SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW
"Whatever happens!" The words rang through Daffodil's brain like a
knell. There was something to happen. She had been so happy, so
serenely, so trustingly happy. For her youthful inexperience had not
taught her doubt. The cup of love had been held to her lips and she
had drank the divine draught fearlessly, with no thought of bitter
dregs at the bottom.
Grandmere came and unpinned the veil; it was too fine and precious an
article to be tumbled about.
"Let the rest be," she said. "He is coming and I want to be as I was
then."
Then they left her lying there on the bed, the gold of her young life
turning slowly to dross. Some curious prescience told her how it would
be.
She heard the low voices in the other room. There was crying too. That
was her mother. Felix asked questions and was hushed. Was it hours or
half a lifetime! All in her brain was chaos, the chaos of belief
striving with disbelief that was somehow illumined but not with hope.
He came at last. She heard his step striding through the room and no
one seemed to speak to him. He came straight to her, knelt at the
bed's side, and took her cold hands in his that were at fever heat.
"My poor darling!" he said brokenly. "I should not have learned to
love you so well, I should not have asked for your love. But in this
new country and beginning a new life it seemed as if I might bury the
old past. And you were the centre, the star of the new. Perhaps if I
had told you the story----"
"Tell it now," she made answer, but it did not sound like her voice.
She made no effort to release her hands though his seemed to scorch
them.
"You can hardly understand that old life in London. There is nothing
like it here. I was with a lot of gay companions, and all we thought
of was amusement. I had a gift for acting and was persuaded to take
part in a play. It was a success. I was flattered and fêted. Women
made much of me. I was only a boy after all. And the leading lady,
some seven years my senior, fascinated me by her attention and her
flatteries. It did turn my head. I was her devoted admirer, yet it was
not the sort of love that a man knows later on. How it came about, why
she should have done such a thing I cannot divine even now, for at
that time I was only a poor, younger son, loaded with debts, though
most of my compeers were in the same case. But she married me with
really nothing to gain. She kept to the stage. I was tired of it and
gave it up, which led to our first dissension. She fancied she saw in
me some of the qualities that might make a name. And then--she was
angry about the child. We bickered continually. She was very fond of
admiration and men went down to her. After a little I ceased to be
jealous. I suppose it was because I ceased to care and could only
think of the wretched blunder I had made and how I could undo it. We
had kept the marriage a secret except from her aunt and a few friends.
She would have it so. The child was put out to nurse and the company
was going to try their fortunes elsewhere. I would not go with her. In
a certain way I had been useful to her and we had a little scene. I
went to my father and asked him for money enough to take me to
America, where I could cut loose from old associates and begin a new
life. He did more. He paid my debts, but told me that henceforward I
must look out for myself as this was the last he should do for me."
"And now he asks you to return?" There was a certainty in her voice
and she was as unemotional as if they were talking of some one else.
"It is true that now I am his only living son. Late last autumn Lord
Veron, his wife and two sons, with my next brother, Archibald, were
out for an afternoon's pleasure in a sailboat when there came up an
awful blow and a sudden dash of rain. They were about in the middle of
the lake. The wind twisted them around, the mast snapped, they found
afterward that it was not seaworthy. There was no help at hand. They
battled for awhile, then the boat turned over. Lady Veron never rose,
the others swam for some time, but Archibald was the only one who came
in to shore and he was so spent that he died two days later. I wonder
the awful blow did not kill poor father. He was ill for a long while.
My wife went to him then and took the child and had sufficient proof
to establish the fact of the marriage, and her aunt had always been a
foster mother to the boy. There must be some curious fascination about
her, though I do not wonder father felt drawn to his only remaining
son. Archibald's two children are girls and so are not in the entail.
Hurst Abbey would go to some distant cousins. And she offered to come
to America and find me. She has succeeded," he ended bitterly.
There was a long pause. He raised his head, but her face was turned
away. Did she really care for him? She was taking it all so calmly.
"You will go," she said presently.
"Oh, how can I leave you? For now I know what real love is like. And
this is a new country. I have begun a new life, Daffodil----"
"But I cannot be your wife, you see that. Would you give up your
father's love, the position awaiting you for a tie that could never be
sanctified? You must return."
