoulders. I will
write to Arthur Leighton; I surely need tell no one else,—not yet, at
least, lest he has outlived his love for Anna. I can trust to his
discretion and to his honor too; he will not betray me, unless it is
necessary, and then only to Anna. Edward would bid me do it if he could
speak; he was some like Arthur Leighton.”
And so with the dead man in Strasburg before her eyes, Mrs. Meredith
nerved herself to write to Arthur Leighton, confessing the fraud imposed
upon him, imploring his forgiveness, and begging him to spare her as
much as possible.
“I know from Anna’s own lips how much she has always loved you,” she
wrote in conclusion, “but she does not know of the stolen letter, and I
leave you to make such use of the knowledge as you shall think proper.”
She did not put in a single plea for poor little Lucy dancing so gayly
over the mine just ready to explode. She was purely selfish still with
all her qualms of conscience, and only thought of Anna, whom she would
make happy at another’s sacrifice. So she never hinted that it was
possible for Arthur to keep his word pledged to Lucy Harcourt, and as
she finished her own letter and placed it in an envelope with the one
which Arthur had sent to Anna, her thoughts leaped forward to the
wedding she would give her niece,—a wedding not quite like that she had
designed for Mrs. Thornton Hastings, but a quiet, elegant affair, just
suited to a clergyman who was marrying a Ruthven.
CHAPTER XI.
THE LETTER RECEIVED.
Arthur had been spending the evening at Prospect hill. The Hethertons
were there now, and would remain till after the 15th; and since they
came the rector had found it even pleasanter calling there than it had
been before with only his bride-elect to entertain him. Sure of Mr.
Bellamy, Fanny had laid aside her sharpness and was exceedingly witty
and brilliant, while, now that it was settled, the colonel was too
thorough a gentleman to be otherwise than gracious to his future nephew,
and Mrs. Hetherton was always polite and ladylike, so that the rector
looked forward with a good deal of interest to the evenings he usually
gave to Lucy, who, though satisfied to have him in her sight, still
preferred the olden time when she had him all to herself, and was not
disquieted with the fear that she was not learned enough for him, as she
often was when she heard him talking with Fanny and her uncle of things
she did not understand. This evening, however, the family were away and
she received him alone, trying so hard to come up to his capacity,
talking so intelligibly of the books she had been reading, and looking
so lovely in her crimson winter dress, besides being so sweetly
affectionate and confiding that for once since his engagement Arthur was
more than content, and returned her modest caresses with a warmth he had
not felt before. He was learning to love her very much, he thought, and
when at last he took his leave and she went with him to the door there
was an unwonted tenderness in his manner as he pushed her gently back,
for the first snow of the season was falling and the large flakes
dropped upon her hair, from which he brushed them carefully away.
“I cannot let my darling take cold,” he said, and Lucy felt a strange
thrill of joy, for never before had he called her his darling, and
sometimes she had feared that the love she received was not as great as
the love she gave.
But she did not think so now, and in an ecstasy of joy she stood in the
deep recess of the bay-window watching him as he went away through the
moonlight and the feathery cloud of snow, wondering why, when she was so
happy, there should cling to her a haunting presentiment that she and
Arthur would never meet again just as they had parted. Arthur, on the
contrary, was troubled with no such presentiment. Of Anna he hardly
thought, or, if he did, the vision was obscured by the fair picture he
had seen standing in the door with the snow-flakes resting on its hair
like pearls in a golden cabinet. And Arthur thanked his God that he was
beginning at last to feel right, that the solemn vows he was so soon to
utter would not be a mockery. It was Arthur’s wish to teach to others
how dark and mysterious are the ways of Providence, but he had not
himself half learned that lesson in all its strange reality; but the
lesson was coming on apace; each stride of his swift-footed beast
brought him nearer and nearer to the great shock waiting for him upon
his study-table, where his man had put it. He saw it the first thing on
entering the room, but he did not take it up until the snow was brushed
from his garments and he had seated himself by the cheerful fire blazing
on the hearth. Then sitting in his easy-chair and moving the lamp nearer
to him, he took Mrs. Meredith’s letter and broke the seal, starting as
if a serpent had stung him when in the note enclosed he recognized his
own handwriting, the same he had sent to Anna when his heart was as full
of hope as the brown stalks, now beating against his windows with a
dismal sound, were full of fragrant blossoms. Both had died since then,
the roses and his hopes, and Arthur almost wished that he, too, were
dead when he read Mrs. Meredith’s letter and saw the gulf he was
treading. Like the waves of the sea his love for Anna came rolling back
upon him, augmented and intensified by all that he had suffered, and by
the terrible conviction that it could not be, although, alas, “it might
have been.” He repeated these words over and over again, as, stupefied
with pain, he sat gazing at vacancy, thinking how true was the couplet:
“Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these,—_it might_ have been.”
