OUT OF THE CROOKED WAYS.
And so all was over; and Speckport found out that the poor, miserable
creature, Mr. Wyndham's mother, was dead. It must have been a merciful
release for her, poor soul! they said; but the fever was infectious, and
they sympathized at a respectful distance. But Mr. Wyndham's wife left
Redmon and went to the cottage as soon as she heard it, and staid there
through all the weary time that intervened between the death and the
burial. There had been a consultation about the funeral and the grave,
and it was decided that that other grave, marked with the white cross,
and bearing the name of Nathalie Marsh, should not be disturbed.
By-and-by, Val said, the name can be erased; to disturb it now would
involve the telling of the whole story. Let Mr. Wyndham erect what sort
of monument he pleases. So the grave was dug in a sunny inclosure, under
a tamarack tree, and the funeral-service was held in the cathedral, and
a long file of carriages followed the hearse to the cemetery. Paul
Wyndham, in his deep mourning, stood bareheaded in the cold November
sunlight while the coffin was being lowered and the sods rattled heavily
on the lid; and Speckport, as represented by the funeral cortege,
whispered that Mr. Wyndham looked ten years older since his mother's
death.
So Rosebush Cottage was left once more to the sole care of Midge, and
Mr. Wyndham returned to his late quarters at the "Farmer's Hotel." Mrs.
Marsh was driven to Cottage Street, and Mr. Blake, having fumigated
himself thoroughly, delighted the home of Miss Laura Blair once more
with the light of his presence. Poor Laura had led rather a lonely life
of late; for her darling Olly, wrapped up in her own troubles, had no
time to attend to her, and Val had deserted them altogether. She was
sitting, pale and listless, turning over the leaves of a new and popular
novel, with an indifference not very flattering to the author, when the
opening of the door made her start up, with a flush on her pretty face
and a light in her bright eyes, to whose flattering interest even Mr.
Blake could not be insensible.
"Yes, I've come back to poor Laura," Mr. Blake said, shaking hands with
more warmth than perhaps there was any real necessity for. "I find I
can't stay away from you somehow. How's everybody?"
"Pa and ma are well, if you mean them by 'everybody.' So poor Mr.
Wyndham's mother has gone?"
Mr. Blake nodded.
"And what is Mr. Wyndham going to do with that love of a cottage now, I
wonder?"
"I," said Mr. Blake, imperiously, "am going to purchase that love of a
cottage myself!"
"You! Why, Val! What will you ever do with a house?"
"Live in it, Miss Blair, like any other Christian!"
"Oh, yes; of course; I suppose you will send for Miss Jo to keep house
for you again?"
"Why, no," said Mr. Blake, thoughtfully. "I think not. Do you know,
Laura, what I have been thinking of lately?"
"No; how should I?"
"Well, then," said Val, in a confidential tone, "I have been thinking of
getting married! You need not mention it just yet, until I see more
about it. In fact, I have not asked the lady yet, and don't know what
she may say."
"And who is the happy lady, pray?"
"A particular friend of mine," nodded Val, sagely, "and of yours, too,
Laura. The nicest girl in Speckport."
"It is Miss Rose," thought Laura, with a sudden sinking of the heart.
"He always admired her, and they have been so much together lately!"
"I'll buy the cottage from Wyndham as it stands," pursued Val, serenely
unconscious of the turn Miss Blair's thoughts had taken, "and fetch my
wife there, and live in clover all the rest of my life. So hold yourself
in readiness, Miss Laura, to dance at the wedding."
Miss Laura might have replied but for a sudden choking sensation in the
throat, and the entrance of her portly mamma. Under cover of that lady's
entrance, she made her exit, and going up to her room, flung herself,
face downward, on the bed, and cried until her eyes were as red as a
ferret's. And all the time Mr. Blake was in a state of serene
complacency at the artful way in which he had prepared her for what was
to come.
"I couldn't speak much plainer," he thought, blandly. "How pretty she
looked, blushing and looking down. Of course I'll get married. I wonder
I never thought of it before. Dear little Laura! I'll never forget the
first time I heard her sing, 'We won't go home till morning!' I thought
her the jolliest girl then I ever met."
