LITTLE EDDIE’S GRIEF.
“Madam, a gentleman wishes to see you in the parlor.”
Mrs. Oakley started up from the depths of a great easy-chair, in which
she had been striving to bury her grief; and with breathless
nervousness, very unusual to her, paced the room two or three times,
smoothing the bandeaux of her hair rapidly with each hand as she walked.
When this quick motion had composed her a little, she went down.
The parlor was dim from the flowering vines that clustered around its
windows. But though she saw her visitor but indistinctly, her heart gave
a great bound, and she felt the blood surge back and forth from her
bosom to her temples, leaving both paler than before.
“Lady, dear lady!”
It was his voice. It was De Marke that came toward her, with both hands
extended, looking so bright, so strangely happy.
Mrs. Oakley put out her hands to repulse him. “No, no, do not advance;
do not come near me. I have been already sufficiently degraded!”
De Marke stood still, dumb with astonishment, while she shrunk backward,
step by step, with her frightened eyes upon him, as if she dreaded lest
the fascination in his glance would enthrall her again.
“Mrs. Oakley,” he said at last, “may I ask the meaning of this
reception?”
His voice was a little tremulous, but full of self-respect.
“You have come here to insult me, sir!”
“I have come here, lady, to say how truly and how long I have loved
you.”
The widow locked her white hands together and held them firmly;
resentment was giving her strength.
“Had you never said the same words to Louisa Oakley, my husband’s
sister, she need not have died of shame in a charity hospital!” she
answered, almost harshly.
De Marke staggered back. The name of his lost wife from those lips, and
spoken in bitterness, brought a terrible pang with it. At last he spoke;
but it was in a low, broken voice, that went to her heart.
“There was poverty and great suffering in Louisa’s death but no shame,
Mrs. Oakley. She was my wife. I was absent, a minor and helpless; but
had I known that she was in danger or suffering from any cause, I would
have saved her at the risk of my life.”
“Then it was not neglect—it was not from wanton cruelty that you left
her?” questioned the widow, drawing gently toward him.
“Sit down with me, lady; it is a sad story. I have been to blame, but
not criminal. Will you listen to me?”
They sat down together in the dim parlor, and he told her everything,
even the first love which had grown strong in his boyhood; and all its
painful results were fully revealed. At first she listened to him with a
degree of proud reserve; but as he went on to lay his heart before her,
the love-light came back to her eyes, and tears of gentle grief stole up
through that light and trembled softly there. Her hand crept to his,
timidly asking pardon for the harsh thoughts that had melted away with
the honest tones of his voice.
“And now,” he said, closing his hand firmly over hers, “can you forgive
the rashness of my youth? Can you trust, can you love me?”
She did not answer; but the tears that stood upon her cheek seemed like
dew-drops upon a damask rose. She bent her head toward him, half in
shame, half in love, like a flower heavy with rain. He gathered her
softly to his bosom, his hand was pressed caressingly on one flushed
cheek, the other lay close to his heart.
“Oh, I was sure of it. Love like mine—so deep, so faithful—could not be
wholly without a return. Tell me, dear one, is this not true?”
“I love you. Indeed, indeed, I love you?”
It is impossible to say how many times, and in how many forms, this one
sentence was repeated, before the two parted: but one thing is certain,
he had not been gone half an hour before both of them were restless to
repeat every word of it again.
After he was gone, the happy lady wandered forth into the grounds, for
the rooms of her dwelling seemed altogether too small for the breadth
and glory of her happiness. She longed for the open air, the free winds,
anything that spoke to her of the heaven which lived in her own heart.
As she passed through the flower-garden, a sob reached her from behind a
honeysuckle arbor near the path. Any sound of grief was discord to her
then, so she turned aside, resolved to make everything happy on that
blissful day.
She entered the arbor, and there, crouching down upon the tessellated
floor, was poor little Edward, complaining to himself and sobbing as if
that dear little heart were quite broken. How her conscience smote her
then! How quick and fast the tears came rushing to her eyes.
“Eddie, Eddie, darling!”
The child lifted his flushed face. A smile danced up from his heart and
broke in sunshine all over it.
