Louis Castrani received, one day, an urgent summons to Boston. It was the
very day following that on which he had been an unwilling listener to the
difficulty between Mr. and Mrs. Trevlyn. He knew from whom the summons
came. Once before he had been suddenly called in like manner.
A wretched woman she was now--but once the belle and beauty of the fair
Cuban town where Castrani's childhood and youth had been spent. She had
been a beautiful orphan, adopted by his parents, and brought up almost as
his sister. Perhaps, in those days, when they played together under the
soft Southern skies, he knew no difference.
Now she was dying. So said the message. Dying, and burdened with a
secret which she could confess to no ears save his. Before, when he had
gone to her, she had rallied after his arrival, and had declined making
confession. She should never speak of it, she said, until her death was
sure. But when she felt dissolution drawing nigh, she should send for
him again. And the summons had come. He obeyed it in haste, and one night
just before sunset, he stood by her bedside.
Once, she had been beautiful, with such beauty as a pure complexion,
black eyes, raven hair and perfect features confer; but now she was a
wreck. The pure, transparent complexion was pale as marble--the brilliant
eyes sunken--the magnificent hair bleached white as the wintry snow.
She welcomed him brokenly, her eyes lighting up with the pleasure of
seeing him--and then the light faded away, leaving her even more ghastly
than before.
"They tell me I am dying," she said, hoarsely. "Do you think so?"
He smoothed back the hair on the forehead--damp already with the dews of
death. His look assured her better than the words he could not bring
himself to speak.
"My poor Arabel!"
"Arabel! Who calls me Arabel?" she asked, dreamily. "I have not heard
that name since _he_ spoke it! What a sweet voice he had! O, _so_
sweet!--but falser than Satan! O Louis, Louis! if we could go back to the
old days among the orange groves, before I sinned--when we were innocent
little children!"
"It is all over now, Arabel. You were tempted; but God is good to
forgive, if repentance is sincere."
"O, I _have_ repented! I have, indeed! And I have prayed as well as I
knew how. But my crimes are so fearful! You are sure that Christ is very
merciful?"
"Very merciful, Arabel."
"More merciful, more gentle and loving than our best friends, Louis?"
"He forgave those who crucified Him."
"O, if I could only trust Him--if I only could!"
She clasped her hands, and her pale lips moved in prayer, though there
was no audible word.
"Let me hold your hand, Louis. It gives me strength. And you were always
a friend so true and steadfast. How happy we were in those dear old
days--you, and Inez, and I! Ah, Inez--Inez! She died in her sweet
innocence, loving and beloved--died by violence; but she never lived
to suffer from the falsity of those she loved! Well, she is in
paradise--God rest her!"
The dark eyes of Castrani grew moist. There arose before him a picture of
the fair young girl he had loved--the gentle-eyed Inez--the confiding
young thing he was to have married, had not the hand of a cruel jealousy
cut short her brief existence. Arabel saw his emotion, and pressed his
hand in hers, so cold and icy.
"You have suffered also, Louis, but not as I have suffered--O, no! O, the
days before _he_ came--_he_, the destroyer! What a handsome face he had,
and how he flattered me! Flattered my foolish pride, until, deserting
home and friends, I fled with him across the seas! To Paris--beautiful,
frivolous, crime-imbued Paris. I am so faint and tired, Louis! Give me a
drink, from the wineglass."
He put it to her lips; she swallowed greedily, and resumed:
"I have written out my history fully. Why, I hardly know, for there are
none but you, Louis, who will feel an interest in the poor outcast. But
something has impelled me to write it, and when I am dead, you will find
it there in that desk, sealed and directed to yourself. Maybe you will
never open it, for if my strength does not desert me, I shall tell you
all that you will care to know, with my own lips. I want to watch your
face, as I go on, and see if you condemn me. You are sure God is more
merciful than man?"
"In His word it is written, Arabel."
She kissed an ivory cross lying on her bosom, and proceeded with evident
difficulty.
"Well, I fled with Paul Linmere. For a time I was very happy. He was kind
to me, and I loved him so! We lived in a little vine-wreathed cottage, on
the banks of the Seine, and I had my tiny flower-garden, my books, my
birds, my faithful dog Leo--and Paul! Every pleasant night he used to
take me out on the river in the little boat which bore my name on its
side. O, those nights of perfect peace! The stars shone so softly, and
the moon beamed with a mellow light peculiar to Southern moons. Those
seasons of delight are a sweet dream in my memory. They seemed stolen
from paradise--they were so perfect. I lived in a sort of blissful waking
trance, that left me nothing to desire, nothing to ask for. Fool that I
was! I thought it was to last always. A little more cordial, Louis; it
will keep the spark of life alive, perhaps, until I have finished."
"Do not exert yourself, Arabel," he said, pityingly; "I do not wish you
to."
"I shall die easier. Let me go on. After a while, Paul wearied of me.
Perhaps I was too lavish of my caresses and words of love; it might tire
him to be loved so intensely. But such was my nature. He grew cold and
distant; at times positively ill-natured. Once he struck me; but I
forgave him the blow, because he had taken too much wine. At length, it
became known to me that I was about to become a mother, and I besought
him to give me a right to his name. I could bear the shame for myself,
but my child must not be born to curse the author of its being. He
laughed me to scorn, and called me by a foul name that I cannot repeat.
But I bore it all, for the sake of my unborn child, and on my knees I
begged and prayed of him to legalize our union by right of marriage.
After the first, he made me no reply, but subsided into a sullen silence,
which I could not make him break. That night he asked me to go out
boating with him. I prepared myself with alacrity, for I thought he was
getting pleased with me, and perhaps would comply with my request. Are
you weary of my story, Louis?"
"No, no. Go on. I am listening to you, Arabel."
"It was a lovely night. The stars gleamed like drops of molten gold, and
the moon looked down, pure, and serene, and holy. Paul was unusually
silent, and I was quiet, waiting for him to speak. Suddenly, when we
reached the middle of the river, he dropped the oars, and we drifted with
the current. He sprang up, his motion nearly capsizing the frail boat,
and taking a step toward me, fastened a rough hand upon my shoulders.
'Arabel,' he said, hoarsely, 'your power over me is among the things of
the past. Once, I thought I loved you, but it was merely a passion which
soon burned itself out. After that, I grew to hate you; but, because I
had taken you away from home and friends, I tried to treat you civilly.
