Four weeks elapsed ere Richard’s return. During his absence Mr. Bristed
showed his sympathy for my lonely situation by many little attentions;
sending up to the school-room, now and then, choice fruit from his
hot-house, or a bouquet of conservatory flowers, and, several times in
the early evening, he sent for me to read aloud to him.
I found him to be a quiet, polished gentleman; and I grew to like
him, and to look for his tokens of kindness after my daily labors
with growing interest, and, if they came not, to feel disappointed
and unhappy. He had travelled much and could talk well, and under the
influence of a sympathetic listener, his countenance lit up with kindly
emotion, and the sad lines of his face disappeared beneath a happy
smile.
But in the glowing midsummer his truant brother returned, and my
new-born interest vanished like snow before the harvest sun.
Again Mr. Richard exerted his varied powers to fascinate and amuse
me. Again I listened, and struggled, as formerly, against his wiles,
and finally bent a too willing ear to his soft words of praise and
admiration. With secret pleasure I reveled in his ardent language,
hugging to my heart the belief that I was loved.
How that summer sped by on its golden wings! Time passed on, as in some
delicious opium dream! And when the short clays and long nights of the
Christmas holidays set in, I found myself secretly engaged in marriage
to Richard Bristed.
Of our plans and attachment his brother was not at present to be
informed: this stern brother who shut himself up apart from his
species, and who, Richard told me, was of too cold a nature to
sympathize with love.
“He will dismiss you, Agnes, if he hears of it,” he said. “Wait till I
have settled up my affairs, and then he can do his worst.”
I believed this statement; I forgot all my former good impressions of
Mr. Bristed, and listened to the tales that were told me of how he
had wronged Richard. I learned to regard him as a robber, a hypocrite
whose statements could not be relied on; a false, dark, bad man. As for
Richard, he seemed a king in comparison; a noble, magnanimous being,
whom some kind fairy had bestowed upon me.
But that cold, relentless Fate, which comes to tear off the painted
wrappings of life, revealing the bare and ugly reality beneath, was
fast pursuing me.
At the close of a cold, snowy day, I had retired early to my room, and
having locked the door that I might be free from interruption, sat
down to look over the dainty articles of dress which I had been shyly
accumulating for my approaching marriage.
It was but a scanty outfit, but to me it appeared munificent as that of
a princess. I could never weary of looking at these beautiful garments;
I placed them in one light, and then in another; I folded and unfolded
them, and finally ended by trying them on, and admiring in the mirror
their perfect adaptation to my face and figure. A long time must have
passed in this way, when the hall clock struck the hour of midnight.
Astonished at the lateness of the night, I threw down the laces and
ribbons which I was combining into some airy article of dress, and was
preparing to remove my bridal attire, when I was amazed to hear a key
turning in the lock of my door. Fear and surprise nailed me to the
floor. The door glided softly open and in stepped Mr. Richard Bristed!
He seemed surprised to see me thus.
“What! up and dressed?” he exclaimed, in a loud whisper. “O my beauty!
my wife! I have come to claim you to-night. You shall be mine. No power
on earth shall withhold us now!”
“How strangely you talk, Richard,” said I. “You forget it is so late.
We cannot go to church at this hour.”
“Ah, dearest, this is church! See, I have brought you this ring. We
will stand up before God and our own hearts, and I will marry you here.
We need no other witnesses than ourselves and this ring!”
Though my youthful heart was blinded by love and passion, I was not
prepared for this. Excitement and the strangeness of the proposition
overcame me, and I broke forth into sobs.
He endeavored to soothe me, urging his request with a pleading force
which I could scarcely withstand.
“I am not prepared, Richard,” said I, drying my tears; “this is so
sudden, so unlooked for, I must have time for thought.”
But thought only revealed a gaping abyss, from which I must fly.
He continued to urge his plea; but seeing I would not yield, his
countenance changed. The sweet, seductive smile vanished. He grew white
as the moonbeam, and, clenching his hand and setting his teeth, bent
over me, whispering huskily:
“Agnes, I shall not step from this room to-night. I have the key. You
have promised to be mine. You shall keep that promise. To-night you
shall keep that promise!”
If he was pale, I became paler. A cold chill crept over me. But I took
my resolution, unyielding as death, not to grant his request.
A chasm seemed to yawn before me. The loneliness and friendlessness of
my position were presented to my mind with terrific reality. A deadly
swoon-like feeling ensued. To yield in this might seal my fate. I paced
the floor rapidly, praying for help.
Help came suddenly. As I passed the door of my wardrobe, I remembered
that the same key unlocked this and the door of my apartment. I drew it
forth, and in the twinkling of an eye I was free.
The cool air from the outside passage, and the prospect of liberty,
cooled my excited nerves, and revived me for the work I had to
accomplish.
“Richard,” said I, my hand upon the latch, “you or I must leave.”
He made no reply, but violently rising from his chair, grasped
something that lay near him, and tearing it to atoms, rushed by me
without word or look, and reaching the stairs, hastened out of sight.
Mechanically I sat down, and with sad, straining eyes surveyed the
wreck before me. My bridal wreath was shivered into fragments; its
white petals, like fruit blossoms caught in an untimely blast,
sprinkled the floor; my laces were in shreds like the riven mast of
some shipwrecked vessel.
Of course there was no sleep for me that night. When worn out with
thinking and weeping, I drew a large easy chair up to the door and sat
there as guard, listening, with the hope which moment after moment grew
fainter, that he would return and whisper in my willing ear a sweet
demand for pardon, some word in extenuation for his unseemly conduct;
but he came not.
Toward daybreak, I was aroused from the lethargy into which I had
fallen from sheer exhaustion by the sound of excited voices and hurried
movements in the room below. As these subsided and the gray morning
broke, I was startled by the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the graveled
walk.
A fearful foreboding possessed me; what could it mean? Somebody was
riding away; who was it? Through the gate and down the avenue I heard
the galloping steed.
I dragged my nerveless limbs to the window and peered forth. Clear
against the horizon, now streaked with pale crimson rays of dawn,
rising in bold relief I beheld the receding figure of Richard Bristed.
He was leaving me without word or sign. My head reeled; I grasped the
window casement to steady myself, and sank insensible upon the floor.