Mr. Blake was a gentleman in the habit of striking while the iron was
hot. He called round at the office, rapped Master Bill Blair over the
head with the tongs for standing on his hands instead of his feet, and
then started off for the Farmer's Hotel, without more ado, and was
ushered by a waiter into Mr. Wyndham's room.
"Blake, I owe you more than I can ever repay," he said; "you have been
my true friend through all this miserable time; and believe me, I feel
your goodness as much as a man can feel, even though I cannot express
it! Please God, this trouble of my life shall make me a better man, if I
can never be a happy one."
"Oh, you'll be happy," said Mr. Blake. "Get into the straight path
again, Wyndham, and keep there. I don't set up for a preacher, goodness
knows! but you may depend there is nothing like it."
"The straight path!" Paul Wyndham repeated, with a weary, regretful
sigh; "yes, I have been straying sadly out of the straight path of truth
and honor and rectitude into the crooked ways of falsehood and treachery
and deceit. Heaven help me, it never was with a contented heart! No one
on this earth could ever despise me half so much as I despised myself
all the time!"
"All right," cried Val, cheerily, "it's never too late to mend. Keep
straight now, and we can all forgive and forget the past. I suppose you
will be for leaving us shortly now?"
"Immediately. This is Tuesday--I shall depart in Thursday's boat."
"Will you," said Val, lighting a cigar; "that soon? What are you going
to do with Rosebush Cottage?"
"The cottage! Oh, I shall leave it as it is--that is, shut it up. In
time--a year or two, perhaps--I may return and sell it, if any one will
purchase."
"Don't wait a year or two. Sell it now."
"Who wants it?"
"I do," said Val, with one of his nods.
"You! What do you want of the place, may I ask."
"Well, now, I don't see any just cause or impediment to my possessing a
house any more than the rest of mankind, that everybody should be so
surprised. I want the house to live in, of course--what else?"
Paul Wyndham looked at him and smiled. The great trouble of his life had
changed him to a grave, sad man; but being only human, he could still
smile.
"I wish you joy with all my heart! Laura has said yes, then?"
"Why, no, not exactly--that is to say, I haven't asked her out-and-out
yet. I wanted to settle about the house first. But I gave her a pretty
broad hint, and I guess it's all right. I think I should like to live
there particularly, and now what will you take for it as it stands?"
Mr. Wyndham arose, opened a desk, and took out a bundle of papers, which
he laid before Val.
"Here is the deed and all the documents connected with the place. You
can see what it cost me yourself. Here is the upholsterer's bill, but
you must deduct from that, for it is only second-hand furniture now. I
leave the matter entirely to yourself."
With such premises, bargaining was no very difficult matter; and half an
hour after, Val had the deed in his pocket, and was the happy owner of
Rosebush Cottage.
"You stay here, I suppose, until Thursday," he said, rising to go.
"Yes."
"And how about that poor girl at Redmon? What is to become of her?"
Mr. Wyndham laid his hand on Val's shoulder, and looked very gravely up
in his face.
"Val, before she died, in that last brief interview, she spoke of
Harriet, and I gave her a promise then which I shall faithfully keep.
The devotion of a whole life can scarcely atone to her for the wrong I
have done her; but if she will accept that atonement, Heaven knows it
will make me happier now than anything else on earth. If she does not
utterly loathe and hate me--if she will be my wife in reality, as she
has hitherto been in name--we will leave this place together; and
whether my life be long or short, it shall be entirely devoted to her
alone."
Val's face turned radiant. He seized Mr. Wyndham's other hand, and shook
it with crushing heartiness.
"My dear Wyndham! My dear old boy! I always knew your heart was in the
right place, in spite of all your shortcomings. Oh, you'll be all right
now! You've got the stuff in you that men are made of!"
With which Mr. Blake strode off, fairly beaming with delight, and
whistling all the way home. He sprang up the outer steps at a bound,
rang the bell with emphasis, and shooting past the astonished servant,
bolted whirlwind-fashion into the dining-room. At first he thought there
was no one there, but, disturbed by the noisy entrance, from a sofa
before the fire, and from out a heaving sea of pillows, Laura lifted up
her head and looked at him. Poor Laura! That feminine luxury, a "real
good cry," had brought on a raging headache, and now her face was
flushed, her eyes dim and heavy, and her head throbbing and hot. She
dropped that poor but aching head again as she saw who it was, with a
rebellious choking in the throat, and a sudden filling of the eyes.