Your caresses disgusted me. I would gladly have cast you off long ago, if
I had had but the shadow of a pretext. I am to be married to a beautiful
woman in America, before many months shall elapse--a woman with a name
and a fortune which will help me pay those cursed debts that are dragging
me down like a millstone. For you I have no further use. You complain
that our unborn child will be disgraced, unless I go through the mockery
of marriage with you. There is no disgrace in the grave--and I consign
you to its dreamless sleep!' The next moment the boat was capsized, and I
was floating in the water. I cried aloud his name, beseeching him to save
me, and got only his mocking laugh in return, as he struck out for the
shore. I could not swim, and I felt myself sinking down--down to
unfathomable depths. I felt cold as ice; there was a deafening roar
in my ears, and I knew no more."
"My poor Arabel, I could curse the villain who did this cowardly thing,
but he is dead, and in the hands of God."
"When I woke to consciousness, I was lying in a rude cottage, and two
persons, unknown to me--a man and a woman--were bending over me, applying
hot flannels to my numbed limbs, and restoratives to my lips. Before
morning my child was born; but it never opened its eyes on this world.
Death took it away. I had some articles of jewelry on my person, of some
considerable value, and with these I bribed the persons who had taken me
from the river to cause Mr. Linmere to believe that I had died. They were
rough people, but they were kind-hearted, and I owe them a large debt of
gratitude for their thoughtful care of me. But for it, I should have died
in reality. As soon as I was able to bear the journey, I left France.
Linmere had already closed the cottage and gone away--none knew whither;
but I was satisfied he had departed for the United States. I left France
with no feeling of regret, save for Leo, my faithful hound. I have shed
many bitter tears, when pondering over the probable fate of my poor dog."
"Be easy on that subject, Arabel. I saw the hound but a few weeks ago. He
is the property of a lady who loves him--the woman Paul Linmere was to
have married, if he had lived."
"I am glad. You may laugh at me, Louis, but the uncertain fate of Leo
has given me great unhappiness. But to continue--I engaged myself as
nursemaid with an English family, who had been traveling on the
continent, and were about returning home. I remained with them until
I had accumulated sufficient funds to defray my expenses across the
Atlantic, and then I set out on my journey. I came to New York, for
that had been Mr. Linmere's home before we went to France. I soon got
upon the track of him, and learned that he was about to be married to
a Miss Margaret Harrison, a young lady of great beauty, and with a large
fortune. I wanted to see her; for you must know that I had registered a
fearful vow of vengeance on Mr. Paul Linmere, and I desired to judge for
myself if it would fall heavily on the woman he was going to marry. For
even violently as I had loved him I now hated him.
"I saw Miss Harrison. I accosted her in the street, one day, as any
common beggar would have done, telling her a pitiful story of my poverty.
She smiled on me, spoke a few words of comfort, and laid a piece of gold
in my hand. Her sweet face charmed me. I set myself to find out if she
cared for the man she was to marry. It had all been arranged by her
father, years before, I understood, and I felt that her heart was not
interested.
"After learning that, nothing could have saved Paul Linmere. His fate was
decided. Twice I waylaid him in the streets, and showed him my pale face,
which was not unlike the face of the dead. And as he believed that I was
drowned, the sight of me filled him with the most abject terror. How I
enjoyed the poor wretch's cowardly horror!
"The night that he was to be married, I lay in wait for him at the place
where the brook crossed the highway. I had learned that he was to walk up
alone from the depot, to the house of his expectant bride, and there I
resolved to avenge my wrongs. I stepped before him as he came, laid my
cold hand on his arm, and bade him follow me. He obeyed, in the most
abject submission. He seemed to have no will of his own, but yielded
himself entirely to me. He shook like one with the ague, and his
footsteps faltered so that at times I had to drag him along. I took
him to the lonely graveyard, where sleep the Harrison dead, and--" She
covered her face with her hands and lapsed into silence.
"Well, Arabel, and then?" asked Castrani, fearfully absorbed in the
strange narrative, feeling, as he listened, that the fate of Archer
Trevlyn hung on the next words the wretched woman might speak.
"I dropped the hood from my face and confronted him. I had no pity. My
heart was like stone. I remembered all my wrongs; I said to myself this
was the man who had made my life a shipwreck, and had sent my soul to
perdition. He stood still, frozen to the spot, gazing into my face with
eyes that gleamed through the gloom like lurid fire. 'I am Arabel Vere,
whom you thought you murdered!' I hissed in his ear. 'The river could not
hold my secret! And thus I avenge myself for all my wrongs!'
"I struck one blow; he fell to the ground with a gurgling groan. I knew
that I had killed him, and I felt no remorse at the thought. It seemed a
very pleasant thing to contemplate. I stooped over him, to assure myself
that he was dead, and touched his forehead. It was growing cold. It
struck me through and through with a chill of unutterable horror. I fled,
like one mad, from the place. I entered a train of cars, which were just
going down to the city, and in the morning I left New York and came here.
I fell sick. The terrible excitement had been too much for me, and for
weeks I lay in a stupor which was the twin-sister of death. But a strong
constitution triumphed, and I came slowly back to health. I had some
money on my person at the time I was taken ill, and happening to fall
into the hands of a kind-hearted Irish woman, at whose door I had asked
for a glass of water, I was nursed with the care that saved my life.
"But I have never seen a moment of happiness since. Remorse has preyed on
me like a worm, and once before this I have been brought face to face
with death. Now I am going where I sent him! God be merciful!"
"Amen!" responded Louis, fervently.
It was very still in the room. Castrani sat by the bedside, waiting for
her to speak. She was silent so long he thought she slept, and stooped
over to ascertain. Yes, she did sleep. In this world she would never
waken more!
* * * * *
Castrani remained in Boston, and saw the remains of the unfortunate
Arabel Vere consigned to decent burial, and, that duty accomplished, he
took the first train for Lightfield. He had in his possession a document
which would clear Archer Trevlyn from the foul crime of which he stood
convicted in the mind of Margaret Harrison, and, aside from his desire to
see justice rendered the man whom he had grown to consider a very dear
friend, Castrani felt that it would make Margaret happier to know that
the one she had loved and trusted so entirely once, was innocent of the
crime imputed to him.
It was sunset when he reached the dwelling of Nurse Day. Margaret was
sitting on the veranda, with Leo by her side. The hound ran down to the
gate, to give the visitor a joyful greeting, and Margaret descended the
steps and held out her hand. She was very kind, almost cordial, for she
respected Castrani with her whole heart, and she was pleased to see him.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Castrani," she remarked, leading him into
the sitting-room; "and so, also, will be Nurse Day, when she returns. She
has gone to a prayer-meeting, now. And I am especially pleased to see you
just at this time, because I am thinking of returning to New York, and I
hope to persuade you to give me your escort, if it will not be asking too
much."
"To New York? Indeed that is delightful intelligence for the five hundred
dear friends who have deplored your absence so long! I had feared
sometimes, that you intended to remain here always."
