A WOEFUL MISTAKE.
MORE dreary and forsaken than before looked the garden to my eyes as
I took my way to the gate. The brightness of the day had passed, the
sun had sunk out of sight, a grey mist hid the distances; there was a
chill dampness in the air. A wave of bitter feeling passed over me as,
pausing at the gate, I looked back at the house.
"It is all over," I said to myself. "I shall spend no more happy hours
here."
Then with a shiver I turned away.
I had reached the corner where the narrower road joined the main road,
when I saw a number of gentlemen coming up the hill from the station.
A train from London had just come in. I glanced at them carelessly,
when suddenly my heart gave a wild plunge, and I felt myself trembling
from head to foot, for there, on the other side, separated from me only
by the breadth of the road, was Leonard Glynne. He was walking rather
weariedly, it seemed to me, with his eyes bent on the ground.
For a moment I actually stood still. Some spell seemed to hold me
motionless with my eyes fixed on him. Then came a sudden shock of
thankfulness that he had not looked up, had not seen me, and, swiftly
as my feet could carry me, I hurried in the opposite direction.
I did not pause till I was a long way on the road to Beechwood. Then,
as my excitement faded, I found myself tremulous, strengthless, and was
fain to stand still, leaning for support against a gate.
As I hurried along, the image of Leonard had accompanied me. Now again
his face rose before me, somewhat changed from what I remembered it.
Was my fancy deceiving me, or had he indeed looked so grave and sad? Of
course it was a delusion, for Sarah had said that he was very pleased
at his engagement, and how could he help being joyful if he had won so
fair and bright a girl?
Yet it was strange how his countenance had stamped itself on my mind
with a sad, downcast look, till I could almost persuade myself that he
had looked just so when I saw him across the road.
Well, he was nothing to me now. I felt a sort of fierce disdain of
myself for being so agitated at seeing him. He had never really cared
for me. The eloquent glances, half-spoken words, tender insinuations,
which still dwelt in my memory, had had no such significance as I had
imagined. Doubtless they had only expressed the gallantry which young
men of fashion like to display in their intercourse with ladies, and I,
in my rusticity, had not known how to meet them. I would think of him
no more.
So I resolved, but as I continued my walk, I could think of no one
else. I was slowly climbing the long hill to Beechwood, when I heard
the sound of wheels behind me. The Dugdales' brougham was coming up,
and I saw that it held both Ralph and his father. As soon as Ralph
caught sight of me, he sprang out and came to my side.
"I am glad we have overtaken you," he said, and he looked very glad.
"Have you been far?"
"Only to Weylea and back," I answered.
"Only!" he repeated. "A good six miles. You look tired; had you not
better get into the carriage?"
I declined, and he did not urge my doing so. Instead, he bade the
coachman drive on without him, and continued to walk by my side.
"You have been to see your friend Mrs. Lyell, I suppose?" he remarked.
"Yes, but my hope was disappointed. I found the place looking quite
deserted, Mrs. Lyell being away from home."
"What a pity! Then you have had your long walk for nothing. No wonder
you look weary. I wish I had known of your intention; I do not like
your taking such long walks alone."
He spoke with the air of one who had a right to watch over my actions.
I felt myself flush as he spoke. I suppose he observed my change of
countenance, for after a moment he said, very gently, "Forgive me if
I seem presumptuous. You do not know that there was an understanding
between me and your brother that I would take care of you when he could
no longer do so. I do not forget that it depends on you whether I may
have the happiness of guarding you as I would."
There was a pause, a stillness, broken at last by the slight crack of
the coachman's whip as he flourished it. The horses started forward as
they heard the sound, and the brougham passed out of sight beneath the
trees. No one was to be seen on the quiet road; we were alone.
In the silence, I seemed to hear the beating of my own heart, as well
as my quick, nervous breathing. Ralph's words had carried me back
to the sad but hallowed days we had spent in Edmund's sick-room. I
remembered what my dear brother had hoped and desired for me and Ralph;
how glad he had been in the belief that it was given to me to reward
Ralph for his wonderful, self-sacrificing friendship. I recalled the
promise I had given to my brother. Vividly came back to me that hour
when, as we sat beside his couch, my brother had, in visible act as
well as in thought, united me to Ralph, pronouncing us his "two best
friends."
Ralph, too, must have been thinking of that hour, for when he spoke
it was to say in tones that vibrated with feeling, "Our common love
for Edmund would draw us together, Dorothy, it seems to me, if nothing
else did. If I had had a brother, I could not have loved him more than
I loved your brother. The hopes and fears, the hours of anxiety and
sorrow on his account, which we have shared, must surely have wrought
for us a deeper mutual comprehension and communion of feeling than
exists between most friends."
