TWELVE MONTHS LATER.
“And years have passed--how much the years
Have taken in their flight;
They’ve taken from the lip its smile,
And from the eye its light.”--L. E. L.
One year later Vivian Essex sits in the bare little sitting-room of
a tiny cottage in the suburbs of Richmond. The carpetless floor, the
plain and meager furniture, her worn calico dress, even the cheap
quality of the child’s dress she is making with busy fingers, all
indicate but too plainly the pinching hand of poverty. Nothing in or
about that poor abode breathes a hint of luxury save and except the
presence of Charlton Leigh, who sits at an open window as nonchalantly
elegant as ever.
“Viva,” he is saying in a voice of real solicitude, “I wish you would
consent to let father give you a better house than this to live in. He
can afford it.”
“Of what use would it be?” she returns hopelessly. “Everything that
papa has given me since my marriage Earle has squandered in drink.
Everything he can lay his hands on will go the same way. No, Charlton,
I will not accept any more charity from you nor papa.”
“Viva, let me persuade you to leave Essex and come home to us again. It
would be so much better for you and the child.”
Her sweet lips quiver, and hot tears gather in the dark eyes.
“Don’t tempt me, brother,” she answers sadly. “Think of the talk there
would be. No, no; let me spare my father’s gray hairs this additional
sorrow. And there is my duty to my husband, Charlton; for contemptible
as he is, he is still my husband. Oh, I have tried so hard to redeem
him, and I must keep on trying still. It is my duty.”
“You’ve made my mamma ky,” cries little Charlie, his black eyes darting
angry glances at the offender. “Mamma, don’t ky. Charlie is oor pitty
boy!”
“My angel!” the mother murmurs, hiding her wet eyes against the curly
little head. “My angel, what a desert my life would be without you.”
Conversation lags a little now, and when Viva speaks again it is to
turn the conversation:
“Charlton, have you heard from Viola since her husband failed in
business?”
“Father had a brief letter last week; it is a complete wreck, nothing
saved, and they have actually gone into lodgings. Huntington wrote that
Viola was sick--hysterical, I expect.”
“Poor Viola! Cannot father do anything to help them?”
“He has offered them a home with us until Huntington gets on his feet
again, but I believe they think it best to stay there and try to
struggle up again. It seems there is a small but hopeful outlook for a
new beginning if only Viola does not hamper her good husband as she has
done in the past. A fashionable wife is a luxury even to a Wall street
prince.”
Then he dismisses the subject, and says, thinking of their best-loved
sister:
“Musa is coming home next month.”
“Oh, I am so glad, so glad. Musa and her husband have been abroad so
many years--seven, isn’t it Charlton?--and to think of her coming home
at last.” Then the tears spring to her eyes at the thought of the
sorrowful plight in which Musa will find her--a drunkard’s wretched,
neglected wife!
“Musa is coming over in the same steamer with the Vernes,” Charlton
adds, referring to a letter. “Let me see--they will land in New York
about the twenty-fifth of next month. By the thirtieth they intend to
be in Richmond.”
“Not Max?” she asks, looking out of the low window.
“No, not Max; only his uncle and his family. It seems Max does not
care to return to his native land. Musa writes glowing accounts of his
success in Paris, but, of course, you don’t care to hear about him, you
always had a prejudice against him. But, Viva, there was a grand match
for you if you could have liked him. What if he did lose the fortune
he was brought up to expect? He will make his mark on the age for all
that.”
“Run, Charlie, to the gate. There is grandpapa coming,” says Viva.
“Well, Charlton, and did Mrs. Verne secure the English fortune?”
“Musa says not. Some English claimants started up, and Verne got
disgusted, and insisted on bringing his wife home. The suit at law
is still in progress. I am sure I don’t care if Mrs. Verne loses it.
She cheated my friend out of his inheritance, and I don’t care if she
suffers in her turn, the little willful miser that she is, tramping
over the world after more money.”
Judge Leigh comes in, and greets his daughter with his usual grave
tenderness, but she notes that his usually florid face is pale and wan
to-day.
“You do not look well, papa,” she says anxiously, and Charlton notes
that the arm that clasps his little grandson is trembling like a leaf.
“Father----” he exclaims, but the old man telegraphs him a sudden
comprehensive glance that says plainly:
“Notice nothing. I will explain later.”
Viva draws a low seat to her father’s knee, like a child, and takes his
cold hand in hers.
“You are not well, papa,” she repeats in a sweet, distressed voice.
“And I have nothing to offer you--no wine, no cordial, none of the
things we kept at home for sick people.”
“My dear, do not distress yourself over that. I am not ill,” he
replies, gently, letting his hand fall caressingly on the dark head
close to his knee.
Her sensitive lips quiver at his loving glance, and she is silent from
deep emotion, letting the prattle of the joyous little child fill up
the pauses in the conversation.