"I almost wish I could--life has been so peaceful here. But I must go
back sooner or later, as well now as at any time. I think I am strong
enough to bear it," she added, sadly.
"Miss Harrison, I want to tell you a story."
She drew back from the hand he laid on hers, and her air became cold and
repelling. He divined her fears, and smiled a melancholy smile.
"No, not that. Do not fear. I shall never again trouble you with the
story of my unfortunate passion. I must go through life without the
blessing that would have made this world a paradise. It is not that of
which I speak, and you need have no apprehension for the future. God
helping me, I will never say to you a single word that a brother might
not say to a dearly-beloved sister."
She put her hand into his.
"I wish I could love you, Louis Castrani," she said, solemnly. "You
deserve my heart's best affections; but for me love is over! I have had
my day, and it is set. But you shall be my brother my dear, kind brother,
Louis! Oh, it is sweet to know that in this false world there is one
heart loyal and true!"
"Margaret, there is more than one true heart in the world, as you will
acknowledge, when I have told you my little story. You know, now, why you
discarded Archer Trevlyn. You thought him guilty of the murder of Paul
Linmere!"
A ghastly pallor overspread her face; she caught her breath in gasps, and
clutched frantically the arm of Castrani.
"Hush!" she said. "Do not say those dreadful words aloud; the very walls
have ears sometimes! Remember their utterance puts the life of a fellow
mortal in peril!"
"Have no fear; I am going to right the wrong."
"Leave this punishment to God. It would kill me to see him brought before
a hissing crowd to be tried for his life. Oh, Mr. Castrani, I implore
you--"
"Calm yourself, my child. I shall never knowingly injure Mr. Trevlyn. He
deserves no punishment for a sin he never committed. He is guiltless of
_that deed_ as you are yourself!"
"Guiltless--Archer guiltless!" she cried, her face wearing the pitiful,
strained look of agonized suspense. "I do not quite comprehend. Say it
again--oh, say it again!"
"Margaret, Archer Trevlyn never lifted a hand against Paul
Linmere--never! He is innocent before God and the angels!"
She dropped her head upon her hands, and burst into tears--the first she
had shed since that terrible night when that blasted revelation had, as
she thought, sealed up the fountain of tears forever. Castrani did not
seek to sooth her; he judged rightly that she would be better for this
abandonment to a woman's legitimate source of relief. She lifted her wet
face at last--but what a change was there! The transparent paleness had
given place to the sweet wild rose color which had once made Margie so
very lovely, and the sad eyes were brilliant as stars, through the mist
of tears.
"I believe it--yes, I believe it!" she said, softly,--reverently. "I
thank God for giving me the assurance. You tell me so. You would not,
unless it were true!"
"No, Margaret; I would not," replied Castrani, strongly affected. "Heaven
forbid that I should raise hopes which I cannot verify. When you are calm
enough to understand, I will explain it fully."
"I am calm now. Go on."
"I must trouble you with a little, only a little, of my own private
history, in order that you may understand what follows. I am, as you
know, a Cuban by birth, but my father, only, was Spanish. My mother was
a native of Boston, who married my father for love, and went with him to
his Southern home. I was an only child, and when I was about twelve years
of age, my parents adopted a girl, some four years my junior. She was the
orphan child of poor parents, and was possessed of wonderful beauty and
intelligence. Together we grew up and no brother and sister loved each
other more fully than we. It was only a brotherly and sisterly love--for
I was engaged, at sixteen, to Inez de Nuncio, a lovely young Spanish
girl, who was cruelly taken away from me by the hand of violence, as you
know. Arabel grew to girlhood, lovely as a houri. Lovely, however, is not
the right word; she was royally magnificent. I have seen many elegant
women, but never one who for stately grace and beauty would compare with
her. She had many suitors, but she favored none, until he came--Paul
Linmere, the fiend and destroyer! Ill health had driven him to Cuba, to
try the effect of our southern air, and soon after his arrival, he became
acquainted with Arabel. He was very handsome and fascinating, and much
sought after by the fair ladies of my native town. Arabel was vain, and
his devoted attentions flattered her, while his handsome face and
fascinating address won her love. She was a passionate child of the
South, uncalculating as a babe where her affections were concerned; and
before my parents had begun to ascertain any danger from Linmere's
society, she had left everything, and fled with him.
"My mother was plunged in grief, for she had loved Arabel like an own
child; and the uncertainty of her fate, I think, hastened my mother's
death. My father left no means untried to discover the whereabouts of the
erring girl--but in vain. For years her fate was shrouded in mystery.
My parents died. Inez was taken from me, and weary and heartsick, I came
to New York, hoping to find some distraction in new scenes, and among a
new people.
"The day before you left New York, I received a message from Arabel Vere.
She was in Boston ill unto death. She wanted to see me once more; and she
had a sin upon her conscience, which she must confess before she died;
and she must confess it to no person but myself. In obedience to this
summons, I hurried to Boston, and the same train that carried me, carried
you, also.
"I found Arabel but a mere wreck of her former self. Her countenance told
me how fearfully she had suffered. She was very ill, in a wretched room,
with no attendants or medical aid. I had her immediately removed to
lodgings suitable for her, and provided a nurse and a physician. From
that time she began to mend, and in a couple of days the physician
pronounced her out of immediate danger. When she knew her life was to be
prolonged, she refused to make the confession she had summoned me to
hear. So long as there was any prospect of her recovery, she said, she
must keep the matter a secret. But she could not die and leave it untold.
Therefore she promised that whenever she should feel death approaching
she should send again for me, and relieve her soul by the confession of
her sin. A few days ago came her second summons.
"Previous to this only a little while, I had been inadvertently a
listener to an altercation between Archer Trevlyn and his wife, during
which Mrs. Trevlyn, in a fit of rage, denounced her husband as the
murderer of Paul Linmere. She produced proofs, which I confess struck me
as strangely satisfactory, and affirmed her belief in his guilt. She
also told him that because the knowledge of his crime had come to you,
you had discarded him, and left New York, to be rid of him forever!
"So knowing this, when I listened to the dying confession of Arabel Vere,
I knew that this confession would clear Archer Trevlyn from all shadow of
suspicion. Arabel died, and I buried her. Previous to her death--perhaps,
to guard against accident, perhaps, guided by the hand of a mysterious
Providence to clear the fair fame of an injured man--she wrote out at
length the history of her life. She gave it to me. I have it here. It
will explain to you all that you will desire to know."
He gave her the manuscript, wrung her hand, and left her.
