_AS_ Edith glanced up, on arriving before their residence, she saw for
a moment her mother's face at the window. It vanished like the face of
a ghost, but not quick enough to prevent Edith from seeing that it was
almost colorless and had a scared look. They did not find Mrs. Dinneford
in the parlor when they came in, nor did she make her appearance until
an hour afterward, when dinner was announced. Then it was plain to both
her husband and daughter that something had occurred since morning to
trouble her profoundly. The paleness noticed by Edith at the window and
the scared look remained. Whenever she turned her eyes suddenly upon
her mother, she found her looking at her with a strange, searching
intentness. It was plain that Mrs. Dinneford saw in Edith's face as
great a change and mystery as Edith saw in hers, and the riddle of her
husband's countenance, so altered since morning, was harder even than
Edith's to solve.
A drearier Christmas dinner, and one in which less food was taken
by those who ate it, could hardly have been found in the city. The
Briar-street feast was one of joy and gladness in comparison. The
courses came and went with unwonted quickness, plates bearing off the
almost untasted viands which they had received. Scarcely a word was
spoken during the meal. Mrs. Dinneford asked no question about the
dinner in Briar street, and no remark was made about it by either
Edith or her father. In half the usual time this meal was ended. Mrs.
Dinneford left the table first, and retired to her own room. As she did
so, in taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she drew out a letter,
which fell unnoticed by her upon the floor. Mr. Dinneford was about
calling her attention to it when Edith, who saw his purpose and was near
enough to touch his hand, gave a quick signal to forbear. The instant
her mother was out of the room she sprang from her seat, and had just
secured the letter when the dining-room door was pushed open, and Mrs.
Dinneford came in, white and frightened. She saw the letter in Edith's
hand, and with a cry like some animal in pain leaped upon her and tried
to wrest it from her grasp. But Edith held it in her closed hand with
a desperate grip, defying all her mother's efforts to get possession of
it. In her wild fear and anger Mrs. Dinneford exclaimed,
“I'll kill you if you don't give me that letter!” and actually, in
her blind rage, reached toward the table as if to get a knife. Mr.
Dinneford, who had been for a moment stupefied, now started forward,
and throwing his arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith
could escape with the letter, not releasing her until the sound of his
daughter's retiring feet were no longer heard. By this time she had
ceased to struggle; and when he released her, she stood still in a
passive, dull sort of way, her arms falling heavily to her sides. He
looked into her face, and saw that the eyes were staring wildly and
the muscles in a convulsive quiver. Then starting and reaching out
helplessly, she fell forward. Catching her in his arms, Mr. Dinneford
drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead before he could raise her from
the floor.
When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked the door. Then all her
excitement died away. She sat down, and opening the letter with hands
that gave no sign of inward agitation or suspense, read it through. It
was dated at Havana, and was as follows:
“MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD: MADAM--My physician tells me that I cannot live a
week--may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one unconfessed
and unatoned sin upon my conscience--a sin into which I was led by you,
the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into particulars. You know to what
I refer--the ruin of an innocent, confiding young man, your daughter's
husband. I do not wonder that he lost his reason! But I have information
that his insanity has taken on the mildest form, and that his friends
are only keeping him at the hospital until they can get a pardon from
the governor. It is in your power and mine to establish his innocence
at once. I leave you a single mouth in which to do this, and at the same
time screen yourself, if that be possible. If, at the end of a month, it
is not done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement
of the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of your
husband, and another in the hands of your daughter. I have so provided
for this that no failure can take place. So be warned and make the
innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday.
“LLOYD FREELING.”
Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of emotion was
visible. She looked about the room, down at herself, and again at the
letter.
“Am I really awake?” she said, beginning to tremble. Then the glad
but terrible truth grappled with her convictions, and through the wild
struggle and antagonism, of feeling that shook her soul there shone into
her face a joy so great that the pale features grew almost radiant.
“Innocent! innocent!” fell from her lips, over which crept a smile of
ineffable love. But it faded out quickly, and left in its place a shadow
of ineffable pain.
