A CONFESSION AND ITS REPLY.
Wallace, in his lonely home, was of course very sad and almost stunned
by the blow that had fallen upon him so suddenly.
For many years his mother had been the one object upon which he had
lavished the deep, strong affection of his manly nature. He had lost his
father when but a youth, but Mrs. Richardson had struggled bravely to
keep him at school, and give him as good an education as possible, for
he was a lad possessing more than ordinary capabilities and attainments.
By the time, however, that he graduated from the high school in the city
of Boston, Massachusetts, where they were living at that time, their
slender means gave out, and Wallace found that he must relinquish, at
least, for the present, his aspiration to perfect himself as an
architect, and do something for his own and his mother's support.
He was but seventeen years of age at this time, but he was a strong,
manly fellow, and he resolved to take up the carpenter's trade, much
about which he already knew, for during his vacations he had often
worked, from choice, under the direction of his father.
As he had told Violet, he felt that a practical and thorough knowledge
of the construction of buildings would be of inestimable benefit in the
future, for he had not by any means given up his intention of ultimately
becoming an architect.
He applied to the builder and contractor who had grown up under and
succeeded to the business of his father, and the man readily agreed to
engage him, provided he would be willing to go to Cincinnati, where he
had managed to obtain a very large contract, and, for a lad of Wallace's
age, he offered him unusual inducements.
At first Wallace demurred, for he could not bear the thought of leaving
his mother, and at that time they could not both afford to make the
change.
But he finally concluded to make the trial, and at the end of six months
he had made himself so valuable to his employer that the man had
increased his wages, and promised him still further promotion if he
continued to progress as he had done.
This change in his circumstances enabled Wallace to send for his mother
and to provide a comfortable little home for her.
He was very ambitious; every spare moment was spent in study, while he
also attended an evening school for drawing, where he could receive
instruction in his beloved architecture.
Thus, step by step, he went steadily on, perfecting himself in both his
trade and his profession until, at the opening of our story, six years
after leaving his native city, Boston, we find him and his mother still
residents of Cincinnati, and the young man in a fair way to realize the
one grand object of his life.
Already he had executed a number of plans for buildings, which had been
approved, accepted, and fairly well paid for, while he had applied for,
and hoped to obtain, a lucrative position in the office of an eminent
architect, at the beginning of the new year.
His accident had interrupted his business for several weeks, but he knew
that he should lose nothing pecuniarily, for the company that controlled
the incline-plane railway had agreed to meet all the expenses of his
illness, and pay him a goodly sum besides; so his enforced idleness had
not tried his patience as severely as it would have otherwise done.
Indeed, he had not been idle, for he had devoted a good deal of time,
after he was able to be about, to the study of his beloved art. His
right hand, being only slightly injured he could use quite freely, and
he executed several designs which he was sure would be useful to him in
the future.
His mother's sudden death, however, was a blow which almost crushed him.
He had never thought that she could die at least for long years for she
had apparently been in the enjoyment of perfect health.
They were sitting together one evening, and had been unusually social
and merry, when Mrs. Richardson suddenly broke off in the middle of a
sentence, leaned back in her chair as if faint, and before Wallace could
reach her side, her spirit was gone.
Wallace would not believe that she was dead until the hastily summoned
physician declared that life was entirely extinct and then the heavily
afflicted son felt as if his burden were greater than he could bear.
He did not look upon that loved face again until the hour of the
funeral, when he went alone into their pretty parlor to take his last
farewell, and found Violet there before him.
Her presence there had been "inexpressibly comforting" to him as he had
said, and in the sudden reaction and surprise of the moment he had
betrayed the secret of his love for her.
He was shocked and filled with dismay when, after his return from the
grave of his mother, he had an opportunity to quietly think over what he
had done.
He felt that he had been very unwise--that he had no right to aspire to
the hand of the beautiful heiress, for he could offer her nothing but
his true heart, and this, he well knew, would be scorned by Violet's
aristocratic relatives.
Yet, in spite of his remorse, his heart leaped with exultation over the
knowledge that the lovely girl returned his affection. She had not
spoken her love, but he had seen it in her shy, sweet glance of surprise
and joy at his confession; he had felt it in the clinging clasp of her
trembling fingers, that would not let him release her hand; he had heard
it in every tone of her dear voice when she had told him, simply, but
heartily, that she "was glad."
Was she glad to know that she was his "darling," or only glad because
her presence was a comfort to him in his hour of trial?
Both, he felt very sure, and he kept repeating those three words over
and over until they became sweetest music in his soul.
But he told himself that he must not accept the priceless gift of her
love.
"What shall I do?" he cried, in deep distress. "I have compromised
myself; I have gone too far to retract, and she would deem unmanly if I
should keep silent and let the matter drop here."
He sat for hours trying to decide what course to pursue, and finally he
exclaimed, with an air of resolution:
"There is no other way but to make a frank explanation--confess my
sorrow for my presumption and ask her forgiveness; then I must take up
the burden of my lonely life and bear it as well as I can."
The next morning, after he had partaken of his solitary breakfast, which
a kind and sympathizing neighbor sent in to him, he sat down to his task
of writing his confession to Violet.