How true were his words! I did not need to be reminded of the sacred,
unutterable memories we had in common. Well did I know that no other
friend could be to me what Ralph was. How much I owed to him; how much
Edmund had owed to him! Their friendship dated from the beginning of
Edmund's college course, and it had ever been marked by signal proofs
of Ralph's disinterested affection. Ralph had done all that friend or
brother could do to prolong the life of his friend. And to crown all,
had he not saved our lives at the risk of his own? All this was in my
mind as I said tremulously,—
"Oh, I feel that as much as you do. Can I forget a single hour of those
days, or any of your many acts of kindness to me and my brother? If I
could forget what I owe you, I should be guilty of ingratitude."
"Pray do not talk of gratitude," said Ralph, hastily, as if the word
stung him; "that is not a thing to be named between us. I do not want
gratitude, and I cannot be satisfied with mere friendship. My heart
craves the greatest gift you can give—yourself. Your brother knew—I
could not hide from him my heart—he knew that my happiness was bound up
in you. Dorothy, my love is not a thing of yesterday. I believe I have
loved you ever since the hour when I found you crying by yourself on
your sister's wedding day. Do you remember?"
Did I remember? Ah, with what thrills of pain the past, with its dead
joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, renewed itself within me at this
question. Surely it was fate that thus confronted me! What could keep
me now from fulfilling the promise I had given to my brother? I had
thought of that promise before to-day, wondering, with some uneasiness,
how far I was bound by it.
"I will try to do as you wish," I had said.
But now the shadowy hope that had haunted me and made it hard to give
that promise, had vanished—Leonard Glynne belonged to another. Whatever
happened, I must conquer the lingering love that caused the pain with
which I had heard of his engagement. Should I not strangle that love
with one effort if I gave myself to Ralph Dugdale? It seemed to me that
I should, yet I hesitated.
We had come within sight of Beechwood Hall, and were passing up the
long line of trees to the house when Ralph spoke. At his words, I stood
still involuntarily. The thoughts I have described all passed through
my mind in a few seconds. I remember that I had paused at the foot of a
grand old tree, one of the oldest in the park, and I stood looking down
at the ivy sprays that interlaced themselves about its roots, and the
tiny buds of snowdrops that here and there pierced the leafy moss that
filled the spaces between. I waited, hesitating, doubting, till Ralph
spoke again.
"Have you nothing to say to me, Dorothy?" he asked, anxiously. "Have I
startled you, frightened you, by speaking too soon?"
Then I looked up, and as I met his earnest, tender glance, words wholly
unpremeditated rushed to my lips.
"Oh, you do not know me," I cried; "I am unworthy of your love. I am
full of faults. I should not make you happy."
"If you do not, no one else ever will," he replied, gravely. Then with
a smile he added, very tenderly, "Dorothy, my child, do you mean to
tell me, who have loved you and watched you so long, that I do not know
you? What are your faults to me? They cannot appal me, for I love you
the better for them, if that may be."
"Oh, do you really mean what you said just now?" I asked, almost
passionately. "Should I indeed make you happy if I gave myself to you?"
"Can you ask it?" he said, his sincere, earnest eyes searching mine.
"Have I not told you the very truth of my heart?"
"Then it shall be so," I said, hurriedly. "I want you to be happy. I
desire your happiness above everything."
And I put my hand into his.
"My love," Ralph murmured, pressing my hand tenderly between his own;
and then raising it to his lips, "you make me happier than words can
express."
But the next moment, his eyes sought mine with an anxious questioning
look. "You are happy yourself—tell me that?"
"I shall be happy if you are happy," I said, in tones that would
falter. "It is what dear Edmund wished that I should make you happy. In
your happiness, I shall find my own."
The words satisfied him, for his heart gave them a large and full
interpretation.
"Yes," he said, in low tones, that breathed a deep content, "it is all
come about just as he wished. I can believe that he rejoices in our
joy."
My heart smote me as I heard him say so. Was it, after all, just as
Edmund had wished? Would he, seeing past and present with "larger,
other eyes than ours," approve of the bond I had sealed? But I strove
against the doubt as it rose.
We walked on in silence, Ralph holding my hand in his. He, I believe,
was kept silent by the force of deep, overwhelming emotion.
As we came within range of the windows, he dropped my hand, and said,
more lightly, as he glanced at me, "There was a deep shadow on your
face when we overtook you, my Dorothy. I wanted to ask you what it was
that was so troubling you. Shall I ask now?"
A sudden confusion and trembling seized me. I felt myself turn both hot
and cold.
"Don't ask, please," I besought him; "it was so foolish I could not
tell you."