“Innocent! innocent!” she repeated, now clasping her hands and lifting
her eyes heavenward. “Dear Lord and Saviour! My heart is full of
thankfulness! Innocent! Oh, let it be made as clear as noonday! And my
baby, Lord--oh, my baby, my baby! Give him back to me!”
She fell forward upon her bed, kneeling, her face hidden among the
pillows, trembling and sobbing.
“Edith! Edith!” came the agitated voice of her father from without. She
rose quickly, and opening the door, saw his pale, convulsed countenance.
“Quick! quick! Your mother!” and Mr. Dinneford turned and ran down
stairs, she following. On reaching the dining-room, Edith found her
mother lying on a sofa, with the servants about her in great excitement.
Better than any one did she comprehend what she saw.
“Dead,” fell almost coldly from her lips.
“I have sent for Dr. Radcliffe. It may only be a fainting fit,” answered
Mr. Dinneford.
Edith stood a little way off from her mother, as if held from personal
contact by an invisible barrier, and looked upon her ashen face without
any sign of emotion.
“Dead, and better so,” she said, in an undertone heard only by her
father.
“My child! don't, don't!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford in a deprecating
whisper.
“Dead, and better so,” she repeated, firmly.
While the servants chafed the hands and feet of Mrs. Dinneford, and did
what they could in their confused way to bring her back to life, Edith
stood a little way off, apparently undisturbed by what she saw, and
not once touching her mother's body or offering a suggestion to the
bewildered attendants.
When Dr. Radcliffe came and looked at Mrs. Dinneford, all saw by his
countenance that he believed her dead. A careful examination proved the
truth of his first impression. She was done with life in this world.
As to the cause of her death, the doctor, gathering what he could from
her husband, pronounced it heart disease. The story told outside was
this--so the doctor gave it, and so it was understood: Mrs. Dinneford
was sitting at the table when her head was seen to sink forward, and
before any one could get to her she was dead. It was not so stated to
him by either Mr. Dinneford or Edith, but he was a prudent man, and
careful of the good fame of his patients. Family affairs he held as
sacred trusts. We'll he knew that there had been a tragedy in this
home--a tragedy for which he was in part, he feared, responsible; and he
did not care to look into it too closely. But of all that was involved
in this tragedy he really knew little. Social gossip had its guesses
at the truth, often not very remote, and he was familiar with these,
believing little or much as it suited him.
It is not surprising that Edith's father, on seeing the letter of Lloyd
Freeling, echoed his daughter's words, “Better so!”
Not a tear was shed on the grave of Mrs. Dinneford. Husband and daughter
saw her body carried forth and buried out of sight with a feeling of
rejection and a sense of relief. Death had no power to soften their
hearts toward her. Charity had no mantle broad enough to cover her
wickedness; filial love was dead, and the good heart of her husband
turned away at remembrance with a shudder of horror.
Yes, it was “better so!” They had no grief, but thankfulness, that she
was dead.
On the morning after the funeral there came a letter from Havana
addressed to Mr. Dinneford. It was from the man Freeling. In it he
related circumstantially all the reader knows about the conspiracy to
destroy Granger. The letter enclosed an affidavit made by Freeling, and
duly attested by the American consul, in which he stated explicitly
that all the forgeries were made by himself, and that George Granger was
entirely ignorant of the character of the paper he had endorsed with the
name of the firm.
Since the revelation made to Edith by Freeling's letter to her mother,
all the repressed love of years, never dead nor diminished, but only
chained, held down, covered over, shook itself free from bonds and the
wrecks and debris of crushed hopes. It filled her heart with an agony
of fullness. Her first passionate impulse was to go to him and throw
herself into his arms. But a chilling thought came with the impulse, and
sent all the outgoing heart-beats back. She was no longer the wife of
George Granger. In a weak hour she had yielded to the importunities of
her father, and consented to an application for divorce. No, she was no
longer the wife of George Granger. She had no right to go to him. If it
were true that reason had been in part or wholly restored, would he not
reject her with scorn? The very thought made her heart stand still. It
would be more than she could bear.