"There is my son, you know. I shall not matter so much to them. It
shall be as you say, my darling. And we need not stay here. It is a
big and prospering country and I know now that I can make my way----"
It was not the tone of ardent desire. How she could tell she did not
know, but the words dropped on her heart like a knell. Apart from the
sacrifice he seemed ready to make for her there was the cruel fact
that would mar her whole life, and an intangible knowledge that he
would regret it.
"You must go." Her voice was firm.
Did she love so deeply? He expected passionate upbraiding and then
despairing love, clinging tenderness. One moment he was wild to have
the frank, innocent sweetness of their courtship; he was minded to
take her in his arms and press bewildering kisses on the sweet mouth,
the fair brow, the delicately tinted cheek, as if he could not give
her up. Then Hurst Abbey rose before him, his father bowed with the
weight of sorrow ready to welcome him, the fine position he could
fill, and after all would the wife be such a drawback? There were many
marriages without overwhelming love. If his father accepted her--and
from his letter he seemed to unreservedly.
He rose from his kneeling posture and leaned over her. She looked in
her quaint wedding dress and marble paleness as if it was death rather
than life.
"You can never forgive me." His voice was broken with emotion, though
he did not realize all the havoc he had made. "But I shall dream of
you and go on loving----"
"No! no!" raising her hand. "We must both forget. You have other
duties and I must rouse myself and overlive the vision of a life that
would have been complete, perhaps too exquisite for daily wear. It may
all be a dream, a youthful fancy. Others have had it vanish after
marriage. Now, go."
He bent over to kiss her. She put up her hand.
Was it really more anger than love?
"I wish you all success for your poor father's sake." She was going to
add--"And try to love your wife," but her whole soul protested.
He went slowly out of the room. She did not turn or make the slightest
motion. She heard the low sound of voices in the other room, his among
them, and then all was silence. He had gone away out of her life.
Her mother entered quietly, came near, and took her in her arms.
"Oh, my darling, how could the good All Father, who cares for his
children, let such a cruel thing happen? If that woman had come a
month ago! And he fancied being here, marrying, never to go back, made
him in a sense free. But he should not have hidden the fact. I can
never forgive him. Yet one feels sorry as well that he should have
misspent so much of his life."
"Help me take off my gown, mother. No one must ever wear it again. And
we will try not to talk it over, but put it out of our minds. I am
very tired. You won't mind if I lie here and see no one except you who
are so dear to me."
It was too soon for any comfort, that the mother felt as she moved
about with lightest tread. Then she kissed her and left her to her
sorrow.
Mr. Carrick had been very much incensed and blamed the suitor
severely. Andsdell had taken it with such real concern and regret and
apparent heart-break that the father felt some lenity might be allowed
in thought, at least.
Grandad was very bitter and thought condign punishment should overtake
him.
"And instead," said warm-hearted Norah indignantly, "he turns into a
great lord and has everything to his hand. I could wish his wife was
ten times worse and I hope she'll lead him such a life that he'll
never see a happy day nor hour, the mean, despicable wretch."
In the night tears came to Daffodil's relief, yet she felt the
exposure had come none too soon. With her sorrow there was a sense of
deception to counteract it. He had not been honest in spite of
apparent frankness, and it hurt her to think he had accepted her
verdict so readily. Hard as it would have been to combat his
protestations in her moment of longing and despair, any woman would
rather have remembered them afterward.
Daffodil kept her bed for several days. She felt weak and distraught.
Yet she had her own consciousness of rectitude. She had not been so
easily won, and she had been firm and upright at the last. There was
no weak kiss of longing to remember. The one he had given her in the
church could be recalled without shame. For a few moments she had been
in a trance of happiness as his wife. And putting him away she must
also bury out of sight all that had gone before.
She took her olden place in the household, she went to church after a
week or two and began to see friends again, who all seemed to stand in
a little awe of her. The weather was lovely. She was out in the garden
with her mother. She rode about with her father. But she felt as if
years had passed over her and she was no longer the lightsome girl.
