THE NINETEENTH BIRTH-DAY.
Edith was nineteen. She was no longer the childish, merry-hearted
maiden formerly known as Edith Hastings. Her cruel disappointment
had ripened her into a sober, quiet woman, whose songs were seldom
heard in the halls of Collingwood, and whose bounding steps had
changed into a slower, more measured tread.
Still, there was in her nature too much of life and vigor to be
crushed out at once, and oftentimes it flashed up with something
of its olden warmth, and the musical laugh fell again on Richard's
listening ear. He knew she was changed, but he imputed it all to
her long, fearful sickness; when the warm summer days came back,
she would be as gay as ever, he thought, or if she did not he
would in the autumn take her to FLORIDA, to visit Nina, for whom
he fancied she might be pining. Once he said as much to her, but
his blindness was a shield between them, and he did not see the
sudden paling of her cheek and quivering of her lip.
Alas, for Richard, that he walked in so great a darkness. Hour by
hour, day by day, had his love increased for the child of his
adoption, until now she was a part of his very life, pervading
every corner and crevice of his being. He only lived for her, and
in his mighty love, he became selfishly indifferent to all else
around him. Edith was all he cared for;--to have her with him;--to
hear her voice,--to know that she was sitting near,--that by
stretching forth his hand he could lay it on her head, or feel her
beautiful cheeks,--this was his happiness by day, and when at
night he parted unwillingly from her, there was still a
satisfaction in knowing that he should meet her again on the
morrow,--in thinking that she was not far away--that by stepping
across the hall and knocking at her door he could hear her sweet
voice saying to him,
"What is it, Richard?"
He liked to have her call him Richard, as she frequently did. It
narrowed the wide gulf of twenty-one years between them, bringing
him nearer to her, so near, in fact, that bridal veils and orange
wreaths now formed a rare loveliness walked ever at his side;
clothed in garments such as the mistress of Collingwood's half
million ought to wear, and this maiden was Edith--the Edith who,
on her nineteenth birth-day, sat in her own chamber devising a
thousand different ways of commencing a conversation which she
meant to have with her guardian, the subject of said conversation
being no less a personage than Grace Atherton. Accidentally Edith
had learned that not the Swedish baby's mother but Grace
Elmendorff had been the lady who jilted Richard Harrington and
that, repenting bitterly of her girlish coquetry, Mrs. Atherton
would now gladly share the blind man's lot, and be to him what she
had not been to her aged, gouty lord. Grace did not say all this
to Edith, it is true, but the latter read as much in the trembling
voice and tearful eyes with which Grace told the story of her
early love, and to herself she said, "I will bring this matter
about. Richard often talks of her to me, asking if she has faded,
and why she does not come more frequently to Collingwood. I will
speak to him at the very first opportunity, and will tell him of
my mistake, and ask him who Eloise Temple's mother was, and why he
was so much interested in her."
With this to engross her mind and keep it from dwelling too much
upon the past, Edith became more like herself than she had been
since that dreadful scene in the Deering woods. Even her long
neglected piano was visited with something of her former interest,
she practising the songs which she knew Grace could sing with her,
and even venturing upon two or three duets, of which Grace played
one part. It would be so nice, she thought, to have some female in
the house besides old Mrs. Matson, and she pictured just how Grace
would look in her white morning gowns, with her blue eyes and
chestnut curls, presiding at the breakfast table and handling the
silver coffee urn much more gracefully than she could do.
It was a pleasant picture of domestic bliss which Edith drew that
April morning, and it brought a glow to her cheeks, whence the
roses all had fled. Once, indeed, as she remembered what Arthur
had said concerning Richard's probable intentions, and what she
had herself more than half suspected, she shuddered with fear lest
by pleading for Grace, she should bring a fresh trial to herself.
But no, whatever Richard might once have thought of her, his
treatment now was so fatherly that she had nothing to fear, and
with her mind thus at ease Edith waited rather impatiently until
the pleasant April day drew to its close. Supper was over, the
cloth removed, Victor gone to an Ethiopian concert, Mrs. Matson
knitting in her room, Sarah, the waiting-maid, reading a yellow
covered novel, and Richard sitting alone in his library.