* * * * *
Far into the night, Margie sat reading the closely-written sheets, penned
by the hand now pulseless in death. All was made clear; Archer Trevlyn
was fully exculpated. He was innocent of the crime which she had been
influenced to believe he had committed. She fell on her knees, and
thanked God for that. Though lost to her, it was a consolation ineffable
to know that he had not taken the life of a fellow-mortal.
Her resolution was taken before morning. She had deeply wronged Archer
Trevlyn, and she must go to him with a full confession, confess her
fault, and plead for his forgiveness.
Castrani, who came in the morning, approved her decision; and Nurse Day,
who was told the whole story, and listened with moist eyes, agreed with
them both. So it happened that on the ensuing morning Margie bade
farewell to the quiet home which had sheltered her through her bitterest
sorrow, and accompanied by Castrani, set forth for New York.
She went to her own home first. Her aunt was in the country, but the
servants gave her a warm welcome, and after resting for an hour, she took
her way to the residence of Archer Trevlyn, but a few squares distant.
A strange silence seemed to hang over the palatial mansion. The blinds
were closed--there was no sign of life about the premises. A thrill of
unexplained dread ran through her frame as she touched the silver-handled
bell. The servant who answered her summons seemed to partake of the
strange, solemn quiet pervading everything.
"Is Mr. Trevlyn in?" she asked, trembling in spite of herself.
"I believe Mr. Trevlyn has left the country, madam."
"Left the country? When did he go?"
"Some days ago."
Margie leaned against the carved marble vase which flanked the massive
doorway, unconsciously crushing the crimson petals of the trumpet-flower
which grew therein. What should she do? She could write to him. His wife
would know his address. She caught at the idea.
"Mrs. Trevlyn--take me to her! She was an old friend of mine."
The man looked at her curiously, hesitated a moment, and motioning her
to enter, indicated the closed door of the parlor.
"You can go in, I presume, as you are a friend of the family."
A feeling of solemnity, which was almost awe, stole over Margie as she
turned the handle of the door, and stepped inside the parlor. It was
shrouded in the gloom of almost utter darkness. The heavy silken curtains
fell drooping with their costliness to the velvet carpet, and a faint,
sickening odor of withering water lilies pervaded the close atmosphere.
Water lilies!--they were Alexandrine's favorite flowers.
Margie stopped by the door until her eyes became accustomed to the
gloom, and then she saw that the centre of the room was occupied by a
table, on which lay some rigid object--strangely long, and still, and
angular--covered with a drapery of black velvet, looped up by dying water
lilies.
Still controlled by that feeling of strange awe, Margie stole along to
the table and lifted the massive cover. She saw beneath it the pale, dead
face of Alexandrine Trevlyn. She dropped the pall, uttered a cry of
horror, and sank upon a chair. The door unclosed noiselessly, and Mrs.
Lee, the mother of the dead woman, came in.
"Oh, Margie! Margie!" she cried, "pity me! My heart is broken! My
darling! My only child is taken from me!"
It was long before she grew composed enough to give any explanation of
the tragedy--for tragedy Margie felt sure it was.
The story can be told in a few brief words. Alexandrine and her husband
had had some difficulty. Mrs. Lee could not tell in relation to what, but
she knew that Alexandrine blamed herself for the part she had taken. Mr.
Trevlyn left her in anger, to go to Philadelphia on business. He was
expected to be absent about four days. Meanwhile, his wife suffered
agonies of remorse, and counted the hours until his return should give
her the privilege of throwing herself at his feet and begging his
forgiveness.
But he did not return. A week, ten days passed, and still no tidings.
Alexandrine was almost frantic. On the eleventh day came a telegraph
despatch, brief and cruel, as those heartless things invariably are,
informing her that Mr. Trevlyn had closed his business in Philadelphia,
and was on the eve of leaving the country for an indefinite period.
His destination was not mentioned, and his unhappy wife, feeling that
if he left Philadelphia without her seeing him, all trace of him would
be lost, hurried to the depot and set out for that city.
There had been an accident about half way between New York and
Philadelphia, and Alexandrine Trevlyn had been brought back to her
splendid home--a corpse! That was all.
Archer Trevlyn had left behind him no clue by which he might be reached
or communicated with, and his wife, unforgiven, must be consigned to the
tomb, without a single tear upon her face from the eyes of him she had
loved so fondly.
They buried her at Greenwood, and the grass and flowers bloomed over her
grave. She passed out of memory, and was forgotten, like a perished leaf,
or a beautiful sunset fading out with the night.
* * * * *
The summer days fled on, and brought the autumn mellowness and splendor.
Margie, outwardly calm and quiet, lived at Harrison Park with her staid
maiden aunt.
A year passed away thus monotonously, then another, and no tidings ever
came of Archer Trevlyn. Margie thought of him now as we think of one long
dead, with tender regret, and love almost reverent. He was dead to her,
she said, but it was no sin to cherish his memory.
In the third year Margie's aunt married. It was quite a little romance.
An old lover, discarded years before in a fit of girlish obstinacy, came
back, after weary wanderings in search of happiness, and seeking out the
love of other days, wooed and won her over again.
There was a quiet wedding, and then the happy pair decided on a trip
to Europe. And, of course, Margie must accompany them. At first she
demurred; she took so little pleasure in anything, she feared her
presence might mar their happiness, and she dreaded to leave the place
where she had passed so many delightful hours with him. But her aunt and
Doctor Elbert refused to give her up, and so, one beautiful September
morning, they sailed for Liverpool in the good ship Colossus.
For many days the voyage was prosperous, but in mid-ocean they fell upon
stormy weather, and the ship was tossed about at the winds and waters. It
was a terrible storm, and great apprehensions were entertained that the
vessel might founder, but she would doubtless have weathered the blast in
safety, if she had not sprung a leak.
The fearful intelligence was announced just at the closing in of a dark
dismal night, and every heart sank, and every face was shrouded in gloom.
Only for a moment! The men sprang to the pumps and worked with a will--as
men will work for their lives--but their efforts were vain. The water
increased in the hold, and it soon became evident that the Colossus would
hardly keep afloat until morning.
But Providence was pleased to snatch those human lives from the
destruction which seemed inevitable, and just when they were most
helpless, most despairing, the lights of a strange ship were seen. They
succeeded in making their desperate condition known, and by day-dawn all
were safe on board the steamer; for the stranger proved to be a steamer
on her way from Liverpool to New York.
The decks were crowded; Doctor Elbert was looking after his wife, and
Margie, clinging to a rope, stood frightened and alone. Some one came to
her, said a few words which the tempest made inaudible, and carried her
below. The light of the cabin lamps fell full on his face. She uttered
a cry, for in that moment she recognized Archer Trevlyn.
"Margie Harrison!" he cried, his fingers closing tightly over hers.
"Margie! Mine! Mine at last! The ocean has given you up to me!"