It made her smile too, to think how everything else was changing. The
old log houses were disappearing. Alleyways were transformed into
streets and quite noteworthy residences were going up. General O'Hara
and Mayor Craig enlarged their glass house and improved the quality of
glass. She remembered when her father had tacked some fine cloth over
the window-casing and oiled it to give it a sort of transparency so
that they could have a little light until it was cold enough to shut
the wooden shutters all the time, for glass was so dear it could not
be put in all the windows. Not that it was cheap now, the processes
were cumbersome and slow, but most of the material was at hand.
Mrs. Forbes was a warm and trusty friend through this time of sorrow.
She would not let Daffodil blame herself.
"We all liked Mr. Andsdell very much, I am sure. I can count up half a
dozen girls who were eager enough to meet him and who were sending him
invitations. He really was superior to most of our young men in the
way of education and manners. And, my dear, I rather picked him out
for you, and when I saw he was attracted I made the captain write to a
friend of his at Williamsburg and learn if there was anything serious
against him, and everything came back in his favor. Of course none of
us suspected a marriage. He talked frankly about his family when there
was need, but not in any boastful way. And this is not as disgraceful
as some young men who have really had to leave their country for their
country's good. But, my dear, if it had not been for this horrid
marriage you would have gone off in style and been my lady."
"But maybe none of it would have happened then;" with a rather wan
smile.
"True enough! But you're not going to settle down in sober ways and
wear hodden gray. And it's not as if you had been jilted by some gay
gallant who had married another girl before your eyes as Christy
Speers' lover did. And she found a much better man without any long
waiting, for Everlom has never succeeded in anything and now he has
taken to drink. Don't you suppose Christy is glad she missed her
chance with him!"
"It won't be that way, though. I think now he will make a fine man and
we shall hear nothing disgraceful about him, if we ever hear at all,
which I pray may never come to pass. For I want to put it out of my
mind like a story I have read with a bad ending."
"You are a brave girl, Daffodil."
"I don't know why I should be really unhappy. I have so many to love
me. And it doesn't matter if I should never marry."
Mrs. Forbes laughed at that, but made no reply. Here was the young
lieutenant, who was taking heart of grace again, though he did not
push himself forward.
On the whole it was not an unhappy summer for Daffodil. She found a
great interest in helping Felix though he was not a booky boy. Always
his mind seemed running on some kind of machinery, something that
would save time and labor.
"Now, if you were to do so," he would say to his father, "you see it
would bring about this result and save a good deal of time. Why
doesn't some one see----"
"You get through with your books and try it yourself. There's plenty
of space in the world for real improvements."
Daffodil went up to the old trysting place one day. How still and
lonesome it seemed. Had the squirrels forgotten her? They no longer
ran up her arm and peered into her eyes. He was at Hurst Abbey and
that arrogant, imperious woman was queening it as my lady. Was all
this satisfying him?
It was the right thing to do even if his motives were not of the
highest. To comfort his father in the deep sorrow, and there was his
little son.
"No," she said to herself, "I should not want to come here often. The
old remembrances had better die out."
She had written to her guardian explaining the broken marriage, and he
wondered a little at the high courage with which she had accepted all
the events. He had sent her a most kindly answer. And now came another
letter from him.
There had been inquiries about leasing some property at Allegheny.
Also there were several improvements to be made in view of
establishing a future city. His health would not admit of the journey
and the necessary going about, so he had decided to send his partner,
Mr. Bartram, whom she must remember, and whom he could trust to study
the interests of his ward. And what he wanted to ask now was another
visit from her, though he was well aware she was no longer the little
girl he had known and whose brightness he had enjoyed so much. He was
not exactly an invalid, but now he had to be careful in the winter and
stay in the house a good deal. Sometimes the days were long and
lonesome and he wondered if out of the goodness of her heart she could
spare him a few months and if her parents would spare her.
Philadelphia had improved greatly and was now the Capitol of the
country, though it was still staid and had not lost all of its old
nice formality. Couldn't she take pity on him and come and read to
him, talk over books and happenings, drive out now and then and be
like a granddaughter as she was to his friend Duvernay?
"Oh, mother, read it," and she laid the letter in her mother's lap.