Now was Edith's time if ever, and thrusting the worsted work she
was crocheting into her pocket, she stepped to the library door
and said pleasantly "You seem to be in a deep study. Possibly you
don't want me now?"
"Yes, I do," he answered quickly. "I always want you."
"And can always do without me, too, I dare say," Edith rejoined
playfully, as she took her seat upon a low ottoman, near him.
"No, I couldn't," and Richard sighed heavily. "If I had not you I
should not care to live. I dreamed last night that you were dead,
that you died while I was gone, and I dug you up with my own hands
just to look upon your face again. I always see you in my sleep. I
am not blind then, and when a face fairer, more beautiful than any
of which the poets ever sang flits before me, I whisper to myself,
'that's Edith,--that's my daylight.'"
"Oh, mistaken man," Edith returned, laughingly, "how terribly you
would be disappointed could you be suddenly restored to sight and
behold the long, lank, bony creature _I_ know as Edith Hastings--
low forehead, turned-up nose, coarse, black hair, all falling out,
black eyes, yellowish black skin, not a particle of red in it--the
fever took that away and has not brought it back. Positively,
Richard, I'm growing horridly ugly. Even my hair, which I'll
confess I did use to think was splendid, is as rough as a chestnut
burr. Feel for yourself if you don't believe me," and she laid his
hand upon her hair, which, though beautiful and abundant, still
was quite uneven and had lost some of its former satin gloss.
Richard shook his head. Edith's description of her personal
appearance made not a particle of difference with him. She might
not, perhaps, have recovered her good looks, but she would in
time. She was improving every day, and many pronounced her
handsomer than before her sickness, for where there had been,
perhaps, a superabundance of color and health there was now a
pensive, subdued beauty, preferred by some to the more glowing,
dashing style which had formerly distinguished Edith Hastings from
every one else in Shannondale. Something like this he said to her,
but Edith only laughed and continued her crocheting, wondering how
she should manage to introduce Grace Atherton. It was already
half-past eight, Victor might soon be home, and if she spoke to
him that night she must begin at once. Clearing her throat and
making a feint to cough, she plunged abruptly into the subject by
saying, "Richard, why have you never married? Didn't you ever see
anybody you loved well enough?"
Richard's heart gave one great throb and then grew still, for
Edith had stumbled upon the very thing uppermost in his mind. What
made her? Surely, there was a Providence in it. 'Twas an omen of
good, boding success to his suit, and after a moment he replied,
"Strange that you and I should both be thinking of matrimony. Do
you know that my dreaming you were dead is a sign that you will
soon be married?"
"_I_, Mr. Harrington!" and Edith started quickly. "The sign is not
true. I shall never marry, never. I shall live here always, if
you'll let me, but I do want you to have a wife. You will be so
much happier, I think. Shall I propose one for you?"
"Edith," Richard answered, "sit close to me while I tell you of
one I once wished to make my wife."
Edith drew nearer to him, and he placed upon her head the hands
which were cold and clammy as if their owner were nerving himself
for some mighty effort.
"Edith, in my early manhood I loved a young girl, and I thought my
affection returned, but a wealthier, older man came between us,
and she chose his riches in preference to walking in my shadow,
for such she termed my father."
"But she's repented, Mr. Harrington--she surely has," and Edith
dropped her work in her earnestness to defend Grace Atherton. "She
is sorry for what she made you suffer; she has loved you through
all, and would be yours now if you wish it, I am sure. You DO wish
it, Richard. You will forgive Grace Atherton," and in her
excitement Edith knelt before him, pleading for her friend.
Even before he answered her she knew she pleaded in vain, but she
was not prepared for what followed the silence Richard was first
to break.
"Grace Atherton can never be to me more than what she is, a tried,
respected friend. My boyish passion perished long ago, and into my
later life another love has crept, compared with which my first
was as the darkness to the full noonday. I did not think to talk
of this to-night, but something compels me to do so--tells me the
time has come, and Edith, you must hear me before you speak, but
sit here where I can touch you, and when I'm through if what I've
said meets with a responsive chord, lay your hand in mine, and I
shall know the nature of your answer."