"O Archer! where have you been? It has been so weary! And I have wanted
to see you so much--that I might tell you how I had wronged you--that I
might ask you to forgive me. Will you pardon me for believing that you
could ever be guilty of that man's death? If you knew--if you knew how
artfully it was represented to me--what overwhelming proofs were
presented, you would not wonder--"
"I do know all, Margie; Alexandrine told me. My poor wife! God rest her.
She believed me guilty, and yet her fatal love for me overlooked the
crime. She deceived me in many things, but she is dead, and I will not
be unforgiving. She poisoned my mind with suspicions of you and Louis
Castrani, and I was fool enough to credit her insinuations. Margie, I
want you to pardon me."
"I do, freely. Castrani is a noble soul. I love him as I would a
brother."
"Continue to do so, Margie. He deserves it, I think. The night I left
home, Alexandrine revealed to me the cause of your sudden rejection of
me. We quarrelled terribly. I remember it with bitter remorse. We parted
in anger, Margie, and she died without my forgiveness and blessing. It
was very hard, but perhaps, at the last, she did not suffer. I will
believe so."
"If she sinned, it was through love of you, Archer, and that should make
you very forgiving toward her."
"I have forgiven her long ago. I know the proofs were strong against me.
I am not sure but that they were sufficient to have convicted me of
murder in a court of law. You were conscious of my presence that night
in the graveyard, Margie?"
"Yes. I thought it was you. I knew no other man's presence had the power
to thrill and impress me as yours did."
"I meant to impress you, Margaret. I brought all the strength of my will
to bear on that object. I said to myself, she shall know that I am near
her, and yet my visible presence shall not be revealed to her. And now,
can you guess why I was there?"
"Hardly."
"Love ought to tell you."
"It might tell me wrong."
"No, Margie. Never! You know that I have loved you from the moment I saw
you first, and though for a long, long time I never dared to think you
would ever be to me anything more than a bright, beautiful vision, to be
worshipped afar off, yet it agonized me to think of giving you up to
another. For after that it would be a sin to love you. When I heard you
were to marry that man, I cannot tell you how I suffered. I set myself to
ascertain if you cared for him. And I was satisfied beyond a doubt that
you did not."
"You were correct. I did not."
"He was a villain of the deepest dye, Margie. I do not know as Arabel
Vere sinned in ridding the earth of him. When I think that but for her
crime you would now have been his wife, I am not sure that she was not
the instrument of a justly incensed Providence to work out the decrees
of the destiny."
"O, Archer! It was dreadful for him to die as he did. But what a life of
misery it saved me from! I will not think of it. I leave it all."
"It is best to do so. But to explain my presence at Harrison Park that
night. I went there hoping to catch a glimpse of you. I wanted to see you
once more before you were lost to me forever. I did not desire to speak
to you; I did not desire to disturb you in any way; but I wanted to see
you before that man had a legal claim on you. I watched your windows
closely. I had found out which was your window from one of the servants,
and I watched its light which burned through the dusky twilight like
the evening star. I wonder if you had a thought for me, that night,
Margie--your wedding night?"
"I did think of you--" she blushed, and hid her face on his shoulder--"I
did think of you. I longed inexpressibly to fly to your side and be
forever at rest!"
"My darling!" he kissed her fondly, and went on: "I saw you leave your
room by the window and come down the garden path. I had felt that you
would come. I was not surprised that you did. I had expected it. I
followed you silently, saw you kneel by the grave of your parents,
heard you call out upon your father for pity. O, how I loved and pitied
you, Margie--but my tongue was tied--I had no right to speak--but I did
kiss your hand. Did you know it Margie?"
"Yes."
"You recognized me, then? I meant you should. After that I hurried away.
I was afraid to trust myself near you longer, lest I might be tempted to
what I might repent. I fled away from the place and knew nothing of the
fearful deed done there until the papers announced it the next day."
"And I suspected you of the crime! O, Archer! Archer! how could I ever
have been so blind? How can you ever forgive me?"
"I want forgiveness, Margie. I doubted you. I thought you were false to
me, and had fled with Castrani. That unfortunate glove confirmed you, I
suppose. I dropped it in my haste to escape without your observation, and
afterward I expected to hear of it in connection with the finding of
Linmere's body. I never knew what became of it until my wife displayed
it, that day when she taunted me with my crime. Poor Alexandrine! She had
the misfortune to love me, and after your renunciation and your departure
from New York--in those days when I deemed you false as fair--I offered
her my hand. I thought perhaps she might be happier as my wife, and I
felt that I owed her something for her devoted love. I tried to do my
duty by her, but a man never can do that by his wife, unless he loves
her."
"You acted for what you thought was best, Archer."
"I did. Heaven knows I did. She died in coming to me to ask my
forgiveness for the taunting words she had spoken at our last parting. I
was cruel. I went away from her in pride and anger, and left behind me no
means by which she could communicate with me. I deserved to suffer, and I
have."
"And I also, Archer."
"My poor Margie! Do you know, dear, that it was the knowledge that you
wanted me which was sending me home again? A month ago I saw Louis
Castrani in Paris. He told me everything. He was delicate enough about
it, darling; you need not blush for fear he might have told me you were
grieving for me; but he made me understand that my future might not be so
dark as I had begun to regard it. He read to me the dying confession of
Arabel Vere, and made clear many things regarding which I had previously
been in the dark. Is all peace between us, Margie?"
"All is peace, Archer. And God is very good."
"He is. I thank Him for it. And now I want to ask one thing more. I am
not quite satisfied."
"Well?"
"Perhaps you will think it ill-timed--now that we are surrounded by
strangers, and our very lives perhaps in peril--but I cannot wait. I have
spent precious moments enough in waiting. It has been very long, Margie,
since I heard you say you loved me, and I want to hear the words again."
She looked up at him shyly.
"Archer, how do I know but you have changed?"
"You know I have not. I have loved but one woman--I shall love no other
through time and eternity. And now, at last, after all the distress and
the sorrow we have passed through, will you give me your promise to meet
whatever else fortune and fate may have in store for us, by my side?"
She put her face up to his, and he kissed her lips.
"Yours always, Archer. I have never had one thought for any other."
So a second time were Archer Trevlyn and Margie Harrison betrothed.
On the ensuing day the storm abated, and the steamer made a swift passage
to New York.
Doctor and Mrs. Elbert were a little disappointed at the sudden
termination of their bridal tour, but consoled themselves with the
thought that they could try it over again in the spring.
Trevlyn remained in the city to adjust some business affairs which had
suffered from his long absence, and Margie and her friends went up to her
own home. He was to follow them hither on the ensuing day.