He could not pray at first, his brain was so confused; but when the
white, quivering lips could move and the poor aching heart could pray,
he only whispered: “God help me to do right,” and by that prayer he knew
that for a single instant there had crept across his mind the
possibility of sacrificing Lucy, the girl who loved and trusted him so
much; but only for an instant. He would not cast her from him, though to
take her now, knowing what he did, was almost death itself. “But God can
help me, and he will,” he cried,—then falling upon his knees, with his
face bowed to the floor, the rector of St. Mark’s prayed as he had never
prayed before, first for himself, whose need was greatest, then for
Lucy, that she might never know what making her happy had cost him, and
then for Anna, whose name he could not speak. “That other one,” he
called her, and his heart kept swelling in his throat and preventing his
utterance so that the words he would say never reached his lips. But God
heard them just the same, and knew his child was asking that Anna might
forget him, if to remember him was pain,—that she might learn to love
another far worthier than he had ever been. He did not think of Mrs.
Meredith; he had no feeling of resentment then; he was too wholly
crushed to care how his ruin had been brought about, and long after the
wood-fire on the hearth had turned to cold, gray ashes, he knelt upon
the floor and battled with his grief; and when the morning broke it
found him still in the cheerless room, where he had passed the entire
night and from which he went forth strengthened as he hoped to do what
he fully believed to be his duty.
This was on Saturday, and the Sunday following there was no service at
St. Mark’s. The rector was sick, the sexton said, hard sick, too, he had
heard, and the Hetherton carriage with Lucy in it drove swiftly to the
parsonage, where the quiet and solitude awed and frightened her as she
entered the house and asked the housekeeper how Mr. Leighton was.
“It is very sudden,” she said. “He was perfectly well when he left me on
Friday night. Please tell him I am here.”
The housekeeper shook her head. Her master’s orders were that no one but
the doctor should be admitted, she said, repeating what Arthur had told
her in anticipation of just such an infliction as this. But Lucy was not
to be denied; Arthur was hers; his sickness was hers; his suffering was
hers, and see him she would.
“He surely did not mean me, when he asked that no one should be
admitted. Tell him it is I; it is Lucy,” she said, with an air of
authority, which in one so small, so pretty, and so childish only amused
Mrs. Brown, who departed with the message, while Lucy sat down with her
feet upon the stove and looked around the sitting-room, thinking that it
was smaller and poorer than the one at Prospect Hill, and how she would
remodel it when she was mistress there.
“He says you can come,” was the word Mrs. Brown brought back, and with a
gleam of triumph in her eye and a toss of the head which said, “I told
you so,” Lucy went softly into the darkened room and shut the door
behind her.
Arthur had half expected this and had nerved himself to meet it, but the
cold sweat stood on his face and his heart throbbed painfully as Lucy
bent over him and said, “Poor, dear Arthur, I am so sorry for you, and
if I could I’d bear the pain so willingly.”
He knew she would; she was just as loving and unselfish as that, and he
wound his arms around her and drew her closer to him, while he
whispered, “My poor little Lucy, my poor little Lucy. I don’t deserve
this from you.”
She did not know what he meant, and she only answered him with kisses,
while her hands moved caressingly across his forehead, just as they had
moved years ago in Rome when she soothed the pain away. There certainly
was a mesmeric influence emanating from those hands, and Arthur felt its
power, growing very quiet and at last falling away to sleep while the
passes went on, and Lucy held her breath lest she should waken him. She
was a famous nurse, the physician said, when he came, and he constituted
her his coadjutor and gave his patient’s medicine into her care.
It was hardly proper for her niece to stay at the rectory, Mrs.
Hetherton thought, but Lucy was one who could trample down proprieties,
and it was finally arranged that, in order to avoid all comment, Fanny
should stay with her.
So, while Fanny went to bed and slept Lucy sat all night in the
sick-room with Mrs. Brown, and when the next morning came she was
looking very pale, and languid, but very beautiful withal. At least such
was the mental compliment paid her by Thornton Hastings, who was passing
through Hanover and stopped over a train to see his old college friend
and perhaps tell him what he began to feel it was his duty to tell him
in spite of his promise to Anna. She was nearly well now and had driven
with him twice to the park, but he could not be insensible to what she
suffered, or how she shrank from hearing the proposed wedding discussed,
and in his intense pity for her he had half resolved to break his word
and tell Arthur what he knew. But he changed his mind when he had been
in Hanover a few hours and watched the little fairy, who, like some
ministering angel, glided about the sick-room, showing herself every
whit a woman, and making him repent that he had ever called her
frivolous or silly. She was not either, he said, and with a magnanimity
for which he thought himself entitled to a good deal of praise, he felt
that it was very possible for Arthur to love the gentle little girl who
smoothed his pillows so tenderly, and whose fingers threaded so lovingly
the dark brown locks when she thought he—Thornton—was not looking on.
She was very coy of _him_, and very distant towards him, for she had not
forgotten his sin, and she treated him at first with a reserve for which
he could not account. But as the days went on and Arthur grew so sick
that his parishioners began to tremble for their young minister’s life,
and to think it perfectly right for Lucy to stay with him even if she
was assisted in her labor of love by the stranger from New York, the
reserve all disappeared, and on the most perfect terms of amity she and
Thornton Hastings watched together by Arthur’s side.
Thornton Hastings learned more lessons than one in that sick-room where
Arthur’s faith in God triumphed over the terrors of the grave which at
one time seemed so near, while the timid Lucy, whom he had only known as
a gay butterfly of fashion, dared before him to pray that God would
spare her promised husband, or give her grace to say “Thy will be done.”