It was coming now--the scene which Arthur foresaw when, sitting in
the Deering woods, with life and sense crushed out, he gave his
Edith up to one more worthy than himself. It was the foreshadowing
of the "SACRIFICE," the first step taken toward it, and as one
who, seeing his destiny wrapping itself about him fold on fold,
sits down stunned and powerless, so Edith sat just where he bade
her sit, and listened to his story.
"Years ago, Edith, a solitary, wretched man I lived in my dark
world alone, weary of life, weary of every thing, and in my
weariness I was even beginning to question the justice of my
Creator for having dealt so harshly with me, when one day a wee
little singing bird, whose mother nest had been made desolate,
fluttered down at my feet, tired like myself, and footsore even
with the short distance it had come on life's rough journey. There
was a note in the voice of this sinking bird which spoke to me of
the past, and so my interest grew in the helpless thing until at
last it came to nestle at my side, not timidly, for such was not
its nature, but as if it had a right to be there--a right to be
caressed and loved as I caressed and loved it, for I did learn to
love it, Edith, so much, oh, so much, and the sound of its voice
was sweeter to me than the music of the Swedish nightingale, who
has filled the world with wonder.
"Years flew by, and what at first had been a tiny fledgling,
became a very queen of birds, and the blind man's heart throbbed
with pride when he heard people say of his darling that she was
marvellously fair. He knew it was not for him to look upon her
dark, rich, glowing beauty, but he stamped her features upon his
mind in characters which could not be effaced, and always in his
dreams her face sat on his pillow, watching while be slept, and
when he woke bent over him, whispering, 'Poor blind man,' just as
the young bird had whispered ere it's home was in his bosom.
"Edith, that face is always with me, and should it precede me to
the better land, I shall surely know it from all the shining
throng. I shall know my singing bird, which brought to our
darkened household the glorious daylight, just as Arthur St.
Claire said she would when he asked me to take her."
From the ottoman where Edith sat there came a low, choking sound,
but it died away in her throat, and with her hands locked so
firmly together that the taper nails made indentation in the
tender flesh, she listened, while Richard continued:
"It is strange no one has robbed me of my gem. Perhaps they spared
me in their pity for my misfortune. At all events, no one has come
between us, not even Arthur St. Claire, who is every way a
desirable match for her."
Again that choked, stifled moan, and a ring of blood told where
the sharp nail had been, but Edith heeded nothing save Richard's
voice, saying to her,
"You have heard of little streams trickling from the heart of some
grim old mountain, growing in size and strength as they advanced,
until at last they became a mighty river, whose course nothing
could impede, Such, Edith, is my love for that singing bird.
Little by little, inch by inch, it has grown in its intensity
until there is not a pulsation of my being which does not bear
with it thoughts of her. But my bird is young while I am old. Her
mate should be one on whose head the summer dews are resting, one
more like Arthur St Claire, and not an owl of forty years growth
like me; but she has not chosen such an one, and hope has
whispered to the tough old owl that his bright-eyed dove might be
coaxed into his nest; might fold her wings there forever, nor seek
to fly away. If this COULD be, Edith. Oh, if this could be, I'd
guard that dove so tenderly that not a feather should be ruffled,
and the winds of heaven should not blow too roughly on my darling.
I'd line her cage all over with gold and precious stones, but the
most costly gem of all should be the mighty unspeakable love I'd
bear to her. Aye, that I do bear her now, Edith,--my daylight, my
life. You surely comprehend me; tell me, then, can all this be?
Give me the token I desire."
He stretched out his groping hand, which swayed back and forth in
the empty air, but felt the clasp of no soft fingers clinging to
it, and a wistful, troubled look settled upon the face of the
blind man, just as a chill of fear was settling upon his heart.
"Edith, darling, where are you?" and his hand sought the ottoman
where she had been, but where she was not now.
Noiselessly, as he talked, she had crept away to the lounge in the
corner, where she crouched like a frightened deer, her flush
creeping with nervous terror, and her eyes fastened upon the man
who had repeated her name, asking where she was.