Did she want to go? She had been so undecided before.
Bernard Carrick had received a letter also. Mr. Bartram was to start
in a short time, as it seemed necessary that some one should look
after Daffodil's estate and he wished to make her father co-trustee if
at any time he should be disabled, or pass out of life. He could
depend upon the uprightness and good judgment of Mr. Bartram in every
respect. And he put in a very earnest plea for the loan of his
daughter awhile in the winter.
"Oh, I should let her go by all means," declared Mrs. Forbes. "You see
that unlucky marriage service has put her rather out of gear with
gayeties and when she comes back she will be something fresh and they
will all be eager to have her and hear about the President and Lady
Washington. And it will cheer her up immensely. She must not grow old
too fast."
Daffodil went to tea at Mrs. Ramsen's and there was to be a card party
with some of the young men from the Fort. Mrs. Forbes and the captain
were at tea and the Major's wife. They talked over the great rush of
everything, the treasures that were turning up from the earth, the
boats going to and fro. Booms had not come in as a word applicable to
this ferment, but certainly Pittsburg had a boom and her people would
have been struck dumb if the vision of fifty or a hundred years had
been unrolled. Lieutenant Langdale came in to the card playing. They
really were very merry, and he thought Daffodil was not so much
changed after all, nor heartbroken. He was very glad. And then he
asked and was granted permission to see her home. He wanted to say
something sympathetic and friendly without seeming officious, yet he
did not know how to begin. They talked of his mother, of Archie and
how well he was doing.
"And at times I wish I had not enlisted," he remarked in a rather
dissatisfied tone. "Not that the feeling of heroism has died out--it
is a grand thing to know you stand ready at any call for your
country's defence, but now we are dropping into humdrum ways except
for the Indian skirmishes. And it gets monotonous. Then there's no
chance of making money. I didn't think much of that, it seemed to me
rather ignoble, but now when I see some of those stupid fellows
turning their money over and over,--and there's that Joe Sanders; do
you remember the wedding feast and his going off to Cincinnati with
his new wife, who was a very ordinary girl?" and Ned gave an almost
bitter laugh. "Now he owns his boat and is captain of it and trades
all the way to New Orleans."
"Oh, yes." She gave a soft little laugh as the vision rose before her.
"I remember how sweet you looked that night. And I had to be dancing
attendance on her sister. How many changes there have been."
"Yes; I suppose that is life. The older people say so. Otherwise
existence would be monotonous as you said. But you did admire military
life."
"Well, I like it still, only there seem so few chances of
advancement."
"But you wouldn't want real war?"
"I'd like an opportunity to do something worth while, or else go back
to business."
If she had expressed a little enthusiasm about that he would have
taken it as an interest in his future, but she said--
"You have a very warm friend in Captain Forbes."
"Oh, yes;" rather languidly.
Then they talked of the improvements her father had made in the house.
There had been two rooms added before the wedding. And the trees had
grown so, the garden was bright with flowering shrubs.
"I wonder if I might drop in and see you occasionally," he said rather
awkwardly, as they paused at the gate. "We used to be such friends."
"Why, yes;" with girlish frankness. "Father takes a warm interest in
you two boys."
Her mother sat knitting. Barbe Carrick hated to be idle. Her father
was dozing in his chair.
"Did you have a nice time, little one?"
"Oh, yes. But I am not an enthusiastic card player. I like the bright
bits of talk and that leads to carelessness;" laughing. "Mrs. Remsen
is charming."
Then she kissed them both and went her way.
"She is getting over her sorrow," admitted her father. "Still I think
a change will be good for her, only we shall miss her very much."
"She has been a brave girl. But it was the thought of his insincerity,
his holding back the fact that would have rendered him only the merest
acquaintance. She has the old French love of honor and truth."
"And the Scotch are not far behind."
Lieutenant Langdale tried his luck one evening. Mr. Carrick welcomed
him cordially, and Felix was very insistent that he should share the
conversation. He wanted to know about the Fort and old Fort Duquesne,
and why the French were driven out. Didn't they have as good right as
any other nation to settle in America? And hadn't France been a
splendid friend to us? And why should the French and English be
continually at war?