"Then I will only ask you if the shadow is gone?" he said, with a smile.
"Yes, yes," I said, hurriedly, believing that I spoke the truth; "it is
gone, quite gone."
We were at the door. The butler, crossing the hall, had seen our
approach, and now threw wide the door, and stood awaiting our entrance,
with his usual air of bland solemnity.
Without giving Ralph another word or glance, I went to my room. On the
way, I met Mrs. West's maid, and learned that her mistress had gone
into the village. I was glad: it would be good, I thought, to be alone
for awhile.
Yet when I sat down and tried to reflect upon what I had done, thought
was too painful, my loneliness pressed sorely upon me, till in sudden
desperation, I rose and began to make my toilette in a more leisurely
and careful way than usual, finding it a relief to concentrate my
attention on the arrangement of my short, stubborn locks, and in
adjusting to the best advantage, amidst the crape folds in the front of
my gown, a lovely white camelia Ralph had given me. When I had given
the last touches to my attire, I went down to the drawing-room.
There I found Mrs. Dugdale entertaining some cousins who had come from
Richmond to see her, and were to stay the night at Beechwood. They were
ladies of mature age, clever and cultivated, who had travelled a great
deal, and who enjoyed talking of their adventures. I was soon engaged
in listening to the younger one, who gave me a thrilling account of
some of her mountaineering exploits. I needed to take but the slightest
share in the conversation, if such it could be called, and this suited
me.
After awhile, Ralph entered the room, and, stationing himself behind my
chair, also became a listener to Miss Julia Shuttleworth's brilliant
and amusing talk. Thus passed the half-hour before dinner.
Grace did not come in till we had taken our places at the table. She
had come from a sick bed, and the sad scene she had quitted seemed
to abide with her, making her unusually quiet during the course of
that evening. Ralph, too, was quieter than usual, but I knew that his
quietness was the outcome of deep satisfaction. What happiness shone in
his eyes, gladdened his voice, and gave an indefinable charm to all he
said and did!
Surely I should have been glad to see how happy I had made him. But no,
his evident joyousness only awakened self-reproach within me. I shrank
from the tender glances that sought mine, pretended not to hear the
words whose deepest meaning was for my ear alone, and trembled whenever
some gentle authoritativeness in Ralph's bearing towards me reminded me
of the right I had given him.
But outwardly I was brighter that evening thus I had been for many
months. Mrs. Dugdale and I were comparing our experience of Mentone
with that of the Miss Shuttleworths, and recalling for their benefit
every incident of our sojourn there which was likely to interest them.
I think both Grace and Ralph were surprised to hear how I talked and
laughed.
We had music. The Miss Shuttleworths were excellent musicians, and
one of them played the harp with sweet expressiveness and delicacy of
touch. Ah, cheerful as I seemed, when the pathetic, plaintive notes
of that instrument vibrated through the room, I could have cried out
with anguish. The music gave utterance to my heart's baffled, hopeless
yearnings, my young despair of life, with its cruel disappointments and
heart-sickening griefs.
It was all I could do to maintain self-control, but biting my lip and
forcing back my tears, I bent studiously over some photographs till the
music ceased, and no one saw how it had moved me.
"Go, weep for those whose hearts have bled,
What time their eyes were dry.
'Whom sadder can I say?' she said."
Ah, truly, those are not our saddest hours in which our tears flow
freely.
The Miss Shuttleworths' presence prevented Ralph from telling his
parents of our engagement. I was glad; I hoped that no one would know
that night. When her guests retired, Mrs. Dugdale went upstairs with
them, and I followed almost immediately, pleading a headache when
Ralph attempted to detain me. As I quitted the room, I felt his eyes
following me with a wondering, troubled gaze.
A bright fire was burning in my room. As I closed the door, I felt like
one who casts off a torturing disguise. I threw myself on the soft rug
before the fire, and leaned my head on a low chair which stood by the
hearth.
"Oh," I murmured to myself, "what shall I do? How can I go on living?
Oh, Edmund, Edmund! If only I could have died when you did!"
And then tears came to my relief, a hot, plenteous rain of tears. How
many minutes passed I knew not, but it seemed as if I had lain there a
long time, sobbing and weeping, when there came a tap at the door.
I started up in consternation. It was Grace's knock, and Grace's voice
now asked for admission.
What should I do? I longed to refuse her entrance, but what excuse had
I for so treating such a friend? Thus thinking, I made a futile attempt
to wipe away the traces of my tears, and then unlocked the door.
"Dorothy, dear, I am so sorry to hear you have a headache," said Grace
coming in. Then she paused in sudden dismay at my appearance. "Why, you
have been crying. Is it, then, so very bad? Oh, I wish I had known!"