Thornton could hardly say that he was skeptical before, but any doubts
he might have had touching the great fundamental truths on which a true
religion rests were gone forever, and he left Hanover a changed man in
more respects than one.
Arthur did not die, and on the Sunday preceding the week when the
Christmas decorations were to commence he came again before his people,
his face very pale and worn, and wearing upon it a look which told of a
new baptism,—an added amount of faith which had helped to lift him above
the fleeting cares of this present life. And yet there was much of earth
clinging to him still, and it made itself felt in the rapid beatings of
his heart when he glanced towards the pew where Lucy knelt and knew that
she was giving thanks for him restored again.
Once in the earlier stages of his convalescence he had almost betrayed
his secret by asking her which she would rather do, bury him from her
sight, feeling that he loved her to the last, or give him to another now
that she knew he would recover.
There was a frightened look in Lucy’s eyes as she replied:
“I would ten thousand times rather see you dead, and know that even in
death you were my own, than to lose you that other way. O Arthur, you
have no thought of leaving me now?”
“No, darling, I have not. I am yours always,” he said, feeling that the
compact was sealed forever, and that God blessed the sealing.
He had written to Mrs. Meredith, granting her his forgiveness, and
asking that if Anna did not already know of the deception she might
never be enlightened. And Mrs. Meredith had answered that Anna had only
heard a rumor that an offer had been made her, but that she regarded it
as a mistake, and was fast recovering both her health and spirits. Mrs.
Meredith did not add her surprise at Arthur’s conscientiousness in
adhering to his engagement, nor hint that her attack of conscience was
so safely over; she was glad of it, for she still had hope of that house
on Madison Square; but Arthur guessed at it and dismissed her from his
mind, and waited with a trusting heart for whatever the future might
bring.
CHAPTER XII.
VALENCIA.
Very extensive preparations were making at Prospect Hill for the double
wedding to occur on the 15th of January. After much debate and
consultation, Fanny had decided to take Mr. Bellamy then, and thus she,
too, shared largely in the general interest and excitement which
pervaded everything. Both brides-elect were very happy, but in a widely
different way, for while Fanny was quiet and undemonstrative Lucy seemed
wild with joy and danced gayly about the house, now in the kitchen,
where the cake was made, now in the chamber, where the plain sewing was
done, and then flitting to her own room in quest of Valencia, who was
sent on divers errands of mercy, the little lady thinking that as the
time for her marriage was so near it would be proper for her to stop
in-doors and not show herself in public quite so freely as she had been
in the habit of doing. So she remained at home, and they missed her in
the back streets and by-lanes, and the Widow Hobbs, who was still an
invalid, pined for a sight of her bright face, and was only half
consoled for its absence by the charities which Valencia brought, the
smart waiting-maid putting on a great many airs and making Mrs. Hobbs
feel keenly how greatly she thought herself demeaned by coming to such a
heathenish place. The Hanoverians, too, missed her in the streets, but
for this they made ample amends by discussing the preparations at
Prospect Hill and commenting upon the bridal trousseau, which was sent
from New York the week before Christmas, thus affording a most fruitful
theme of comment for the women and maids engaged in trimming the church.
There were dresses of every conceivable fashion, it was said, but none
were quite so grand as the wedding-dress itself,—a heavy white silk
which “could stand alone,” and trailed a full yard behind. It was also
whispered that, not content with seeing the effect of her bridal robes
as they lay upon the bed, Miss Lucy Harcourt had actually tried them on,
wreath, veil, and all, and stood before the glass until Miss Fanny had
laughed at her for being so vain and foolish, and said she was a pretty
specimen for a sober clergyman’s wife. For all this gossip the villagers
were indebted mostly to Valencia Le Barre, who, ever since her arrival
at Prospect Hill, had been growing somewhat dissatisfied with the young
mistress she had expected to rule even more completely than she had
ruled Mrs. Meredith. But in this she was mistaken, and it did not
improve her never very amiable temper to find that she could not with
safety appropriate more than half her mistress’ handkerchiefs, collars,
cuffs, and gloves, to say nothing of perfumery and pomades; and as this
was a new state of things with Valencia, she chafed at the
administration under which she had so willingly put herself, and told
things of her mistress which no sensible servant would ever have
reported. And Lucy gave her plenty to tell. Frank and outspoken as a
child, she acted as she felt and _did_ try on the bridal dress, did
scream with delight when Valencia fastened the veil and let its fleecy
folds fall gracefully around her.
“I wonder what Arthur will think. I so wish he was here,” she had said,
ordering a glass brought, that she might see herself from behind, and
know just how much her dress trailed, and how it looked beneath the
costly veil.
She was very beautiful in her bridal robes, and she kept them on till
Fanny began to chide her for her vanity, and even then she lingered
before the mirror as if loth to take them off.
“I don’t believe in presentiments,” she said, “but do you know it seems
to me just as if I should never wear this again,” and she smoothed
thoughtfully the folds of the heavy silk she had just laid upon the bed.
“I don’t know what can happen to prevent it, unless Arthur should die.
He was so pale last Sunday, and seemed so weak that I shuddered every
time I looked at him. I mean to drive round there this afternoon,” she
continued. “I suppose it is too cold for him to venture out, and he has
no carriage, either.”