"Oh, I say, Laura," cried Mr. Blake, in considerable consternation,
"you're not sick, are you? What's the matter?"
"My head aches," Laura got out, through her tears.
"Poor little head!" Mr. Blake piteously remarked, and Laura sobbed
outright; "don't cry, Laura, it will be better before you are twice
married. Look, here's a plaster I've brought you for it!"
He put the deed of Rosebush Cottage in her feverish hand. Laura stayed
her tears, and looked at it, blankly.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Can't you see? It's the deed of Rosebush Cottage. I've bought it,
furniture and all--and the furniture is very pretty, Laura--from Paul
Wyndham. I'll let you keep that paper, if you'll promise to take good
care of it."
"I don't understand you! Oh, Val!" cried Miss Blair, her heart beginning
to flutter wildly again, "what is it you mean?"
"Why, didn't I tell you this morning? I'm going to be married--that is,
if you will have me, Laura!"
Happy Laura! Such a rosy tide swept over her fair face, and dyed it
radiant red to the roots of her hair.
"Oh, Val! I thought it was Miss Rose."
Val stared.
"Miss Rose! What the dickens put that in your head? I never thought of
Miss Rose--I meant you all the time. Is it all right, Laura?"
All right! He need hardly have asked that question, seeing the radiant
face before him. Laura laughed and cried, and blushed, and forgot all
about her headache, and for the next fifteen minutes was completely and
perfectly happy. It was one of those little glimpses of Eden that we
poor pilgrims of the desert sometimes catch fleetingly as we wander
wearily through long dreary wastes of sand, of sluggish marshes, or
briery roads. Transient gleams of perfect joy, when we forget the past,
and ask nothing of the future--when we hold the overflowing cup of bliss
to our lips and drink to our heart's content.
"Dinner on the table!" Somebody made this announcement in a stentorian
voice, and Val insisted on Laura's taking his arm, and accompanying him
to the dining-room. Papa and Mamma Blair and Master Bill were waiting
there; and Mr. Blake, ever prompt and business-like, led the blushing
and shrinking fair one to the parental side, and boldly demanded their
blessing. To say that Mr. and Mrs. Blair were astonished, would be doing
no sort of justice to the subject; to say they were delighted, would be
doing still less; and Miss Laura was formally made over to Mr. Blake
before grace was said. Dinner was only a matter of form that day with
Miss Blair--her appetite was effectually gone; and even
Val--matter-of-fact, unromantic, unsentimental Val--ate considerably
less underdone roast-beef than usual, and looked a good deal more across
the table at the rosy, smiling face of his vis-a-vis than at the
contents of his plate. But dinner was over at last, and an extra bottle
of crusty old port drank to the happy event; and then Papa Blair
buttoned up his overcoat and set off to business again, and Master Bill
started full gallop for the office, to retail the news to Mr. Clowrie;
and Mamma Blair went about her domestic concerns, and the lovers were
alone together. But Mr. Blake was not at all "up" in the rôle of Romeo,
and stood beside Laura at the window, looking at the pale moon rising,
and using his toothpick.
"What a lovely night!" Laura said; for all the world, so lately a
howling wilderness, was moonlight and couleur de rose to her now, with
plain Val Blake standing by her side. "How beautifully the moon is
rising over the bay!"
"Yes," said Mr. Blake, eying it with the glance of a connoisseur in
moonshine. "It's rather a neat thing in the way of moonrise. What
whistle's that?"
"It's the American boat getting in. Suppose we go down, Val, and see
who's coming?"
"All right!" said Val. "Run and put your things on, and don't be an hour
about it, if you can help it."
