THE PARTING.
Mr. Ellerton and his son entered their carriage in silence; the one in
stern and gloomy displeasure, the other with a look of firm resolve
still upon his face, though his heart throbbed and glowed with
exultation, that Dora had remained steadfast as he himself.
Mr. Ellerton drove furiously homeward, giving free vent to his feelings
by smartly applying the lash to poor startled old Prince’s back, which
had never been beaten so before.
At the door he gave the horse to a servant, and telling Robert to go
directly to the library, he took off his light summer overcoat and hat,
hung them upon the rack in the hall, and then followed him.
He locked the door after him, and going the table, lit an astral lamp
and seated himself in silence, motioning Robert to do the same.
After a few moments spent in deep thought, he turned his eyes upon his
son and said, in a hard, cold voice:
“Well, sir, how much longer do you intend to carry on this farce?”
“What farce?” asked Robert, innocently.
“What farce, you fool? why, this ridiculous obstinacy about this more
ridiculous marriage.”
“It is no farce, father,” firmly replied his son.
“Have done with such talk, or by Heaven, I’ll flog you. I tell you this
thing is going to be made null and void, and if you won’t obey me
willingly, I will force you to obedience. Not one penny of my money
shall you have, to begin with; I will give it to some one who is willing
to give heed to my wishes. And I think I know of one who would be very
glad to get it.”
This latter sentence was muttered partly aloud and partly to himself,
while a bitter sneer curled his lips.
“I will shut you up,” he continued, “and you shall live upon bread and
water until you consent, or if that does not bring you to your senses, I
will send you to the remotest lands of the earth, where, with barely
enough to live upon, you will soon be glad to come to terms. The idea of
you really thinking that you love this low, ill-bred girl, or even the
thought of marrying her in the future, is perfectly absurd. Why, boy,
she is almost a beggar, while you will be worth your hundreds of
thousands. My son mating with such as she! I tell you I won’t have it.
Better had you died when you were so ill, than that Dr. Dupont should
have saved your life, to waste it on his girl. Choose, sir, and choose
thoughtfully and carefully, for I swear I’ll move heaven and earth
before this thing shall go on. You know what the girl said; if you would
repent she would also.”
“I will ask you the same question, father, that Dora asked her mother:
Do you wish me to utter a falsehood? You have been as strict with me
about the truth as any one.”
“This talk is all cant, Robert,” replied his father, angrily. “You know
as well as I that you will regret it in the future. It’s only your
thundering will. Just think how ashamed you will be to introduce her
into your own circle by and by; as commonly brought up as she has been,
and such a frightful little squab, with red hair, too.”
Robert’s eyes blazed now with a dangerous sparkle.
“I am not at all afraid, sir, that I shall ever have cause to be ashamed
of my wife. Her mother is more of a lady now than you are a gentleman,
with the insinuation that you cast at her to-night.”
Mr. Ellerton winced. He had repented what he had said as soon as the
words were uttered; but it enraged him beyond measure to be reproved by
his son, and he shouted:
“Silence, you young rascal! If you ever call that girl wife again in my
presence, I swear I’ll thrash you. I ask you again, will you give up
this girl?”
“No, sir.”
“You will not?”
“I will not.”
They sat gazing into each other’s eyes for several minutes; those two,
so firm and unyielding, until Mr. Ellerton, unable longer to endure his
son’s steadfast look, turned angrily away, and, in a voice hoarse with
wrath, said:
“Go to your room, you ungrateful boy, and remain there until I decide
your fate.”
Robert picked up his cap, which had fallen to the floor, and moved to
the door. He opened it, and turning back, said, respectfully:
“Good-night, father.”
There was no reply, and he passed out, up the broad and handsome
stairway, into his own room; where he sat in deep and earnest thought
for several hours. At length, feeling tired and worn, he retired, and
slept soundly until morning.
Poor Mr. Ellerton, down stairs, paced the room all night long. He was
angry, but he was more, he was crushed.
It was, indeed, as Squire Moulton meant it should be, a heavy blow, not
only to his pride, but to all his hopes and plans for his boy in the
future. He intended to educate his boy in the most thorough manner,
giving him every advantage and privilege that money could procure, and
he had hoped to see him contract a brilliant marriage in the future.
Those plans were now crushed in a single day—were blighted, never to
revive again, and—“by a nobody,” he said, bitterly, to himself; and he
cursed his foe with the deadliest curses. He felt that he had never
wronged the man otherwise than by marrying the girl he had loved. But he
knew that, besides this, there was another reason, which, though he
himself was not to blame for it, the squire might see fit to revenge
upon him. It was a secret between them, and they had never breathed it
to mortal ears.
He determined to keep Robert a close prisoner for awhile, until he had
the best advice in the state about the matter, and if that did not bend
his will, he would send him abroad to be educated, and perhaps, with
time and absence, he would get over his infatuation.
When morning broke Robert arose and dressed himself, but on attempting
to leave the room, he found the door was locked on the outside. The hot
and angry blood mounted to his brow, and he stood several minutes with
his hands grasping the silver knob, as if he would wrench it open,
despite the strong lock that held it fast.
