RACHEL GOLDSMITH.
It was still with some anxiety and a lurking dread that Trevor might
bring ill news to mar his happiness, that Sidney awaited his return,
and could not account for the delay, as one day passed after another,
and he did not come with further details of Sophy's unhappy end. There
was a morbid curiosity in his mind to hear all the particulars Trevor
had gained about the fate of his young wife and first-born child; and,
until this curiosity was satisfied, Margaret's love was not enough to
content him. But, by and by there came news of an accident to a
diligence crossing the Arlberg Pass, which, meeting with an early fall
of snow, had missed the road and been upset over a low precipice. Only
one passenger was killed: his luggage and the papers found upon him
were forwarded, according to an address inside his portmanteau, to the
offices of Sidney Martin, Swansea, & Co. They came direct into
Sidney's own hands.
The papers conveyed no further information to Sidney than Trevor's
letter had done. There were only a few lines in a cipher which he did
not understand, and which he considered it prudent to burn before
passing on the papers, which had nothing to do with his business, to
Trevor's family. There was a disappointment to his curiosity in not
learning more particulars; but there was a curious sense of deliverance
in the fact of poor Trevor's death, which more than counterbalanced
this disappointment. The whole affair was ended now; completely ended.
He had no one to fear. The only man who could have made use of his
secret was gone, and out of the way. There could be neither an
imprudent speech, nor a threat of disclosure, uttered by Trevor.
Sidney acted with his usual liberality to the widow and children of his
unfortunate clerk, but he could not grieve over an unforeseen death so
convenient for his own peace of mind.
There was nothing now to hinder his marriage with Margaret. There were
settlements to make, of course--Apley being settled on Margaret and her
second son. The eldest son would inherit the estates and the large
fortune entailed by Sir John Martin's will. On Colonel Cleveland's
death Margaret herself would become possessor of her mother's dowry.
The feeling of freedom with which Sidney could now live was too new and
too unfamiliar to be altogether a happy one. He had scarcely realized
how oppressive had been the burden of Sophy's possible claim upon him.
It had weighed down his spirit with a constant, yet almost unconscious,
repression. He was like a man who had worn fetters until he drags his
foot along the ground, unable to believe that he can walk like other
men.
But he was free now; and he resolved to live such a life as would atone
for all his early delinquencies. There should be nothing underhand or
contemptible in all his future. His ambition could have free course,
and he would prove himself worthy of high fortune. With a wife and
companion like Margaret there would be nothing to hinder him from
making his way into the foremost ranks of the men of his time.
On the eve of his marriage he brought Margaret a splendid set of
diamonds, expecting to see her delight in ornaments so magnificent.
She took the case from him with a pleased and happy smile, and looked
at them closely for a few minutes, but she shut the case and laid it
aside, almost indifferently, he thought.
"You do not care for them?" he said, in some disappointment.
"I care for anything you give to me," she answered softly, "but I do
not much value ornaments for themselves. I never can care for them."
"That is because you do not see other girls who wear them," he replied.
"When you go out into society as my wife you will see women sparkling
with jewelry, and then you will learn to care for it."
"Shall I?" she asked doubtfully; "but it seems to me childish. You men
do not adorn yourselves with jewels, and we should despise you if you
did. It seems like a relic of barbarism, akin to the love of savages
for glass beads. What man could strut about in diamonds and not look
ridiculous?"
"But you are a woman," he said, laughing.
"Though surely not more childish than a man," she answered, rising from
her low seat, and standing beside him with her serious eyes shining
into his. "O Sidney, I wish we were poorer people. I should like to
work for you, as Laura does for George, because they are not rich. I
shall never have any real work to do for you; that would be my idea of
happiness. I will wear your diamonds. Oh, yes! But you must not make
a child of me."
"You are not a child, but an angel," he said.