And so it happened that once more Margie sat in her old familiar chamber
dressing for the coming of Archer Trevlyn. What should she put on? She
remembered the rose-colored dress she had laid away that dreadful night
so long ago. But now the rose-colored dreams had come back, why not wear
the rose-colored dress? She went to the wardrobe where she had locked it
away. Some of the servants had found the key out in the grass where she
had flung it that night, and fitted it to the lock. She lifted the dress,
and the beautiful pearl ornaments, and held them up to the light. The
dress was fresh and unfaded, but it was full four years behind the style!
Well, what did that matter? She had a fancy for wearing it. She wanted to
take up her life just where she had left it when she put off that dress.
To the unbounded horror of Florine, she arrayed herself in the
old-fashioned dress, and waited for her lover. And she had not long to
wait. She heard his well-remembered step in the hall, and a moment after
she was folded in his arms.
* * * * *
At Christmas there was a bridal at Harrison Park. The day was clear and
cloudless--the air almost as balmy as the air of spring. Such a Christmas
had not been known for years.
The sun shone brightly, and soft winds sighed through the leafless trees.
And Margie was married, and not a cloud came between her and the sun.
Peace and content dwelt with Archer Trevlyn and his wife in their
beautiful home. Having suffered, they knew better how to be grateful
for, and to appreciate the blessings at last bestowed upon them.
At their happy fireside there comes to sit, sometimes, of an evening, a
quiet, grave-faced man. A man whom Archer Trevlyn and his wife love as a
dear brother, prize above all other earthly friends. And beside Louis
Castrani, Leo sits, serene and contemplative, enjoying a green old age in
peace and plenty. Castrani will never marry, but sometime in the
hereafter, I think he will have his recompense.
CONSTITUTIONALLY BASHFUL.
I suppose there is no doubt but I was born with bashful tendencies, and
"What is bred in the bone, stays long in the flesh," to use the words of
some wise individual, who, like many another great genius, shunned
notoriety, and had for his _nom de plume_, Anonymous.
My mother tells me that, when an infant, I had the ridiculous habit of
turning over on my face in the cradle, when there was company; and if the
visitors happened to be ladies, I turned red in the cheeks, and purple
about the eyes, to such an alarming degree as could not fail of exciting
wonder and awe in the heart of the most indifferent beholder!
I remember that, when a child of four or five years, I used to take
refuge behind the great eight-day clock whenever my mother had callers;
and once I came near being frozen to death in the refrigerator, where I
had ensconced myself on the appearance of a couple of lady visitors.
Throughout my boyhood it was the same, only decidedly more so. My _debut_
at school was like an entrance into the ancient halls of torture.
The austere schoolmaster, with his dread insignia of birchen rod,
steel-bowed spectacles, and swallow-tailed coat, was bad enough; the
grinning, mischief-loving, and at times, belligerent, boys were worse.
But the girls! Heavens! I feared them more than any suspected criminal
of old did the Terrible Council of Ten! All on earth they seemed to find
to do was to giggle at me! Of course, I was the object of their sport;
for they peeped at me over the tops of their books, from behind their
pocket-handkerchiefs, through the interstices of their curls--and made
me hopelessly wretched by dubbing me "Apron-string."
The third day of my attendance at school was stormy, and my home being
at some distance, I was obliged to remain, with most of the others,
through the noon intermission. The little girls got to playing at pawns.
I retreated to a corner near the door, and stood a silent and not
unterrified spectator.
By-and-by, a cherry-lipped little girl had to pay a forfeit, and one of
her schoolmates pronounced the sentence, in a loud voice:
"Kiss Apron-string Sunderland!"
That meant me. There was a wild scream of laughter, in which all joined,
and I took ingloriously to flight, with little Cherry-lips close at my
heels. I strained every nerve and sinew--it was a matter of life and
death to me--and I have no doubt but I should have won the race in fine
style, if I had not, unfortunately, in my blind haste, run against Miss
Patty Hanson, the primest and worst tempered spinster in Hallswell.
My _momentum_ was such that I knocked Miss Patty from _terra firma_, very
much as the successful ball knocks down the nine-pins; and the _debris_
of the wreck--consisting of a fractured umbrella, a torn calico gown, and
a fearfully dislocated bonnet--Miss Hanson rose up--a Nemesis! And such a
thrashing as I received, at her hand, would have made the blackest
villain out of purgatory confess his sins without prevarication!
I had heard my mother say that no one died till their time had come, and
I felt satisfied that my time _had_ come. I vainly endeavored to repeat,
"Now I lay me down to sleep!"
as both fitting and appropriate to the occasion; but Miss Patty thumped
the words out of me, to the tune of the Umbrella Quickstep, in staccato.
Little Cherry-lips came nobly to the rescue.
"For shame! Miss Hanson," she cried, "to beat a little boy at such a
rate! It won't mend your umbrella, nor straighten your calash! And the
perspiration is washing the paint all out of your cheeks!"
My enemy left me to fly at my defender, whose name was Florence Hay. But
Florence was a little too agile for the old lady, whom she speedily
distanced, while I made good my escape into the sheltering foliage of
an apple-tree, where, securely perched on a strong limb, I remained until
school was out, and the girls had all gone home.
After a time, at my urgent entreaties, my parents removed me from the
village-school, and placed me at an institute for boys. I had thought,
previously to the change, that I should be perfectly happy when it was
effected; but I had, somehow, miscalculated. I missed the bewitching
faces of the girls I had fled from, and, for the first time in my life,
I realized that the world would be a terrible humdrum sort of a place if
there were nothing but men here.
To confess the plain truth, I had discovered that, in spite of my
bashfulness, I loved every single girl I had ever seen--not even
excepting good black Bess in my mother's kitchen, who concocted such
admirable turnovers and seedcakes. But at that time, sooner than have
acknowledged such a weakness, I would have been broiled alive.
As I grew toward manhood, my bashfulness got no better. It was confirmed;
it had become a chronic disease, as irremediable as the rheumatism, and a
thousand times more distressing.
I was frequently invited to quiltings, apple parings, huskings, etc.; but
I never dared to go, lest I should be expected to have something to say
to some of the feminine portion of the company.
If my mother sent me on any errand to a house where there were girls, I
used to stand a half hour on the door step, waiting for courage to rap;
and if one of the aforesaid girls happened to answer the summons, it was
with the greatest difficulty that I could restrain myself from taking
refuge in flight. And after I had got in, and made known my business,
I knew no more what was told me in return than we know why the comet of
last summer had a curved train.
At church, I habitually sat with averted face, and cut my finger nails;
in fact I had performed that operation for those digital ornaments so
often that there was very little left of them to practice upon. I most
devoutly wished that it had been so that folks could have been created
with knitting-work, or something of the kind, in their hands--it would
have been so nice when one didn't know what to do with his upper
extremities.
