“If fate should let us meet, what should we do?
Would each our hearts their olden love renew?
Or would the clouds that o’er us loom
Remain unmoved, with all their gloom,
If we should meet--if we should meet?”
At this juncture of our story, it is most imperative that we should
return to John Dinsmore, whom we left standing, cold and taciturn,
on the porch, waving his child-bride good-by as she went from him in
company with Lawyer Abbot.
He did not go into the house, as Lucy Caldwell ardently hoped he would
do, but instead started off at a swinging pace toward the orchard.
He wanted to be alone, where he could have the luxury of undisturbed
thoughts, and where he could get away from the presence of Lucy
Caldwell and her love-lit glances and blushing face, all of which
were most annoying to him, as they disclosed the fact that the girl
was learning to care for him, a fact which troubled him, as he had
given her no encouragement to become infatuated with himself; on
the contrary, had taken every possible means on every occasion to
discourage it, and dissipate any hopes which she might be indulging in.
His long strides soon brought him to the orchard. Walking to the
farthest end of it, he flung himself down under one of the gnarled old
trees, and gave himself up to grim reflections. Had he done a wise
action in marrying the girl from whom he had just parted in such cold,
angry pride?
Over and over again he asked himself that question, and tried to answer
it satisfactorily to his troubled mind.
He acknowledged most freely to himself that he did not love her, and
never could; that he had wedded her through a principle of honor which
urged him to give the girl his name that she might inherit the wealth
that his uncle had intended for her, and that he had lost every atom of
respect that he had entertained toward her at the acknowledgment from
her lips that she had been betrothed to another, and had thrown that
other lover over--to marry himself.
“Had she confessed that before the marriage took place, I would have
cut my right hand off sooner than have married her,” he muttered,
grimly.
The lesson he had received at the hands of the one girl he had loved,
in this regard, had taught him to despise a jilt as he would the
deadliest of cobras.
Before he had met Queenie Trevalyn, he had believed in women much as he
believed in angels--that they were incapable of deceit, or treachery,
and could do nothing wrong.
And now his experience with Jess strengthened the conviction that
his theory concerning the fair sex had been radically wrong. Now he
believed from the very depths of his heart that they were incapable of
feeling a true affection, and were ready to jilt one lover, at the very
altar if need be, if they found some one else more eligible--that they
were mercenary to the heart’s core.
He did his best to dislike little Jess, but, do what he would, his
heart seemed to warm to her in spite of himself.
“She is young, and has had no one to tell her, no one to warn her, of
the sin of trifling with an honest man’s affections, and breaking his
heart,” he ruminated, passing his hand thoughtfully over his brow.
“There is only one thing to be done, and that is, to set her free as
soon as it can be lawfully accomplished, that she may wed the man who
held her plighted troth at the time she came here three weeks ago.”
All that would take time. He felt sorry for the poor fellow, whoever
he might be, because of that. He would see that Jess was free from the
bonds that bound her to himself at the earliest possible day; that was
the best he could do for his unknown rival.
John Dinsmore thus settled the matter in his own mind, and tried to
feel duly happy over the result of his decision, but somehow he felt a
vague regret, he could not have told why.
He had promised Jess that she should hear from him in the course of
a week, or two weeks at the most. Now, after much reflection, he
concluded to go to New York, and see her there, and tell her plainly
the course he proposed to adopt.
She could certainly find no fault with his action when he revealed to
her the astonishing information that he, whom she had wedded as plain
Mr. Moore, was in reality John Dinsmore, co-heir with her to all the
Dinsmore millions.
Her marriage with him had entitled her to her half of the vast estate,
and he was willing to sign over the balance of it. He cared nothing
for wealth, although it had poured in upon him from the sale of his
famous book.
True, he had not communicated with his publishers since the day he left
Newport to go South, and had met with the accident which laid him up at
Caldwell farm; but for all that, he knew the money had accumulated, and
was ready for him whenever he chose to call for it.
And once again he told himself bitterly that fame and fortune had come
to him too late.