"Ah! if you think me an angel," she replied gayly, "it will be very
bitter to find out your mistake. But still angels are ministering
spirits. Don't you think I would rather use my hands in sewing for you
than have you load them with rings? And my feet would be less weary
moving up and down on errands for you, than dancing through tedious
dances with some other man. I am sure poor people have ways of
happiness that we know nothing of."
"Margaret," he said, "you have grown up too much alone. You have
missed the wholesome companionship of girls of your own rank."
"Ah!" she cried, "I'm no longer an angel."
She turned away from him rather shyly and sadly, he thought, and
touched the bell.
"If you had been a poorer man," she said, "you would have bought me a
beautiful flower, and I should have worn it now, at once; and perhaps,
I might have kissed it when it was faded, and put it away as something
sacred. But now my maid must take charge of these costly things, and I
cannot keep them for no one else to see."
"Margaret," he cried, "I would have brought you the loveliest flower in
England, if I had known!"
As she stood a little way apart from him, with downcast eyes, he
noticed for the first time that she was wearing no flowers. Was it for
this reason? Had she waited for him to bring one that she might carry
in her bosom this memorable evening, and put it away as something
sacred, which no one should see but herself? And it would have been so
if he had been a poor man. For a moment he caught a glimpse, through
Margaret's eyes, of a happiness simpler, more natural, and nobler in
the married life than that which lay before him and her. He could
almost have wished himself as poor a man as his cousin George, for the
sake of it.
But the door opened in answer to Margaret's ring, and a middle-aged
woman entered, whom he fancied he knew by sight. Her face was
pleasant, with traces of prettiness, which had become refined by
thought and by some sadness. Margaret put her hand affectionately on
her arm.
"I can never tell you how much I owe to this dear friend of mine," she
said, looking up into Sidney's face, "and I want you to be a friend to
Rachel Goldsmith."
Rachel Goldsmith! The shock was utterly unexpected; but his nature
possessed an instinctive kindly consideration for his inferiors which
impelled him to stretch out his hand and shake hands with Margaret's
favorite maid.
"Since my mother died she has been almost a mother to me," said
Margaret.
"I love my young lady as much as I could love a child of my own, sir,"
said Rachel, looking at him with eyes so much like Sophy's he felt that
she must read the secret so jealously guarded in his heart. There was
a keen reproach to him in her gaze, and in the air of sadness which
rested on her face. She took up the case of diamonds and left them
again alone.
"I must tell you something about Rachel," said Margaret, as soon as she
was gone. "Her people live at Apley; and her brother is my father's
saddler. He had one daughter, about six years older than me; a very
pretty girl; quite a lovely face she had. But you may some time have
seen her when you were a boy, and came to Apley."
"No," he answered, hardly knowing what he said.
"Everybody admired her," Margaret went on, "and her two aunts doted on
her. They sent her to a boarding-school; and then she went out as a
nursery governess. But just after she was twenty she disappeared."
Margaret paused, but Sidney said nothing.
"They never found her; they have not found her yet," she continued. "O
Sidney! think how dreadful it is to lose anyone you love in such a way!
A thousand times worse than dying, for then we lay the body in the
quiet grave, and the soul is in the hands of God; but what misery and
degradation she may be suffering."
"It is a sad history for you to know, my darling," said Sidney.
"Sad for me to know!" she repeated. "I suppose so; it has often made
me sad. But what must it be to those who love her as much as my father
loves me? Since we came to London, Rachel has spent many hours in the
streets, with a faint, very faint hope of coming across her. And
Rachel is such a good woman; so wise and upright. She could not be a
better woman if she was a queen."
"Do you take her with us to-morrow?" he asked; for he felt as if her
presence would cloud all his happiness, and become an insupportable
burden to him. Yet it was too late to make any change in the
arrangements for their journey.
"No," she answered, "I could not leave my father without Rachel. Since
his accident she has been his nurse; and I do not want a maid. Rachel
has taught me to be independent of her in almost every way. Didn't I
say she was a wise woman?"
"Very wise!" he agreed absently.