As for my feet, though not remarkably large, they were constantly in the
way. I have often seen the time when I would have given all the world,
had it been mine to give, if I could have taken them off, and consigned
them to the obscurity of my pocket.
One eventful day, my mother took it into her head to have a quilting.
Early in the afternoon I retired to the garret, as the most isolated spot
I could think of, and ensconced myself in bed. All the girls in the
neighborhood were invited, and I would sooner have faced a flaming line
of armed batteries.
Such a gay, joyous time as they had of it, judging from the sounds of
merriment that occasionally floated up to my retreat! I longed to be a
witness of the frolic I knew they were enjoying, but I could not summon
resolution enough to venture from my concealment; and so I wound the
sheets round my head to shut out the gay peals of laughter, and tried to
think myself highly satisfied with my achievement. I was comfortable and
safe, so far as I knew; but the hours were long ones, and I prayed Time
to jog on his team a little faster, if convenient.
By-and-by, the merriment grew louder; there was a pattering of eager feet
on the garret stairs, considerable loud whispering in the passage, and an
infinite amount of giggling. Good heavens! What were they going to do? I
clutched the bed clothes with frantic hands and drew them around my head,
to the utter neglect of the rest of my body, probably believing, like the
ostrich, that so long as I saw nobody, nobody would see me.
Directly the door was thrown open, and, evidently, there was a
consultation on the threshold.
"Go in, Flory!" said the gay voice of Kate Merrick, the pride and tease
of the village. "Go in, I say! What on earth are you afraid of? Boy
Sunderland won't eat you, if he is a bear!"
"But what will he think?" asked Florence Hay, softly. "He is so bashful!
Goodness! Kate, how can I?"
"Nonsense! You must pay the forfeit, or your thimble remains in my
possession! I won't be coaxed over, this time!" returned Kate,
decisively.
There was a slight scuffle, and then the eager hands of the coterie
began to pull away my fortifications. I resisted with the strength of
desperation, but I was no match for a dozen frolicsome girls. They
unswathed me, and while four of them held my two arms, Florence Hay
kissed me. Mahomet! Such a thrill as went through my heart! I devoutly
wished that she would repeat the experiment; but, instead of doing so,
she scampered from the room, followed by her boisterous companions.
Completely overcome, I crept under the bed, where I remained until
nightfall sent our merry visitors to their several homes.
Well, the years passed on, and brought my eighteenth birthday. I had lost
nothing of my besetting difficulty. My mother was thoroughly mortified by
my conduct, and did not hesitate to lecture me soundly on my folly; and
my aunt Alice emphatically declared I was the most consummate fool that
she had ever seen! I knew it was true; but--so perverse is man--I did not
feel at all obliged to her for uttering it.
One day it rained a little; in fact, it often does so. Florence Hay was
returning home from the village just as the shower came up, and, partly
out of regard for my mother, with whom she was a great favorite, partly
from the fear of ruining her new spring bonnet, she stepped into our
house.
My mother was delighted to see her, and made her quite at home directly.
It was no new thing for the little maiden to visit my mother; but on such
occasions I had always, hitherto, taken flight to the fields or the
hay-mow. Now, however, it was raining hard, and I was holding silk for
my mother to mind; and a retreat was impossible.
Though in exquisite torture, every moment, lest the pretty visitor should
address some question to me, and oblige me to speak, yet I enjoyed being
where I could look into her bewitching face immensely. She had such blue
eyes! and such cherry lips! And those lips had kissed me! I blushed
red-hot to think of it, and my good mother anxiously commented on my high
color, saying she was afraid I was going to have the erysipelas.
Erysipelas, indeed!
It rained all the afternoon. Florence stayed to tea, and, by the time the
meal was over, I had broken two plates, knocked down a saucer, upset the
cream pitcher, and nearly cut the end of my thumb off with my knife.
Also, the rain had ceased, and it was dark.
Florence declared she could not stop another moment. Her friends would be
alarmed about her; she must go at once. My mother urged her to remain all
night. But she could not think of it; and, while she was arranging her
wraps, my mother beckoned me into the entry.
"Roy," she said, decisively, "Florence should not go home alone!"
"I can't help it!" said I, doggedly. "I guess nothing will devour her on
the journey."
"My son!" she exclaimed, with just severity, "I cannot permit you to
speak in that way of one whom I so highly respect! It is ungentlemanly!
Your father is absent, the servant is busy, and Florence has a full
half-mile to walk. You will attend her home!"
My limbs trembled under me. I should have darted from the back door, and
left my mother's favorite to shift for herself; but my austere relative
had kept a firm hold of my arm, and, without further parley, drew me back
to the parlor.
"If you must go, dear," she said to Florence, "I will not urge you. Roy
will walk home with you."
Florence opened wide her blue eyes in evident astonishment; and, as for
me, the whole creation was in a whirl! The room went round and round like
a top--I was obliged to grasp the back of a chair to keep from falling--I
was penetrated with speechless dismay.
"Roy! Florence is waiting!" said my unrelenting mother.
There was no appeal. To use a vulgar, but expressive phrase, I was "in
for it;" and, nerved by a sort of desperate courage, which sometimes
comes to the aid of the weak in great extremities, I flung open the door,
blundered down the steps, and out into the street. Florence followed
leisurely behind, shut the gate after her, and fastened the latch. How I
envied her her provoking coolness!
We went on; she one side of the road--I the other, and about three yards
in advance of her. By-and-bye, when we had proceeded in utter silence for
a quarter of a mile, my companion said, demurely:
"Roy, you can get over the fence, and go in the field; and I will keep
the road."
The little jade was quizzing me. I could not endure her ridicule, so
forthwith I made a sort of flying leap to her side of the street,
spattering the mud in every direction as I alighted beside her. I had
just begun to think how much better the footing was on that sidewalk than
the one I had just left, when I heard somebody whistling, and, looking
up, I saw Will Richardson, a mutual acquaintance, approaching. The cold
perspiration started to my brow--how could I endure to be seen going home
with a girl? I could not! No, never! The idea was out of the question!
I flew to the wall, sprang over, and threw myself down behind a pile of
stones.
I heard Will and Florence laughing together in a vastly amused way--and
then she took his arm, and off they went! I shook my clenched hand after
them; at that moment, I think I could have cudgeled Will without
compunction.
The ridiculous story of my adventure got wind; no doubt Will spread it,
and I was the laughing stock of the village. My mother gave me a sound
berating, and my staid, punctilious father administered the severest
rebuke of all--he said I was a disgrace to my ancestors.