"Here, Richard," she answered at last, her eyelids involuntarily
closing when she saw him rising, and knew he was coming toward
her.
She had forgotten her promise to Arthur that she would not answer
Richard "No," should he ask her to be his wife; that, like Nina's
"scratching out," was null and void, and when he knelt beside her,
she said half bitterly,
"It must not be; THE SINGING BIRD CANNOT MATE WITH THE OWL!"
Instantly there broke from the blind man's lips a cry of agony so
pitiful, so reproachful in its tone, that Edith repented her
insulting words, and winding her arms around his neck, entreated
his forgiveness for having so cruelly mocked him..
"You called yourself so first," she sobbed, "or I should not have
thought of it. Forgive me. Richard, I didn't mean it. I could not
thus pain the noblest, truest friend I ever had. Forgive your
singing bird. She surely did not mean it," and Edith pressed her
burning cheeks against his own.
What was it she did not mean? That it could not be, or that he was
an owl? He asked himself this question many times during the
moment of silence which intervened; then as he felt her still
clinging to him, his love for her rolled back upon him with
overwhelming force, and kneeling before her as the slave to his
master, he pleaded with her again to say IT COULD BE, the great
happiness he had dared to hope for.
"Is there any other man whom my darling expects to marry?" he
asked, and Edith was glad he put the question in this form, as
without prevarication she could promptly answer,
"No, Richard, there is none."
"Then you may learn to love me," Richard said. "I can wait, I can
wait; but must it be very long? The days will be so dreary, and I
love you so much that I am lost if you refuse. Don't make my
darkness darker, Edith."
He laid his head upon her lap, still kneeling before her, the
iron-willed man kneeling to the weak young girl, whose hands were
folded together like blocks of lead, and gave him back no
answering caress, only the words,
"Richard, I can't. It's too sudden. I have thought of you always
as my elder brother, Be my brother, Richard. Take me as your
sister, won't you?"
"Oh, I want you for my wife," and his voice was full of pleading
pathos. "I want you in my bosom, I need you there, darling. Need
some one to comfort me. I've suffered so much, for your sake, too.
Oh, Edith, my early manhood was wasted; I've reached the autumn
time, and the gloom which wrapped me then in its black folds lies
around me still, and will you refuse to throw over my pathway a
single ray of sunlight? No, no, Edith, you won't, you can't. I've
loved you too much. I've lost too much. I'm growing old--and--oh,
Birdie, Birdie, I'M BLIND! I'M BLIND!"
She did not rightly interpret his suffering FOR HER SAKE. She
thought he meant his present pain, and she sought to soothe him as
best she could without raising hopes which never could be
realized. He understood her at last; knew the heart he offered her
was cast back upon him, and rising from his kneeling posture, he
felt his way back to his chair, and burying his head upon a table
standing near, sobbed as Edith had never heard man sob before, not
even Arthur St. Claire, when in the Deering Woods he had rocked to
and fro in his great agony. Sobs they were which seemed to rend
his broad chest asunder, and Edith stopped her ears to shut out
the dreadful sound.
But hark, what is it he is saying? Edith fain would know, and
listening intently, she hears him unconsciously whispering to
himself; "OH, EDITH, WAS IT FOR THIS THAT _I_ SAVED YOU FROM THE
RHINE, PERILING MY LIFE AND LOSING MY EYESIGHT? BETTER THAT YOU
HAD DIED IN THE DEEP WATERS THAN THAT _I_ SHOULD MEET THIS HOUR OF
ANGUISH."
"Richard, Richard!" and Edith nearly screamed as she flew across
the floor. Lifting up his head she pillowed it upon her bosom, and
showering kisses upon his quivering lips, said to him, "Tell me--
tell me, am _I_ that Swedish baby, _I_ that Eloise Temple?"
He nodded in reply, and Edith continued: "the child for whose sake
you were made blind! Why have you not told me before? I could not
then have wounded you so cruelly. How can I show my gratitude? I
am not worthy of you, Richard; not worthy to bear your name, much
less to be your bride, but such as I am take me. I cannot longer
refuse. Will you, Richard? May I be your wife?"