"It would take a whole history to answer you and that hasn't been
written yet," subjoined his father.
Ned had stolen glances at the fair girl, who was sitting under
grandmother Bradin's wing, knitting a purse that was beaded, and she
had to look down frequently to count the beads. Yes, she had grown
prettier. There was a fine sweetness in her face that gave poise to
her character. Had she really loved that detestable Englishman?
They made ready for Mr. Bartram. Not but what there were tolerable
inns now, but taking him in as a friend seemed so much more
hospitable. Daffodil wondered a little. He had not made much of an
impression on her as a girl. Sometimes he had fallen into good-natured
teasing ways, at others barely noticed her. Of course she was such a
child. And when the talk that had alarmed her so much and inflamed her
childish temper recurred to her she laughed with a sense of wholesome
amusement. She knew now a man must have some preference. The old
French people betrothed their children without a demur on their part,
but here each one had a right to his or her own most sacred feelings.
Mr. Bartram was nearing thirty at this period. Daffodil felt that she
really had forgotten how he looked. He had grown stouter and now had a
firm, compact figure, a fine dignified face that was gentle and kindly
as well, and the sort of manliness that would lead one to depend upon
him whether in an emergency or not.
Her father brought him home and they all gave him a cordial welcome
for M. de Ronville's sake first, and then for his own. He had the
refined and easy adaptiveness that marked the true gentleman.
They talked of the journey. So many improvements had been made and
towns had sprung up along the route that afforded comfortable
accommodations. Harrisburg had grown to be a thriving town and was the
seat of government. He had spent two very entertaining days within its
borders.
"Yes, M. de Ronville was in failing health, but his mind was clear and
bright and had gone back to the delights and entertainments of his
early youth. He had a fine library which was to go largely to that
started in the city for the general public. He kept a great deal of
interest in and ambition for the city that had been a real home.
Through the summer he took many outside pleasures, but now the
winters confined him largely to the house.
"I do what I can in the way of entertainment, but now that I have all
the business matters to attend to, I can only devote evenings to him
and not always those, but friends drop in frequently. He has been like
a father to me and I ought to pay him a son's devotion and regard,
which it is not only my duty, but my pleasure as well. But he has a
warm remembrance of the little girl he found so entertaining."
"Was I entertaining?" Daffodil glanced at him with a charming laugh.
"Everybody, it seems, was devoted to me, and my pleasure was being
consulted all the time. Mrs. Jarvis was so good and kindly. And Jane!
Why, it appears now as if I must have been a spoiled child, and
spoiled children I have heard are disagreeable."
"I do not recall anything of that. And Jane is married to a
sober-going Quaker and wears gray with great complacency, but she
stumbles over the thees and thous. Our new maid is very nice,
however."
"Oh, that is funny. And Jane was so fond of gay attire and bows in my
hair and shoulder knots and buckles on slippers. Why, it is all like a
happy dream, a fairy story," and her eyes shone as she recalled her
visit.
They still kept to the old living room, but now there was an outside
kitchen for cooking. And some logs were piled up in the wide
fire-place to be handy for the first cold evening.
"M. de Ronville talked about an old chair that came from France," Mr.
Bartram said as he rose from the table. "His old friend used to sit in
it----"
"It's this," and Daffodil placed her hand on the high back. "Won't you
take it? Yes, great-grandfather used it always and after he was gone I
used to creep up in it and shut my eyes and talk to him. What curious
things you can see with eyes shut! And I often sat here on the arm
while he taught me French."
"I suppose it is sacred now?" He looked at it rather wistfully.
"Oh, you may try it," with her gay smile. "Father has quite fallen
heir to it. Grandfather Bradin insists it is too big for him."
"I'm always wanting a chair by the light stand so that I can see to
read or make fish-nets," said that grandfather.
The room was put in order presently and the ladies brought out their
work. Daffodil saw with a smile how comfortably the guest adapted
himself to the old chair while her father talked to him about the town
and its prospects, and Allegheny across the river that was coming
rapidly to the attention of business men. What a picture it made,
Aldis Bartram thought, and, the pretty golden-haired girl glancing up
now and then with smiling eyes.