That evening the fair young girl received the following epistle:
"My Dear Miss Huntington:--I am filled with conflicting
emotions, which it would be vain for me to try to explain, in
addressing you thus; but my mother taught me this motto in my
youth--and I have endeavored to make it the rule of my life ever
since--'If you do wrong confess it and make what reparation you
can.' I realize that I was guilty of great presumption and wrong
in addressing you so unguardedly as I did yesterday, when we stood
alone by my mother's casket. Pray forgive me, for, while I am
bound to confess that the words were forced from me by a true,
strong love, which will always live in my heart--a love such as a
man experiences but once in his life for a woman whom he would win
for his wife, if he could do so honorably--I know that, situated
as I am, with a life of labor before me and only my own efforts to
help me build up a possible fortune, I should not have betrayed
myself as I did. I was unnerved by my great sorrow, and your
gentle sympathy, coming as it did like balm to my wounded heart,
unsealed my lips before I was aware of it. Again I beg your
forgiveness, and with it forgetfulness of aught that could serve
to lower me in your esteem.
"Sincerely yours,
"Wallace Richardson."
Violet was greatly excited by the contents of this letter, and burst
into a flood of tears the moment she had perused it.
She understood just how matters stood.
She comprehended how Wallace had grown to love her, even as she had,
though at the time unconsciously, learned to love him while she was an
invalid in his home; how, with his proud, manly sense of honor, he had
determined never to reveal his secret, from a fear that he would be
regarded as a fortune-hunter, and that her aristocratic relatives would
scorn an alliance with him on account of his poverty.
But Violet felt that he was her peer, if not her superior, in every
respect save that of wealth; that a grand future lay before him--grand
because he would climb to the top-most round in the ladder of his
profession, if energy, perseverance, and unswerving rectitude could
attain it.
He might be poor in purse now, but what of that? Money was of little
value compared with a nature so rich and noble as his; and, more than
that--she loved him!
"Yes, I do!" she exclaimed, as she pressed to her lips the precious
letter that told of his love for her. "I am not ashamed of it either,
and--I am going to tell him of it."
A crimson flush mounted to her brow as she gave expression to this
resolution, and, for a moment, a sense of maidenly reserve and timidity
oppressed her. The next she tossed back her pretty head with a resolute
air.
"Why should I not tell him?" she said. "Why should I conceal the fact
when the knowledge will make two true, loving hearts happy? I have money
enough for us both, for the present, and by and by I know he will have
an abundance. I suppose Belle and Wilhelm will object and scold, but I
don't care; it is the right thing to do, and I am going to do it," and
she proceeded to put her resolution at once into action.
She drew her writing tablet before her, and, with the tears still
glittering on her lashes and a crimson flush on her cheek, she penned
the following reply to her lover's letter:
"Dear Wallace:--Your letter has just come to me. I have
nothing to 'forgive'--I do not wish to 'forget.' Perhaps I am
guilty of what the world would call an unmaidenly act in writing
thus, when your communication does not really call for a reply,
but I know my happiness, and, I believe, yours also, depends upon
perfect truthfulness and candor. Your unguarded words by your
mother's casket told me that you love me; your letter to-day
reaffirms it, and my own heart goes forth in happy response to all
that you have told me.
"You have made use of the expression, 'presumption and wrong.'
Pardon me if I claim that you would have been guilty of a greater
wrong by keeping silent. Heaven has ordained that somewhere on
this earth each heart has its mate, and there would be much less
of secret sorrow, much less of domestic misery, if people would be
honest with each other and true to themselves. How many lives are
ruined by the worship of mammon--by the bondage of position!
Perhaps I might be accused of 'presumption'--of offending against
all laws of so-called etiquette, in making this open confession.
However it may seem, I am going to be true to myself, and my
convictions of what is right, and so I have opened my heart to
you. Still, if in writing thus, I have done aught that can lower
me in your esteem, I pray you to forgive and forget.
"Violet Huntington."
Violet would not allow herself to read over what she had written.
She had penned the note out of the honesty and fullness of her fond
little heart; and, though she stood for a moment or two irresolute,
debating whether to tear it into pieces and thus cast her happiness
forever from her with the fragments, or to send it and trust to
Wallace's good sense to interpret it aright, her good angel touched the
balance in her favor, and she resolutely sealed and addressed the
missive.
Then she stole softly down stairs and out to the street corner, where
she posted it with her own hands, after which she sped back to her
chamber and relieved her sensitive heart in another burst of tears.
She would not have been human if she had not regretted her act, now that
it was past recall. She grew nervous and self-abusive, declared that she
had been unmaidenly, and made herself as wretched as possible.
She dared not think what would be the result of her letter. Would
Wallace despise her for unsexing herself and almost proposing to him?
Would he, with his exaggerated ideas of honor still claim that it would
be unmanly to accept the love which she had so freely offered him?
Thoughts such as these occupied her waking hours up to the following
afternoon, when she expected a letter from Wallace, and was deeply
disappointed when none came.
Mr. and Mrs. Mencke had gone out to make some social calls, and Violet
was striving to divert her mind from the all-important theme, by going
over her music lesson for to-morrow. It was useless, however; there was
no music in her--everything was out of harmony, and her fingers refused
to do their work.
She then tried to read, but her mind was in such a chaotic state that
words had no meaning for her, and she finally grew so nervous that she
could do nothing but pace up and down the room.
The hours slowly dragged on, evening came, and she was upon the point of
going up stairs to bed, when a sudden ring at the door-bell made her
start with a feeling of mingled shame and joy.
She listened breathlessly, while a servant went to answer the summons,
and then heard her usher some one in the drawing-room.
A moment later the girl appeared in the library doorway, bearing a card
on a silver salver.
"A caller for you, Miss Violet," she said, as she passed her the bit of
pasteboard.
Violet grew dizzy, then the rich color surged over cheek and brow, as
she read the name of Wallace Richardson, written upon the spotless
surface in a beautiful, flowing hand.