Laura ran off, and reappeared in a quarter of the allotted time,
turbaned and mantled, and furred, and tripped along through the moonlit
and gaslit streets, with her new fiancé down to the wharf. The fine
night had, as usual, drawn crowds down there, and the wharf was all
bustle, and excitement, and uproar. Miss Blair, clinging confidingly to
Mr. Blake's arm, watched the passengers making their way through the
tumult to where the cabs were waiting, when all of a sudden she dropped
the arm she held, with a little shrill feminine scream, and darting
forward, plumped head foremost into the arms of a gentleman coming up
the wharf, valise in hand. To say that Mr. Blake stared aghast would be
a mild way of putting it; but stare he undoubtedly did, with might and
main. The gentleman wore a long, loose overcoat, heavily furred, and his
face was partially shaded by a big, black, California hat; but Val saw
the handsome, sun-browned face beneath for all that, with its thick,
dark mustache and beard. Could it be? surely not, with all those
whiskers and that brown skin; and yet--and yet, it did look like: but by
this time Laura had got out of the mustached stranger's coat-sleeves,
and was back, breathless with excitement, beside the staring editor.
"Oh, Val! it's Charley!--it's Charley Marsh! Charley Marsh!" Charley,
sure enough, in spite of the whiskers and the sun-brown. Val was beside
him in two strides, shaking both hands as if he meant to wrench the arms
from their sockets.
"My dear boy! my dear boy! my dear boy!" was all Mr. Blake could get
out, while he spoke, and shook poor Charley's hands; and Laura performed
a little jig of ecstasy around them, to the great delight of sundry
small boys looking on. As for Charley himself, there were tears in his
blue eyes, even while he laughed at Val.
"Dear old Val!" he said, "it is a sight for sair een to look at your
honest face again! Dear old boy! there is no place like home!"
"Come along," cried Val, hooking his arm in Charley's. "The people are
gaping as if we had two heads on us! Here's a cab; get in, Laura; jump
after her, Charley. Now, then, driver, No. 12 Golden Row!"
"Hold on!" exclaimed Charley, laughing at his phlegmatic friend's sudden
excitement, "I cannot permit myself to be abducted in this manner. I
must go to Cottage Street."
"Come home with us first," said Val, gravely. "I have something to tell
you--something you ought to know before you go to Cottage Street."
"My mother!" Charley cried, in sudden alarm; "she is ill--something is
wrong."
"No, she's not! Your mother is well, and nothing is wrong. Be patient
for ten minutes, and you'll find out what I mean!"
The cab stopped with a jerk in front of Mr. Blair's; and, as they got
out, a gentleman galloped past on horseback, and turned round to look at
them. Val nodded, and the rider, touching his hat to Laura, rode on.
"Where is Mr. Wyndham going, I wonder?" said Laura.
"To Redmon, I think," Val answered. "Come in, Charley! Won't the old
folks stare, though, when they see you?"
Miss Rose--her name is Rose, you know--had gone from Rosebush Cottage to
Redmon, at the earnest entreaties of her half-sister. She had wished to
return to Mrs. Wheatly's, and let things go on as before; but Harriet
Wade--the only name to which she had any right--had opposed it so
violently, and pleaded so passionately, that she had to have her way.
"Stay with me, Olive, stay with me while I am here!" had been the
vehement cry. "I shall die if I am left alone!"
"Very well, I will stay," her sister said, kissing her; "but, please,
Harriet, don't call me Olive, call me Winnie. I like it best, and it is
the name by which they know me here."
So Winnie Rose Henderson went to Redmon--her own rightful home, and hers
alone--and on the night of Charley Marsh's return, when Paul Wyndham
entered the house, her small, light figure crossing the hall was the
first object he saw. She came forward with a little womanly cry at sight
of him.
"Oh, Mr. Wyndham, I am so glad you have come! I want you to talk to
Harriet. She is going away."
"Going away! Where?"
"Back to New York, she says--anywhere out of this. Back to the old life
of trouble and toil. Oh, Mr. Wyndham, talk to her. All I say is useless.
But you have influence over her, I know."
"Have I?" Mr. Wyndham said, with a sad, incredulous smile. "What is it
you want her to do, Miss Henderson?"
"I want you to make her stay here. I want you to persuade her to let
everything go on as before. I mean," the governess said, coloring
slightly, "as regards myself and her, of course."
Mr. Wyndham took her hand and looked down at her, with that grave, sad
smile still on his face.