Finally, thinking better of it, he turned away, and, taking up a book,
commenced reading.
An hour elapsed, when the key turned, and a man entered, bearing a
silver tray upon which was arranged a steaming and tempting breakfast.
He sat it down, and, without a word, left the room, Robert disdaining to
question a servant.
He remained thus alone for nearly a week, his meals being brought
regularly to him, only each day they grew less and less palatable, until
at last he received only a glass of water to wash down his cold, dry
bread.
The confinement began to grow tedious; his father or any member of the
family had not been near him, and he began to feel uneasy about Dora,
for he had promised to come and see her, and he knew she was watching
for him. While thinking thus the lock clicked and his father entered,
still wearing the same stern and forbidding countenance as when he last
saw him.
“Well, Robert,” he said, coldly, “are you ready to yield to my wishes?”
“If your wishes remain the same as when I last saw you, I am not.”
“Will nothing move you, my son?” pleaded his father, a look almost of
despair on his fine face.
His voice softened, and tears stood in his eyes.
“Father, did you love my mother?” asked Robert, softening for a moment.
“As my life, my boy,” and his lip quivered.
“Even so I love Dora, and I cannot give her up.”
“That is all gammon, Robert,” replied his father, again becoming
excited. “If you were older, I might think there was something in it;
but you two; such a couple of babies—bah! I say you shall give her up.”
Robert turned moodily to the window.
“Will you, boy?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well,” icily responded Mr. Ellerton. “Prepare yourself to start
for Germany to-morrow morning. Major Atherton will take charge of you,
and place you in an institution, where I hope rigid discipline and a
thorough education will bring you to your senses.”
Saying which he hastily left the room, again locking the door after him.
Robert caught his breath quickly.
Could he go so far away from Dora? He asked himself the question over
and over again. His brain seemed on fire at the thought, and for a long
time he rebelled at the idea.
Finally, when he could think calmly about it, he reasoned that he must
have an education, that he wanted one, and that Dora must be educated
too, and he desired that she might become a polished and elegant young
lady, so that when he graduated and came to claim her, his father could
not help being reconciled to their marriage, and willing to acknowledge
her as his daughter.
Yes, indeed, he thought, on the whole it was better so. Better even to
be separated; then each would study the hardest to please the other, and
he resolved to calmly obey the decree, go his long journey peaceably,
and make the most of every advantage.
But he must see Dora first; and how to manage it? Here the anxious look
came back to his eyes.
He was a prisoner, securely locked within his room, but he must get out
some way, he must and would see his Brightie once more before he
commenced the long and weary discipline in store for him.
A light and fancy trellis was underneath his window, so near that he
could easily step out upon it. But would it bear his weight?
He went to the window and looked out, and his face lighted up with a
triumphant smile, for he saw it was perfectly safe, and the way was now
opened for him to go and bid his little wife a last “good-by.”
He spent the rest of the day in gathering up his treasures, and
preparing for his journey.
It seemed a long time after the servant brought him his tea, (and a
dainty supper it was too, this last one which he was to eat beneath his
father’s roof for years) until dark.
But at length night drew her sable robe around the earth, and all was
hushed and quiet. Robert satisfied himself that no one was around the
house, and then lightly descended the trellis, and made his way swiftly
toward the little white cottage, which contained the treasure of his
heart.
As he approached, he saw a little white face pressed close against the
window-pane, and he knew that Dora was watching for him; and his heart
ached for her, for he felt that thus she had been watching every day
since he left her, nearly a week ago.
He sprang lightly up the step, just as the door opened, and his
child-bride threw herself sobbing into his arms.
“There, Dora, darling, do not cry. I could not come before,” he said,
while his own lip quivered.
“Oh, Robbie, I thought you never would come again, and I have watched
every day till it got so dark that my eyes ached.”
She hugged him tight, and sobbed afresh from joy at seeing him.
“Is your mother at home, Brightie?” he asked, when she grew quiet again.
“No; she went out to see a sick lady, and oh, Robbie, I was so lonely, I
thought my heart would break.”
“Well, then, let us go into the house, for I have something to tell
you.”
He put his arms around her and drew her in. He sat down and took her in
his lap, clasping her close in his arms, while a great lump rose in his
throat and almost choked him as he thought it was the last time.
“Robbie,” she asked, softly patting his face with her little hand, “you
aren’t sorry yet, are you?”
“No, darling, nor ever shall be. Why?”
“Why, I thought you must be, or you would have come before.”
“I could not, Dora. I have been locked in my room ever since that night,
and I climbed down the trellis to come to you to-night. I ran away!”
He flushed with shame that he was obliged to say it.
“You have, you did?” said Dora, with flashing eyes. “I don’t care, I
think your father is a wicked, naughty man, and I hope God will punish
him.”
“Hush, darling, for I have something worse than that to tell you.”
And he told her all that had passed between him and his father, only
keeping back what he had said of her, and that he was to start for a
far-off country on the morrow.