Accordingly she went to the rectory that afternoon, and the women in the
church saw her as she drove by, the gorgeous colors of her
carriage-blanket flashing in the wintry sunshine, and the long white
feather in her hat waving up and down as she nodded to them. There was a
little too much of the lady patroness about her to suit the plain
Hanoverians, especially those who were neither high enough nor low
enough to be honored with her notice; and as they returned to their
wreath-making and gossip, they wondered under their breath if it would
not on the whole have been better if their clergyman had married Anna
Ruthven, instead of the fine city girl with her Parisian manners. As
they said this, a gleam of intelligence shot from the gray eyes of
Valencia Le Barre, who was there at work in a most unamiable mood.
“_She_ did not like to stain her hands with the nasty hemlock, more than
other folks,” she had said, when, after the trying on of the bridal
dress, Lucy had remonstrated with her for some duty neglected, and then
bidden her go to the church and help if she was needed.
“I must certainly dismiss you unless you improve,” Lucy had said to the
insolent girl, who went unwillingly to the church, where she sat tying
wreaths when the carriage went by.
She had thought many times of the letter she had read, and more than
once when particularly angry it had been upon her lips to tell her
mistress that she was not Mr. Leighton’s _first_ choice, if indeed she
was his choice at all; but there was something in Lucy’s manner which
held her back, besides which she was rather unwilling to confess to her
own meanness in reading the stolen letter.
“I _could_ tell them something if I would,” she thought, as she bent
over the hemlock boughs, and listened to the remarks; but for that time
she kept her secret and worked on moodily, while the unsuspecting Lucy
went her way, and was soon alighting at the parsonage-gate.
Arthur saw her as she came up the walk, and went out to meet her. He was
looking very pale and miserable, and his clothes hung loosely upon him,
but he welcomed her kindly, and lead her in to the fire, and tried to
believe that he was glad to see her sitting there with her little
high-heeled boots upon the fender, and the bright hues of her balmoral
just showing beneath her dress of blue merino. She went all over the
house as she usually did, suggesting alterations and improvements, and
greatly confusing good Mrs. Brown, who trudged obediently after her,
wondering what she and her master were ever to do with the gay-plumaged
bird, whose ways were so unlike their own.
“You must drive with me to the church,” she said at last to Arthur.
“Fresh air will do you good, and you stay moped up too much. I wanted
you to-day at Prospect Hill, for this morning the express from New York
brought—” she stood up on tiptoe to whisper the great news to him, but
his pulses did not quicken in the least, even when she told him how
charming was the bridal dress.
He was standing before the mirror, and glancing at himself, he said half
laughingly, half sadly, “I am a pitiful-looking bridegroom to go with
all that finery. I should not think you would want me, Lucy.”
“But I do,” she answered, holding his hand and leading him to the
carriage, which took him swiftly to the church.
He had not intended going there as long as there was an excuse for
staying away, and he felt himself grow sick and faint when he stood amid
the Christmas decorations, and remembered the last year, when he and
Anna had fastened the wreaths upon the wall. They were trimming the
church very elaborately in honor of him and his bride-elect, and white
artificial flowers, so natural that they could not be detected from the
real, were mixed with scarlet leaves and placed among the mass of green.
The effect was very fine, and Arthur tried to praise it, but his face
belied his words, and after he was gone, the disappointed girls declared
that he looked more like a man about to be hung, than one so soon to be
married.
It was very late that night when Lucy summoned Valencia to comb out her
long, thick curls, and Valencia was tired and cross and sleepy, and
handled the brush so awkwardly, and snarled her mistress’s hair so
often, that Lucy expostulated with her sharply, and this awoke the
slumbering demon, which, bursting into full life, could no longer be
restrained, and in amazement which kept her silent, Lucy listened, while
Valencia vulgarly taunted her with “standing in Anna Ruthven’s shoes,”
and told all she knew of the letter stolen by Mrs. Meredith, and the one
she carried to Arthur. But Valencia’s anger quickly cooled, and she
trembled with fear when she saw how deathly white her distress grew, and
even heard the loud beating of the heart which seemed trying to burst
from its prison, and fall bleeding at the feet of the poor, wretched
girl, around whose lips the white foam gathered as she motioned Valencia
to stop, and whispered “I am dying.”
She was _not_ dying, but the fainting-fit which ensued was more like
death than that which had come upon Anna when she heard that Arthur was
lost. Once they really thought her dead, and in an agony of remorse
Valencia hung over her, accusing herself as a murderess, but giving no
other explanation to those around her than:
“I was combing her hair when the white froth spirted all over her
wrapper, and she said that she was dying.”
And that was all the family know of the strange attack which lasted till
the dawn of day, and left upon Lucy’s face a look as if years and years
of roguish had passed over her young head, and left its footprints
behind. Early in the morning she asked to see Valencia alone, and the
repentant girl went to her, prepared to take back all she had said, and
declare the whole a lie. But something in Lucy’s manner wrung the truth
from her, and she repeated the story again so clearly, that Lucy had no
longer a doubt that Anna was preferred to herself, and sending Valencia
away, she moaned piteously:
“Oh, what shall I do? What is my duty?”