For answer, I burst into another flood of tears. Grace made me rest
in the easy chair; she gave me some drops of sal volatile; she cooled
my head with eau de Cologne, but for a while it seemed as if I could
never stop crying. Gradually, however, my emotion spent itself, my sobs
ceased from very exhaustion, and I lay back in the chair with closed
eyes and throbbing brows.
A long silence ensued. At first, I was glad of the stillness, then it
grew painful, and I longed for Grace to speak.
I looked up at last. Grace was standing beside me, watching me
intently. There was a troubled look on her face.
"You are better?" she said, as she saw my eyes open.
"Yes."
"It was more than the headache made you cry," she said, in the tone of
one who states a fact.
"Yes," I said again, feeling compelled to utter the truth, and quailing
inwardly as I met her steady, penetrating gaze.
Another pause. It seemed to me that there was something merciless in
the searching gaze Grace continued to bend on me, yet even then I knew
that it was but such mercilessness as the surgeon shows when he freely
probes the wound that he may extract from it all its lingering poison.
"Dorothy," she said, presently, speaking in calm, quiet tones, "Ralph
has told me that you are engaged to him. I came to tell you that I was
glad, but now—now—I do not know that I am glad."
I was silent. There seemed nothing that I could say.
"I had my doubts before," she went on. "I have known for some time—how
could I help knowing?—that Ralph loved you, but I never could think
that you responded to his love. Dorothy, I used to think that you cared
for someone else?"
"Grace, how can you? I will not have you say such things," I cried,
pride and indignation sending the hot blood surging to my brows.
But undaunted, she turned on me the same steady gaze.
"Is it not true?" she asked, quietly.
"You have no right to ask such a question," I replied, hotly. "No, it
is not true—at least, no one but your brother has ever sought my love."
"Which is not quite the same thing," she said, gently. Then suddenly,
she knelt down beside me, clasping my hands in hers, and looking up at
me with earnest, pleading eyes.
"Forgive me, Dorothy, if I seem cruel, if my woods appear
unjustifiable," she said. "If I say the thing I should not, believe me,
it is for the sake of your happiness and that of my brother, who is
dear to me as your brother was to you, that I am thus open."
"Surely, you need not fear for his happiness," I said falteringly.
"There can be no doubt that I have made him happy."
"No, no, not unless you are happy yourself," said Grace, with quick
decided utterance. "An unhappy woman can never make others happy, least
of all can she make him happy whose happiness is bound up in hers. But
perhaps I am mistaken. Dorothy, answer me but this one question—can you
look forward with joy to your future as Ralph's wife?"
I was silent. It was impossible to frame an evasive reply whilst those
truth-speaking, truth-reading eyes were fixed on me.
"Then it is as I feared," she said, presently, and now her tones were
tremulous with emotion. "Oh, Dorothy, listen to me. You will make a
woeful mistake if you marry Ralph, unless you love him with all your
heart, and feel that no other man is anything to you beside him.
Esteem, friendship, admiration of his good qualities, is not enough to
ensure the happiness of two lives.
"Dorothy, I know; I am not talking like a romantic school-girl. For
ten happy weeks I knew the joy of sacred, blessed union with one of
the best and noblest of men, and out of my experience I say this to
you,—only love can make such union the perfect, holy thing it should
be. The bond is too close, it will gall, it will torture, unless it be
cemented by love in its highest and purest form.
"Oh, listen to me; it is not too late to repair your mistake. Ralph has
told no one but me. It would be kinder to make him suffer now, sharp
though his suffering must be, than to cause him life-long suffering."
Her words touched me keenly. I knew that she spoke truth. I almost
yielded to her persuasions; I was on the point of confessing to her
the secret of my heart, when something rose within me to resist this
impulse. Whether it was pride, or obstinacy, or merely a sort of moral
inertia which preferred all should be as it was rather than endure any
more wearying mental conflicts, I know not, but something prompted me
to rise, shake off Grace's clinging clasp, and move to the other side
of the room.
"I think it is for Ralph and me to decide what is best for us," I said,
coldly and proudly. "If he is satisfied with the prospect before him, I
do not see why you should distress yourself, nor do I know what right
you have to catechise me and counsel me as you have."
"I have no right," said Grace, humbly and sadly, "yet I could not
choose but warn you. Forgive me, dear, if I have spoken amiss, but do
think of what I have said, and seek guidance ere you take so momentous
a step—guidance from your own true woman's heart, above all, the
guidance which God never fails to give those who earnestly seek His
direction."
She waited a few moments, but I made no reply. Then she wished me
good-night and left me.
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