Again the flood-gates were opened, and torrents poured from the riven
heart. She clung to him with a death-like grip, crying out, in her
agony, “that she would not let him go—that they would make him love some
one else, and she should never see him again, and she should be, oh! so
lonely that she should surely die!”
The poor boy hardly knew how to comfort her, and really did not know but
she would die, while his own heart ached almost to bursting at the sad
parting.
“No, Dora, dear,” at length he gravely replied, “you will not die. You
will have your mother to love you, and I shall never forget you while I
live. Now, listen to me, and promise to do as I ask you. I want you to
mind your mother in everything, for she knows best what is right; I want
you to study hard, and learn all you can; and do not be naughty any more
about practicing your music; for I am going to get the best education I
can, and I shall come back for you some day, and I want to feel proud of
my little wife. Yes, Dora, I want you to be as nice a young lady then as
Miss Annie Burton is now. Will you promise to try?”
Dora caught her breath at this request.
“Oh, Robbie, I’m afraid I can’t; but I’ll try. I promise anything that
you want me to, but I can’t bear to have you go. I shall never be happy
again as long as I live.”
“Yes, you will, darling; you must try to be happy. And now I want you to
say that you love me, and won’t ever forget me, and then I must go.”
“Of course I will not forget you, and you know I love you,” she said,
raising her tear-stained face from his shoulder.
His arms closed tightly round her as he said:
“Look at me, Brightie—right into my eyes! There now—how much do you love
me?”
She looked at him, half-puzzled, a moment, before answering, then said:
“I don’t believe I can tell you, Robbie; I guess as well as—as if you
were really my brother.”
His arms clasped her more tightly yet, and while a disappointed look
came into his eyes, he whispered:
“Brightie, think—don’t you love me any better than that? Would you
rather always be my sister than my wife?”
His heart beat quick and hard; his eyes burned with a deep and abiding
passion, while they eagerly sought for some answering sign in the fair
face upraised to his.
The blue orbs that heretofore had looked so clearly and fearlessly into
his own took on a look of startled surprise, then they softened with a
consciousness of some deeper emotion, and began to droop until they were
hidden beneath the white lids, with their long silken fringes, while the
rich crimson tide swept over cheek, neck and brow, with the sudden
unvailing of her heart.
Instantly her face was buried in his bosom, and her little frame
quivered in every nerve with the strange and exciting emotions.
Robert’s face lighted with instant happiness. The varying expression of
that innocent face was all the answer he needed, and he did not press
her for a reply, but held her in a close and silent embrace for a few
moments.
At length, he said, tenderly:
“Look up, Brightie, for I must go, or I shall be missed. You must say
good-by, now. I know that you will not forget me; and, see here,
darling! I have brought you something to look at when I am gone.”
He took from his pocket a little box and handed it to her.
She opened it eagerly, and a cry of pleased surprise broke from her
lips, as her eyes caught the glimpse of a beautiful gold locket and
chain.
“It is a locket that belonged to my mother, Brightie; her picture is on
one side, and mine is on the other. I have brought it for you, and you
must never part with it, but wear it for my sake. See.”
He touched the spring and it flew open, revealing a lifelike picture of
himself, and opposite, that of a young and lovely woman.
“Oh, Robbie, how like you it is! And this is your mother! I love her,
she is so beautiful. No, I never will part with it, and I am so glad I
have got it!”
He smiled fondly as he fastened it about her neck.
“I have a picture of you, you know. But my little Brightie must be brave
now, and say ‘good-by,’ for it is time I was at home. Kiss me, darling.”
The red blood again mounted to her brow as his lips thrilled a lingering
kiss upon hers. Then, forgetting everything except that he was going
where she could not see him, she threw her arms around his neck, and
sobs she could not restrain again racked her frame.
One long, long, close embrace, and he put her down and sprang from the
room, out into the darkness of the night, wiping from his own cheek the
fast-falling tears.
Dora flung herself full length upon the floor, in an utter abandonment
of grief, and there her mother found her, an hour after, sound asleep,
with the bright crystals still on her brown lashes.
Robert retraced his steps, and reached his room undiscovered, and though
he was grieved and sad to part with Dora, yet he hugged to his heart
with joy the knowledge that she was really and truly his very own, and
that her love for him was all he could ask.
The next morning he started on his long journey, his father accompanying
him as far as New York, from which place he was to sail.
Robert wept at parting with his only parent, and felt almost desolate to
thus sunder every tie and go a stranger to a strange land. He had always
loved and respected his father in spite of his cold, stern manner; still
he would not beg to be allowed to remain at home, for he was fully
determined to improve every advantage of travel and study, and thus fit
himself to be a useful and happy man.
So when Mr. Ellerton coldly shook his hand at parting, he could not
realize the agony that whitened his boy’s proud face, and hardened his
already stern voice; nor could he know how that pent-up anguish burst
forth as the vessel bore him from his father’s lingering eyes, from
which the tears rolled fast and unheeded, as he turned with aching heart
to go back to his lonely home.