The part which hurt her most of all was the terrible certainty that
Arthur did not love _her_, as he loved Anna Ruthven. She seemed
intuitively to understand it all, and see how in an unguarded moment he
had offered himself to save her good name from gossip, and how ever
since his life had been a constant struggle to do his duty by her.
“Poor Arthur,” she sobbed, “yours has been a hard lot, trying to act the
love you did not feel; but it shall be so no longer, for I will set you
free.”
This was her final decision, but she did not reach it till a day and
night had passed, during which she lay with her face turned to the wall,
saying she wanted nothing except to be left alone.
“When I can, I’ll tell you,” she had said to Fanny and her aunt, who
insisted upon knowing the cause of her distress. “When I can, I’ll tell
you all about it. Leave me alone till then.”
So they ceased to worry her, but Fanny sat constantly in the room
watching the motionless figure, which took whatever she offered, but
otherwise gave no sign of life until the morning of the second day, when
it turned slowly towards her, and the livid lips quivered piteously and
made an attempt to smile as they said:
“I can tell you now. I have made up my mind.”
Fanny’s eyes were dim with the truest tears she had ever shed when
Lucy’s story was ended, and her voice was very low as she asked:
“And you mean to give him up at this late hour?”
“Yes, I mean to give him up. I have been over the entire ground many
times, even to the deep humiliation of what people will say, and I have
come each time to the same conclusion. It is right that Arthur should be
released, and I shall release him.”
“And what will _you_ do?” Fanny asked, gazing in wonder and awe at the
young girl, who answered: “I do not know; I have not thought. I guess
God will take care of that.”
And God _did_ take care of _that_, and inclined the Hetherton family to
be very kind and tender towards her, and kept Arthur from the house
until the Christmas decorations were completed and the Christmas
festival was held. Many were the inquiries made for Lucy on Christmas
Eve, and many thanks and wishes for her speedy restoration were sent to
her by those whom she had so bountifully remembered. Thornton Hastings,
too, who had come to town and was present at the church on Christmas
Eve, asked for her with almost as much interest as Arthur, who bade
Fanny tell her that he should call on her on the morrow after the
morning service.
“Oh, I cannot see him here! I must tell him at the rectory in the very
room where he asked me to be his wife,” Lucy said, when Fanny reported
Arthur’s message. “I am able to ride there, and it will be fine
sleighing to-morrow. See, the snow is falling now,” and pushing back the
curtain Lucy looked drearily out upon the fast-whitening ground, sighing
as she remembered the night when the first snow-flakes were falling, and
she stood watching them with Arthur at her side.
Fanny did not oppose her cousin, and with a kiss upon the blue-veined
forehead, she went to her own room and left her to think for the
hundredth time _what_ she should say to Arthur.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHRISTMAS DAY.
The worshippers at St. Mark’s on Christmas morning heard the music of
the bells as the Hetherton sleigh dashed by, but none of them knew
whither it was bound or dreamed of the scene which awaited the rector
when after the services were over he started towards home. Lucy had kept
to her resolution, and just as Mrs. Brown was looking at the clock to
see if it was time to put her fowls to bake, she heard the hall door
open softly, and almost dropped her dripping-pan in her surprise at the
sight of Lucy Harcourt, who looked so mournfully at her as she said:
“I want to go to Arthur’s room,—the library, I mean.”
“Why, child, what is the matter? I heard you was sick, but did not
s’spose ’twas anything very bad. You are paler than a ghost,” Mrs. Brown
exclaimed, as she tried to unfasten Lucy’s hood and cloak and lead her
to the fire.
But Lucy was not cold, and would rather go at once to Arthur’s room. So
Mrs. Brown made no objection, though she wondered if the girl was crazy
as she went back to her fowls and Christmas pudding, and left Lucy to
find her way alone to Arthur’s study, which looked so like its owner,
with his dressing-gown across the lounge just where he had thrown it,
his slippers on the rug, and his arm-chair standing near the table,
where he had sat when he asked Lucy to be his wife, and where she now
sat down, panting heavily for breath and gazing drearily around with the
look of a frightened bird when seeking for some avenue of escape from an
appalling danger. There _was_ no escape, and with a moan she laid her
head upon the writing-table, and prayed that Arthur might come quickly
while she had sense and strength to tell him. She heard his step at
last, and rose up to meet him, smiling a little at his sudden start when
he saw her there.
“It’s only I,” she said, shedding back the curls from her pallid face
and grasping the chair to steady herself and keep from falling. “I am
not here to frighten or worry you. I’ve come to do you good,—to set you
free. O Arthur, you do not know how terribly you have been wronged, and
I did not know it either till a few days ago! She never received your
letter,—Anna never did. If she had she would have answered yes and been
in my place now; but she is going to be there. I give you up to Anna.
I’m here to tell you so. But O Arthur, it hurts,—it hurts—”
He knew it hurt by the agonized expression of her face, but he could not
go near her for a moment, so great was his surprise at what he saw and
heard. But when the first shock for them both was past, and he could
listen to her more rational account of what she knew and what she was
there to do, he refused to listen. He knew it all before, and he would
not be free; he would keep his word, he said. Matters had gone too far
to be so suddenly ended; he held her to her promise, and she must be his
wife.