"My dear Miss Henderson," he said, "--for by that name I must call
you--you are the best and noblest woman in the world, and I shall
venerate all womankind henceforth for your sake. But we would be as
selfish as you are noble did we accept the sacrifice you are so willing
to make. I have come to offer the only atonement it is in my power to
make for the wrong I have done her. On the result depends what her
future life shall be."
The governess understood him, and the color deepened on her face.
"She is in the library," she said, withdrawing her hand and moving away.
"You have my best wishes."
Paul Wyndham tapped at the library-door, and the familiar voice of the
woman he sought called "Come in!" She was lying on a lounge, drawn up
before a glowing coal-fire, listlessly lying there, its ruddy glow
falling on her face, and showing how wan and worn it was. At sight of
him, that pale face turned even paler, and she rose up and looked at
him, as some poor criminal under trial for her life might look at her
judge.
"Have I frightened you?" he said, noticing that startled glance. "Pray
resume your seat. You hardly look well enough to stand up."
She sank back on the lounge, holding one hand over her throbbing heart.
Paul Wyndham stood leaning against the marble mantel, looking down at
the fire, and thinking of that other interview he had held with this
woman, when he had to tell her she must be his wife. How few months had
intervened since then, but what a lifetime of trouble, and secrecy, and
suspicion, and guilt it seemed; and how she must hate and despise him!
She had told him so once. How useless, then, it seemed, for him to
approach her again! But, whether refused or not, that way duty lay; and
he had deserved the humiliation. She sat before him, but not looking at
him. He could not see her face, for she held up a dainty little toy of a
hand-screen between it and the firelight; but he could see that the hand
which held it shook, and that the lace on her breast fluttered, as if
with the beating of the heart beneath. And seeing it, he took courage.
"I scarcely know," he began, "how I can say to you what I have come here
to-night to say. I scarcely know how I dare speak to you at all. Believe
me, no man could be more penitent for the wrong I have done you than I
am. If my life could atone for it, I would give it, and think the
atonement cheaply purchased. But my death cannot repair the sin of the
past. I have wronged you--deeply, cruelly wronged you--and I have only
your woman's pity and clemency to look to now. I can scarcely hope any
feeling can remain for me in your heart but one of abhorrence, and that
abhorrence I have deserved; but I owe it to you to say what I have come
here to utter. You know all the story of the past. You heard it from the
lips that are cold in death now, and those dying lips encouraged me to
make this poor reparation. Harriet, my poor, wronged girl, if you will
take her place, if you will be to me what the world here has for so many
months thought you--what she really was--if you will be my wife, my dear
and cherished wife, I will try what a lifetime of devotion will do to
atone for the sorrowful past. Perhaps, my poor dear, you will be able to
care for me enough in time to forgive me--almost to love me--and Heaven
knows I will do my best to be all to you a husband should be to a
beloved wife!"
He stopped, looking at her; but she did not stir, only the hand holding
the screen trembled violently, and the fluttering breast rose and fell
faster than ever.
"Harriet," he said, gently, "am I so hateful to you that you will not
even look at me? Can you never forgive me for what I have done?"
She dropped the screen and rose up, her face all wet with a rain of
happy tears, and held out both hands to him--all pride gone forever now.
"I do not forgive you," she said. "I love you, and love never has
anything to forgive. O Paul, I have loved you ever since you made me
your wife!"
So Paul Wyndham found out at last what others had known so long, and
took his poor, forlorn wife to his arms with a strange, remorseful sort
of tenderness, that, if not love, was near akin to it. So, while the
fire burned low, and cast weird shadows on the dusky, book-lined walls,
and the November wind wailed without, these two, never united before,
sat side by side, and talked of a future that was to be theirs, far from
Speckport and those who had heard the sinful and sorrowful story of the
past.
By and by, a servant coming in to replenish the fire found them sitting
peacefully together, as he had never seen his master and mistress sit
before, and was sent to find Miss Rose and bring her to them. And I
think Harriet herself was hardly happier in her new bliss than her
gentle stepsister in witnessing it.
So, while Charley Marsh, up in Val Blake's room, that cold November
night, listened in strange amazement to all that had been going on of
late--to the romance-like story in which his unhappy sister had played
so prominent a part--the two sat in the luxurious library at Redmon in
this new happiness that had come to them from Nathalie Marsh's grave!