Had he possessed it in that bitter hour upon the Newport sands, when
he laid his heart at the dainty feet of the proud Queenie Trevalyn,
she might have accepted, and married him, and his blood ran riot for
an instant through his veins at the bare thought of it. But he put her
away from his thoughts most resolutely, telling himself that he must
not allow his mind to dwell upon her for an instant, for she was now,
of course, the bride of Raymond Challoner.
He had no thought that she would be in New York; indeed, he fancied
that she would be spending her honeymoon abroad.
“Why should I yearn for you still, my queen?” he murmured hoarsely,
stretching out his arms toward empty space with a great, tearless sob
that he strangled fiercely in his throat rather than give it utterance.
“God only knows; and I add: God help me!”
He had gained his self-possession, and was his usual calm self when at
length he retraced his steps to the farmhouse. He went directly to the
low-roofed kitchen, where he was sure of finding Lucy and her mother
preparing the midday meal.
The girl looked up brightly and shyly as the long shadow that fell
across the floor told her that he was near. Indeed, some subtle
instinct would have told her of his near presence, even had there been
no sunshine, no light, and the darkness of Erebus had shrouded the
earth.
“I am making something you like, Mr. Moore,” she said, holding up a
great dish of golden-brown crullers before him. “And mother has made an
apple pie, and you are also to have Johnny-cake and honey.”
“You and your mother are very thoughtful, and very considerate of my
likes--regarding the good things you are preparing--but I fear I will
not be able to enjoy them for the reason that I am come to tell you
that I am going to take the next train that leaves for New York, which
will leave me scarcely more than time to get from here down to the
depot in the village.”
Glancing carelessly enough from the mother to the daughter, he saw the
laughter die from Lucy’s face, and the light from her eyes. She laid
down the dish of golden-brown crullers on the table, still looking
at him piteously, it almost seemed to him. He did not understand the
expression of her face. It was as one who awaits a sentence of life or
death.
“What is the matter, Lucy; are you ill?” cried Mrs. Caldwell in alarm,
seeing how white her daughter’s face had grown, but before she could
reach her side, Lucy had fallen in a dead swoon to the kitchen floor.
For an instant the young man standing in the doorway was dazed with
amazement, but in the next he sprang forward to raise the girl.
“Do not go near my Lucy! Do not touch her!” cried the unhappy mother,
distractedly. “This is all your work, sir--all your work!”
John Dinsmore drew back in much distress. Never by word, act or deed,
had he given the girl encouragement to bestow her affections upon
himself. He was touched deeply. He remembered his own hopeless love
for Queenie Trevalyn, and could sympathize from the very bottom of his
heart with any human being who loved in vain.
His eyes filled with tears; he who had been drawn on by dimpling smiles
and coquettish glances until his whole heart had been drawn from his
bosom, only to be ruthlessly cast aside when he acknowledged, while he
pleaded for the heart of the girl he loved, that he had not wealth to
offer her.
“You will at least allow me to carry her into the other room and place
her on the settee for you?” he asked, gently, noting that the slender
form, light as the burden was, would certainly be beyond the strength
of the mother’s arms.
Again she waved him away.
“Living or dead, you shall not lay a finger on my child,” she said,
bitterly, adding, with a burst of grief: “I am sorry, sorry that you
ever darkened the farmhouse door; but I never dreamed you would lure my
girl’s heart from her, and then coolly inform us that you were going
away.”
He made the irate mother no answer; indeed, of what use would it be to
defend his actions? Nothing that he would say would mend matters. He
must go at once. It was very sad; very pitiful; but all the same he
must go.
He said good-by to Mrs. Caldwell, and turned sorrowfully away, when she
turned stolidly in another direction, refusing to take any notice of
him. It was better that he should go ere Lucy returned to consciousness.
An hour later he was speeding on toward New York, leaving the farm and
its occupants far behind him, to see them never again. He meant to see
Jess at once, and have the parting over with her without unnecessary
delay, and after that--well, it mattered little enough to him what
became of him.