“Can you tell me truly that you love _me_ more than Anna?” Lucy asked, a
ray of hope dawning for an instant upon her heart, but fading into utter
darkness as Arthur hesitated to answer her.
He _did_ love Anna best, though never had Lucy been so near supplanting
her as at that moment when she stood before him and told him he was
free. There was something in the magnitude of her generosity which
touched him closely, and made her dearer to him than she had ever been.
“I can make you very happy,” he said at last, and Lucy replied, “Yes,
but how with yourself? Would you be happy too? No, Arthur, you would
not, and neither should I, knowing what I do. It is best that we should
part, though it almost breaks my heart, for I have loved you so much.”
She stopped for breath, and Arthur was wondering what he should say
next, when a cheery whistle sounded near, and Thornton Hastings appeared
in the door. He had just returned from the post-office, whither he had
gone after church, and not knowing any one but Arthur was in the
library, had come there at once.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, when he saw Lucy; and he was hurrying
away, but Lucy called him back, feeling that in him she would find a
powerful ally to aid her in her task.
Appealing to him as Arthur’s friend, she repeated Valencia’s story
rapidly, and then went on: “Anna never knew of that letter,—or she would
have answered yes. I know she loves him, for I can remember a thousand
things which prove it, and I know he has loved her best all the time,
even when trying so hard to love me. Oh, how it hurts me to think he had
to _try_ to love me who loved him so much. But that is all past now. I
give him up to Anna, and you must help me as if I were your sister. Tell
him it is best. He must not argue against me, for I feel myself giving
way through my great love for him, and I know it is not right. Tell him,
Mr. Hastings; plead my cause for me; say what a true woman ought to say,
for, believe me, I am in earnest in giving him to Anna.”
There was a ghastly hue upon her face, and her features looked pinched
and rigid, but the terrible heartbeats were not there. God in His great
mercy kept them back, else she had surely died under that strong
excitement. Thornton thought she was fainting, and going hastily to her
side, passed his arm around her and put her in the chair; then standing
by her, he said just what first came into his mind to say. It was a
delicate matter in which to interfere, but he handled it carefully,
telling frankly what had passed between himself and Anna, and giving as
his opinion, that she loved Arthur to-day just as well as before she
left Hanover.
“Then it is surely right for Arthur to marry her, and he must!” Lucy
exclaimed vehemently, while Thornton laid his hand pityingly upon her
head, and said, “And only you be sacrificed.”
There was something wonderfully tender in the tone of Thornton’s voice,
and Lucy glanced quickly at him while her eyes filled with the first
tears she had shed since she came into the room.
“I am willing; I am ready; I have made up my mind, and I shall never
unmake it,” she answered, while Arthur put in a feeble remonstrance.
But Thornton was on Lucy’s side, and did with his cooler judgment what
she could not; and when at last the interview was ended, there was no
ring on Lucy’s forefinger, for Arthur held it in his hand, and their
engagement was at an end. Stunned with what he had passed through, he
stood motionless while Thornton drew Lucy’s cloak about her shoulders,
fastened her fur, tied on her satin hood, and took such care of her as a
mother would take of a suffering child.
“It is hardly safe to send her home alone,” he thought, as he looked
into her face and saw how weak she was. “As a friend of both I ought to
accompany her.”
She was indeed so weak that she could scarcely stand, and Thornton took
her in his arms and carried her to the sleigh; then springing in beside
her, he made her lean her tired head upon his shoulder as they drove to
Prospect Hill. She did not seem frivolous to him now, but rather the
noblest type of womanhood he had ever met. Few could have done what she
had, and there was much of warmth and fervor in the clasp of his hand as
he bade her good-by, and went back to the rectory.
* * * * *
Great was the consternation and surprise in Hanover when it was known
that there was to be but one bride at Prospect Hill on the night of the
15th, and various were the surmises as to the cause of the sudden
change; but strive as they might, the good people of the village could
not get at the truth, for Valencia held her peace, while the Hethertons
were far too proud to admit of their being questioned, and Thornton
Hastings stood a bulwark of defence between the people and the
clergyman, and managed to have the pulpit at St. Mark’s supplied for a
few weeks, while he took Arthur away, saying that his health required
the change.
“You have done nobly, darling,” Fanny Hetherton had said to Lucy when
she received her from Thornton’s hands and heard that all was over.
Then, leading her half-fainting cousin to her own cheerful room, she
made her lie down while she told her of the plan she had formed when
first she heard what Lucy’s intentions were. “I wrote to Mr. Bellamy
asking if he would take a trip to Europe, so that you could go with us,
for I knew you would not wish to stay here. To-day I have his answer
saying he will go; and what is better yet, father and mother are going,
too.”
“Oh I am so glad! I could not stay here now,” Lucy replied, sobbing
herself to sleep, while Fanny sat by and watched, wondering at the
strength which had upheld her weak little cousin in the struggle she had
been through, and feeling, too, that it was just as well, for after all
it was a mésalliance for an heiress like her cousin to marry a poor
clergyman.