She knelt before HIM now; hers was the supplicating posture, and
when he shook his head, she continued,
"You think it a sudden change, and so it is, but I mean it. I'm in
earnest, I do love you, dearly, oh, so dearly, and by and by I
shall love you a great deal more. Answer me--may I be your wife?"
It was a terrible temptation, and Richard Harrington reeled from
side to side like a broken reed, while his lips vainly essayed to
speak the words his generous nature bade them speak. He could not
see the eagerness of the fair young face upturned to his--the
clear, truthful light shining in Edith's beautiful dark eyes,
telling better than words could tell that she was sincere in her
desire to join her sweet spring life with his autumn days. He
could not see this, else human flesh had proved too weak to say
what he did say at last.
"No, my darling, I cannot accept a love born of gratitude and
nothing more. You remember a former conversation concerning this
Eloise when you told me you were glad you were not she, as in case
you were you should feel compelled to be grateful, or something
like that, where as you would rather render your services to me
from love. Edith, that remark prevented me from telling you then
that you were Eloise, the Swedish mother's baby."
Never before had the words "that Swedish mother" touched so tender
a chord in Edith's heart as now, and forgetting every thing in her
intense desire to know something of her own early history, she
exclaimed, "You knew my mother, Richard. You have heard her voice,
seen her face; now tell me of her, please. Where is she? And
Marie, too, for there was a Marie. Let's forget all that's been
said within the last half hour. Let's begin anew, making believe
it's yesterday instead of now, and, when the story is ended, ask
me again if the singing bird can mate with the eagle. The grand,
royal eagle, Richard, is the best similitude for you," and forcing
herself to sit upon his knee, she put her arms around his neck
bidding him again tell her of her mother.
With the elastic buoyancy of youth Edith could easily shake off
the gloom which for a few brief moments had shrouded her like a
pall, but not so with Richard. "The singing-bird must not mate
with the owl," rang continually in his ears. It was her real
sentiment he knew, and his heart ached so hard as he thought how
he had staked his all on her and lost it.
"Begin," she said, "Tell me where you first met my mother."
Richard heaved a sigh which smote heavily on Edith's ear, for she
guessed of what he was thinking, and she longed to reassure him of
her intention to be his sight hereafter, but he was about to speak
and she remained silent.
"Your mother," he said "was a Swede by birth, and her marvellous
beauty first attracted your father, whose years were double her
own."
"I'm so glad," interrupted Edith, "As much as twenty-one years
older, wasn't he?"
"More than that," answered Richard, a half pleased, half bitter
smile playing over his dark face, "Forgive me, darling, but I'm
afraid he was not as good a man as he should have been, or as kind
to his young wife. When I first saw her she lived in a cottage
alone, and he was gone. She missed him sadly, and her sweet voice
seemed full of tears as she sang her girl baby to sleep. You have
her voice, Edith, and its tones came back to me the first time I
ever heard you speak. But I was telling of your father. He was
dissipated, selfish and unprincipled,--affectionate and kind to
Petrea one day, cold, hard and brutal the next. Still she loved
him and clung to him, for he was the father of her child. You were
a beautiful little creature, Edith, and I loved you so much that
when I knew you had fallen from a bluff into the river, I
unhesitatingly plunged after you."
"I remember it," cried Edith, "I certainly do, or else it was
afterwards told to me so often that it seems a reality."
"The latter is probably the fact," returned Richard. "You were too
young to retain any vivid recollections of that fall."
Still Edith persisted that she did remember the face of a little
girl in the water as she looked over the rock, and of bending to
touch the arm extended toward her. She remembered Bingen, too,
with its purple grapes; else why had she been haunted all her life
with vine-clad hills and plaintive airs.