I managed to live through it, though, and a few months later entered
college. I will not linger on the days spent with my Alma Mater; the
history of the scrapes which my mischief-loving fellow students got me
into during those four years, would fill three volumes of octavo.
At the end of the prescribed time, I graduated with the highest honors,
for I had always been a most determined bookworm; and, with my diploma in
my pocket, I returned home.
My friends were rejoiced to see me, they said; aunt Alice informed me
that I had improved wonderfully in manners, as well as looks; she thought
me decidedly handsome, she said, which remark, I privately concluded, was
the most sensible of any I had ever heard her make.
The day following my arrival at home, my mother spoke of Florence. I
had been longing to ask about her, but dared not hazard the question.
My mother thought that I ought to call on the Hay family, we had always
been intimate, she said, and it would be no more than courteous for me
to surprise them with my presence.
I told her the truth. I should be extremely happy to do so, but I lacked
the courage.
"Mother," said I, frankly, "you know my cardinal failing. Be merciful
unto me. I should only make a fool of myself."
"I will make an errand for you," she replied, quickly; "Mrs. Hay is
troubled with a cough, and she wanted some of my tomato preserves for it.
You shall carry them over."
Ah! it takes a woman to manage things; depend on that.
I caught eagerly at the suggestion, for the imaged face of Florence Hay
had obtruded between my eyes and endless Greek roots a great many times
during the past four years. I was glad of an excuse to see once more the
face itself.
Armed with my letter of introduction, a glass jar of tomatoes, and
arrayed in my best suit, I rang the bell at the door of Mr. Hay. A
servant girl admitted me, and showed me directly into the room where
Florence was sitting.
How very beautiful she had grown during my absence! I had never seen so
fair a vision! She rose at my entrance, and, bowing with inimitable
grace, extended her hand.
"Am I correct in believing that I have the pleasure of addressing Mr.
Sunderland?" she said, with gentle politeness.
I bowed--the jar slipped from my grasp and fell to the floor; I made a
hasty movement to take the hand she had offered me, and in so doing put
my foot on the jar; it was crushed to atoms, and the seeds and syrup flew
in every direction! The obstacle beneath my feet made me stagger; I
grasped the folds of a window-curtain in the hope of saving myself, but
my equilibrium was too far gone--down came the curtain--over I went, head
first, against a flower-stand, on which were a nondescript array of
flowerpots, a canary bird in a cage, and a big Maltese cat in a basket.
The force of my fall upset the stand, and, with all its favorites, it
turned over on the carpet! Plants, cat, bird, cage, and Roy Sunderland,
all lay in one mass of ruin together at the feet of the astonished Miss
Hay. The cat was the first to recover her presence of mind, and with a
"midnight cry" which would have appalled the stoutest heart, she sprang
into my face, tearing up the skin with a violence worthy the admiration
of all persons who believe in the wisdom of "getting at the root of a
matter" at once.
I scrambled up--gave the animal a blow that sent her to the other side of
the room--and hatless, and bloody, made for the door. With frantic haste
I seized the handle--it did not yield; the door was fastened by a spring
lock, and I was a prisoner!
Imagine my dismay! Florence stood looking at me, and there was a smile on
her face that she, with great difficulty restrained from breaking into a
decided ha! ha! Just then I would have sold myself to any reliable man
for a six-pence, and thirty days credit.
Mortified and crestfallen, I was strongly inclined to follow the example
of the heroines in sensation novels, and burst into tears; but crying, it
is said, makes the nose red, and, remembering this, I forbore.
I suppose Florence pitied me; she must have seen from the woe begone
expression of my face that I was in the last stages of human endurance,
for she came quietly to my side and laid her hand on my arm.
"Come in, Roy," she said, kindly--almost tenderly, I thought--and drew me
into a small boudoir opposite the sitting-room. Things in the latter
apartment were too nearly wrecked to make it pleasant for occupation,
I suppose.
"There," she said, seating me on a sofa by her side, and speaking in a
consoling tone one would use to a child who had burnt his apron, or broke
the sugar-bowl, "don't think anything more of it." She was wiping the
blood from pussy's autograph on my face with her handkerchief--"Accidents
will happen, you know!"
She was so close to me--her sweet face so very near mine--and the
temptation was so great that I trust I may be excused, especially as I
am a bashful man, and not in the habit of committing such indiscretions.
I threw my arms around her and paid back, with interest, the kiss I had
kept so long. A burning blush overspread her face.
"Oh, Roy! how could you?" she exclaimed, reproachfully.
I had gone too far to retreat; the words which for years had filled my
heart struggled up to my lips and clamored for utterance.
"Florence!" I cried, passionately, "I love you! and I want you to be
entirely mine! Take me, and cure me of the bashful folly which has been
the bane of my life!"
She did not reply. I was in a tumult of fear and hope, but a sort of
desperate courage kept me firm.
"One word, Florence, only one word! Am I to be consigned to Hades, or
Paradise? Do not keep me in suspense!"
She nestled closer to my side; her soft cheek rested against mine; her
breath swept my lips. She spoke but one word in accents of deepest
tenderness, and that word was my name--
"Roy!"
"Florence! my darling!"
I trust that everybody will forgive me, and feel charitably toward me,
when I declare on my honor that I was happier, at that moment, than I had
ever been in my life before! "Popping the question" is acknowledged by
all to be a serious piece of business; and if ordinary men find it a
serious business, how much more terrible must it be to a bashful
individual like myself?
A silence fell between Florence and me; perhaps I was holding her so
close to my heart that the effort of speaking was difficult, I should not
wonder. By-and-by she lifted up her face, and said, quietly:
"Did you mean for me to marry you, Roy?"
"Marry me? Yes, dearest, and that, too, before many days have elapsed!
I have been a fool so long that now I cannot afford to wait!"
"Yes; but if I promise myself to you, how can I be sure that, on the way
to the altar, you will not jump over the fence, and leave me to fate and
Will Richardson?"
"Confound Will Richardson! Florence, forgive me! I was little less than
a brute! Is there peace between us?"
"Both peace and love," she whispered, softly; and my heart was at rest.
My mother was overjoyed by the turn affairs had taken. Everything had
happened just as she had wished; and, to this day, the good lady idolizes
tomatoes, insisting upon it that it was through the agency of those
preserves that Florence and I came to an understanding. It might have
been--I cannot tell--great events sometimes originate in small causes.
Florence--dear little wife!--for five years she has sustained to me that
relation; and if she has not cured me of my bashfulness, she has at least
broken me of its extreme folly.
To other men afflicted as I was with constitutional shyness, I can
conscientiously recommend my course. Don't be afraid; the ladies admire
courage, and "None but the brave deserve the fair."