* * * * *
There was a great wedding at Prospect Hill on the night of the 15th, but
neither Lucy nor Arthur were there. He lay sick again at the St. Denis,
in New York, and she was alone in her chamber fighting back her tears,
and praying that now the worst was over she might be withheld from
looking back and wishing the work undone. She went with the bridal party
to New York, where she tarried for a few days, but saw no one but Anna,
for whom she sent at once. The interview lasted more than an hour, and
Anna’s eyes were swollen with weeping when at last it ended; but Lucy’s
face, though white as snow, was very calm and quiet, and wore a
peaceful, placid look which made it like the face of an angel. Two weeks
later, and the steamer Java bore her away across the water, where she
hoped to outlive the storm which had beaten so piteously upon her.
Thornton Hastings and Anna went with her on board the ship, and for
their sakes she tried to appear natural, succeeding so well that it was
a very pleasant picture, which Thornton kept in his mind, of a frail
little figure standing upon the deck, holding its water-proof together
with one hand, and with the other waving a smiling adieu to Anna and
himself.
More than a year later Thornton Hastings followed that figure across the
sea, and found it in beautiful Venice, sailing again through the moonlit
streets, and listening to the music which came so oft from the passing
gondolas. It had recovered its former roundness, and the face was even
more beautiful than it had been before, for the light frivolity was
gone, and there was in its stead a peaceful, subdued expression which
made Lucy Harcourt more attractive than she had ever been. At least so
Thornton Hastings thought, and he lingered at her side, and felt glad
that she gave no outward token of agitation when he said to her:
“There was a wedding at St. Mark’s in Hanover just before I left. Can
you guess who the happy couple were?”
“Yes, Arthur and Anna. She wrote me they were to be married on Christmas
eve. I am so glad it has come around at last.”
Then she questioned him of the bridal,—of Arthur,—and even of Anna’s
dress, her manner evincing that the old wound had healed, or was healing
very fast, and that soon only a scar would remain to tell where it had
been.
And so the days went on beneath the sunny Italian skies, until one
glorious night in Rome, when they sat together amid the ruins of the
Colosseum, and Thornton spoke his mind, alluding to the time when each
had loved another, expressing himself as glad that in his case the
matter had ended as it did, and then asking Lucy if she could
conscientiously be his wife.
“What! You marry a frivolous plaything like me?” Lucy asked, her woman’s
pride flashing up once more, but this time playfully, as Thornton knew
by the joyous light in her eye.
She told him what she meant, and how she had hated him for it, and then
they laughed together, but Thornton’s kiss smothered the laugh on Lucy’s
lips, for he guessed what her answer was, and that this, his second
wooing, was more successful than his first had been.
* * * * *
“MARRIED, in Rome, on Thursday, April 10th, THORNTON HASTINGS, ESQ., of
New York City, to MISS LUCY HARCOURT, also of New York, and niece of
Colonel James Hetherton.”
Anna was out in the rectory garden bending over a bed of hyacinths when
Arthur brought her the paper and pointed to the notice.
“Oh, I am so glad, so _glad_, so GLAD!” she exclaimed, emphasizing each
successive glad a little more, and setting down her foot as if to give
it force. “I have never dared be quite as happy with you as I might,”
she continued, leaning lovingly against her husband, “for there was
always a thought of Lucy, and what a fearful price she paid for our
happiness. But now it is all as it should be, and, Arthur, am I very
vain in thinking that she is better suited to Thornton Hastings than I
ever was, and that I do better as your wife than Lucy would have done?”
A kiss was Arthur’s only answer, but Anna was satisfied, and there
rested upon her face a look of perfect content as all that warm spring
afternoon she walked in her pleasant garden, thinking of the newly
married pair in Rome, and glancing occasionally at the open window of
the library where Arthur was, busy with his sermon, his pen moving all
the faster for the knowing that Anna was just within his call,—that by
turning his head he could see her dear face, and that by and by, when
his work was done, she would come in to him, and with her loving words
and winsome ways make him forget how tired he was, and thank Heaven
again for the great gift bestowed when it gave him Anna Ruthven.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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the public demand.... Without exception, they each have some strong
distinctive objection, ... either the shape and dimensions of the
volumes are unhandy—or, the type is small and indistinct—or, the paper
is thin and poor—or, the illustrations [if they have any] are
unsatisfactory—or, the binding is bad—or, the price is too high.
A new edition is _now_, however, published by G. W. Carleton & Co. of
New York, which, it is believed, will, in every respect, completely
satisfy the popular demand.... It is known as
“=Carleton’s New Illustrated Edition.=”
The size and form is most convenient for holding, ... the type is
entirely new, and of a clear and open character that has received the
approval of the reading community in other popular works.
The illustrations are by the original artists chosen by Charles Dickens
himself ... and the paper, printing, and binding are of the most
attractive and substantial character.
The publication of this beautiful new edition was commenced in April,
1873, and will be completed in 20 volumes—one novel each month—at the
extremely reasonable price of $1.50 per volume, as follows:—
1—THE PICKWICK PAPERS.
2—OLIVER TWIST.
3—DAVID COPPERFIELD.
4—GREAT EXPECTATIONS.
5—DOMBEY AND SON.
6—BARNABY RUDGE.
7—NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
8—OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
9—BLEAK HOUSE.