“Mamma, mamma!” he cried, leaping forward, his white arms extended, and
the tears sparkling joyfully in his eyes, “you are not angry, you love
me, darling mamma?”
“Love you?” cried the widow, raining kisses upon his face. “Love you,
darling. I love everything under the heavens, this day, and you, little
one, best of all.”
Don’t believe that, little Eddie. The warm blushes on her face, as she
buries it in your curls, contradict every word of it. She loves you a
great deal more than she did before, certainly; but her heart has grown
large and rich since yesterday; and with all these caresses you are not
the first there. Content yourself about that, little Eddie.
In her walk that day, Mrs. Oakley met Catharine, who was rambling sadly
through the grounds, which we have said adjoined each other, with Elsie
Ford. The two women were very melancholy, and a look of continued pain
lay upon them both. No wonder their lives were so sombre, so completely
cast upon the shadowy side of existence. Elsie was very quiet, and her
large black eyes wandered toward the little boy with sorrowful
intensity; but she seemed afraid to touch him, muttering that he too
would fly away and become nothing if she did.
The boy looked at her wistfully, and once attempted to approach her, for
those troubled eyes fascinated him. She waved him back, and gathering an
over-ripe thistle, that grew in her path, the ghost of a flower that had
been, she cast a sigh into its shadowy heart, and, lo! the whole
disappeared. A few silvery gleams floated off toward sunset, and she
held nothing but a dead, thorny stalk in her hand.
“See, see; don’t come this way; everything I touch melts like that, into
nothing, nothing, nothing.”
The boy looked on and listened. Her voice was so sadly musical, it
charmed him. He was very fearless, too, and moved toward her.
She stepped backward, repelling him with her outstretched palms.
“Don’t, don’t, you are so pretty. I won’t hurt _you_. Go away, or it
will come to this.”
She held up the dry, thorny stem of the thistle, and shook it warningly
at the child. Repelled by this, he went away, following Mrs. Oakley and
Catharine, who had walked forward, keeping the demented woman in sight.
“Will you not rejoice that this terrible load is taken from my heart,”
said the widow, chilled by the gravity of her companion. “The only
trouble with me now is, that I could have doubted him.”
“And is he equally happy?” inquired Catharine, in a low voice. “You are
sure that he, too, is happy?”
“I wish you could have seen him. It would be impossible to think
otherwise. You know there was some doubt at first that his wife was
dead; but it’s all cleared up now. His mother, with her dying breath,
set it all right.”
“And the knowledge that his wife was dead made him happy, you say?”
“Perfectly happy. Remember, it was a long time ago, and he—but poor,
poor girl, if he did not love her, he would always have been
affectionate and kind.”
“Did De Marke tell you that he did not love the girl whom he married and
left? It was an unfeeling confession,” said Catharine, in a trembling
voice.
“It was necessary in order to explain everything. He gave me his whole
heart. This is what makes me so happy—nothing is kept back. Remember, I
was engaged to Mr. Oakley when he first saw me.”
“And he married this other person, without love, merely from compassion,
you say!”
“I do not know; it seems hard to speak of the dead in a way that would
wound them, if living; but I am quite sure that De Marke has loved me
from the first. He says so, and I believe him, in spite of this rash
marriage.”
“I think so too!” answered Catharine, in a grave, cold voice. “Still he
might remember how that poor, lone girl worshipped him.”
“It is very sad, I am sure it must be very sad, to love any one whose
heart is not all given back in return. The anguish which I have felt
during these few days has been so terrible, that I can well pity those
who suffer with like doubts.”
“Can you? I think you are generous and good. Love like yours should be
given to a worthy object.”
“It is! it is! I would stake my life upon his goodness.”
“And if it were yet proved otherwise?” said Catharine, turning her large
eyes searchingly on the happy face of her companion.
“I think—I know,” answered the widow, with a shudder, “that it would
kill me—I could not live after all this happiness, to be cast back even
into doubt again.”
Catharine looked at her friend very mournfully for a moment.
“We suffer a great deal without dying,” she said; moving slowly away,
she joined Elsie and the child.