10—LITTLE DORRIT.
11—MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT.
12—OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
13—TALE OF TWO CITIES.
14—CHRISTMAS BOOKS.
15—SKETCHES BY “BOZ.”
16—HARD TIMES, ETC.
17—PICTURES OF ITALY, ETC.
18—UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER.
19—EDWIN DROOD, ETC.
20—ENGLAND and CATALOGUE.
Being issued, month by month, at so reasonable a price, those who
_begin_ by subscribing for this work, will imperceptibly soon find
themselves fortunate owners of an entire set of this _best edition of
Dickens’ Works_, almost without having paid for it.
A Prospectus furnishing specimen of type, sized-page, and illustrations,
will be sent to any one _free_ on application—and specimen copies of the
bound books will be forwarded by mail, _postage free_, on receipt of
price, $1.50, by
G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,
Madison Square, New York.
THREE VALUABLE BOOKS,
All Beautifully Printed and Elegantly Bound.
=I.—The Art of Conversation,=
With Directing for Self-Culture. An admirably conceived and entertaining
work—sensible, instructive, and full of suggestions valuable to every
one who desires to be either a good talker or listener, or who wishes to
appear to advantage in good society. Every young and even old person
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Price $1.50. Among the contents will be found chapters upon—
ATTENTION IN CONVERSATION.—SATIRE.—PUNS.—SARCASM.—TEASING.—CENSURE.—
FAULT-FINDING.—EGOTISM.—POLITENESS.—COMPLIMENTS.—STORIES.—ANECDOTES.—
QUESTIONING.—LIBERTIES.—IMPUDENCE.—STARING.—DISAGREEABLE SUBJECTS.—
SELFISHNESS.—ARGUMENT.—SACRIFICES.—SILENT PEOPLE.—DINNER CONVERSATION.—
TIMIDITY.—ITS CURE.—MODESTY.—CORRECT LANGUAGE.—SELF-INSTRUCTION.—
MISCELLANEOUS KNOWLEDGE.—LANGUAGES.
=II.—The Habits of Good Society.=
A Handbook for Ladies and Gentlemen. With thoughts, hints, and anecdotes
concerning social observances, nice points of taste and good manners,
and the art of making oneself agreeable. The whole interspersed with
humorous illustrations of social predicaments, remarks on fashion, etc.
⁂ Price $1.75. Among the contents will be found chapters upon—
GENTLEMEN’S PREFACE.
LADIES’ PREFACE.—FASHIONS.
THOUGHTS ON SOCIETY.
GOOD SOCIETY.—BAD SOCIETY.
THE DRESSING-ROOM.
THE LADIES’ TOILET.—DRESS.
FEMININE ACCOMPLISHMENTS.
MANNERS AND HABITS.
PUBLIC AND PRIVATE ETIQUETTE.
MARRIED AND UNMARRIED LADIES.
DO DO GENTLEMEN.
CALLING ETIQUETTE.—CARDS.
VISITING ETIQUETTE.—DINNERS.
DINNER PARTIES.
LADIES AT DINNER.
DINNER HABITS.—CARVING.
MANNERS AT SUPPER.—BALLS.
MORNING PARTIES.—PICNICS.
EVENING PARTIES.—DANCES.
PRIVATE THEATRICALS.
RECEPTIONS.—ENGAGEMENTS.
MARRIAGE CEREMONIES.
INVITATIONS.—DRESSES.
BRIDESMAIDS.—PRESENTS.
TRAVELLING ETIQUETTE.
PUBLIC PROMENADE.
COUNTRY VISITS.—CITY VISITS.
=III.—Arts of Writing, Reading, and Speaking.=
An exceedingly fascinating work for teaching not only the beginner, but
for perfecting every one in these three most desirable accomplishments.
For youth this book is both interesting and valuable; and for adults,
whether professionally or socially it is a book that they cannot
dispense with. ⁂ Price $1.50. Among the contents will be found chapters
upon—
READING & THINKING.—LANGUAGE.—WORDS, SENTENCES, & CONSTRUCTION.—WHAT TO
AVOID.—LETTER WRITING.—PRONUNCIATION.—EXPRESSION.—TONE.—RELIGIOUS
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FOUNDATIONS FOR ORATORY AND SPEAKING.—WHAT TO SAY.—WHAT NOT TO SAY—HOW
TO BEGIN.—CAUTIONS.—DELIVERY.—WRITING A SPEECH.—FIRST LESSONS.—PUBLIC
SPEAKING.—DELIVERY.—ACTION.—ORATORY OF THE PULPIT.—COMPOSITION.—THE
BAR.—READING OF WIT & HUMOR.—THE PLATFORM.—CONSTRUCTION OF A SPEECH.
_These works are the most perfect of their kind ever published; fresh,
sensible good-humored, entertaining, and readable. Every person of taste
should possess them, and cannot be otherwise than delighted with them._
☞ A beautiful new miniature edition of these very popular books has just
been published, entitled “THE DIAMOND EDITION,” three little volumes,
elegantly printed on tinted paper, and handsomely bound in a box. Price
$3.00.
⁂ These books are all sent by mail, _postage free_, on receipt of price,
by
G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, Madison Square, New York.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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