"Your mother sang to you the airs, while your nurse, whose name I
think was Marie, told you of the grapes growing on the hills,"
said Richard. "She was a faithful creature, greatly attached to
your mother, but a bitter foe of your father. I was too much
absorbed in the shadow stealing over me to pay much heed to my
friends, and after they left Germany I lost sight of them
entirely, nor dreamed that the little girl who came to me that
October morning was my baby Eloise. Your voice always puzzled me,
and something I overheard you saying to Grace one day about your
mysterious hauntings of the past, together with an old song of
Petrea's which you sang, gave me my first suspicion as to who you
were, and decided me upon that trip to New York. Going first to
the Asylum of which you were once an inmate, I managed after much
diligent inquiry to procure the address of the woman who brought
you there when you were about three years old. I had but little
hope of finding her, but determining to persevere I sought out the
humble cottage in the suburbs of the city. It was inhabited by an
elderly woman who denied all knowledge of Edith Hastings until
told that I was Richard Harrington. Then her manner changed at
once, and to my delight I heard that she was Marie's sister. She
owned the cottage, had lived there more than twenty years, and saw
your mother die. Petrea, it seems, had left her husband, intending
to return to Sweden, but sickness overtook her and she died in New
York, committing you to the faithful Marie's care in preference to
your father's. Such was her dread of him that she made Marie swear
to keep your existence a secret from him, lest he should take you
back to a place where she had been so wretched and where all the
influences, she thought, were bad. She would rather you should be
poor, she said, than to be brought up by him, and as a means of
eluding discovery, she said you should not bear his name, and with
her dying tears she baptised you Edith Hastings. After her decease
Marie wrote to him that both of you were dead, and he came on at
once, seemed very penitent and sorry when it was too late."
"Where was his home?" Edith asked eagerly; and Richard replied,
"That is one thing I neglected to enquire, but when I met him in
Europe I had the impression that it was in one of the Western or
South-western states."
"Is he still alive?" Edith asked again, a daughter's love slowly
gathering in her heart in spite of the father's cruelty to the
mother.
"No," returned Richard. "Marie, who kept sight of his movements,
wrote to her sister some years since that he was dead, though when
he died, or how, Mrs. Jamieson did not know. She, too, was ill
when he came to her house, and consequently never saw him
herself."
"And the Asylum--how came I there?" said Edith; and Richard
replied,
"It seems your mother was an orphan, and had no near relatives to
whom you could be sent, and as Marie was then too poor and
dependent to support you she placed you in the Asylum as Edith
Hastings, visiting you occasionally until she went back to France,
her native country. Her intention was to return in a few months,
but a violent attack of inflammatory rheumatism came upon her,
depriving her of the use of her limbs, and confining her to her
bed for years, and so prevented her from coming back. Mrs.
Jamieson, however, kept her informed with regard to you, and told
me that Marie was greatly when she heard you were with me, whom
she supposed to be the same Richard Harrington who had saved your
life, and of whom her mistress had often talked. Marie is better
now, and when I saw her sister more than a year ago, she was
hoping she might soon revisit America. I left directions for her
to visit Collingwood, and for several months I looked for her a
little, resolving if she came, to question her minutely concerning
your father. He must have left a fortune, Edith, which by right is
yours, if we can prove that you are his child, and with Marie's
aid I hope to do this sometime. I have, however, almost given her
up; but now that you know all I will go again to New York, and
seek another interview with Mrs. Jamieson. Would it please you to
have the little orphan, Edith Hastings, turn out to be an
heiress?"
"Not for my own sake," returned Edith; "but if it would make you
love me more, I should like it;" and she clung closer to him as he
replied,
"Darling that could not be. I loved you with all the powers I had,
even before I knew you were Petrea's child. Beautiful Petrea! I
think you must be like her, Edith, except that you are taller. She
was your father's second wife. This I knew in Germany, and also
that there was a child of Mr. Temple's first marriage, a little
girl, he said."
"A child--a little girl," and Edith started quickly, but the
lightning flash which had once gleamed across her bewildered mind,
when in the Den she stood gazing at the picture of Miggie Bernard,
did not come back to her now, neither did she remember Arthur's
story, so much like Richard's. She only thought that possibly
there was somewhere in the world a dear, half-sister, whom she
should love so much, could she only find her. Edith was a famous
castle-builder, and forgetting that this half-sister, were she
living, would be much older than herself, she thought of her only
as a school-girl, whose home should be at Collingwood, and on whom
MRS. RICHARD HARRINGTON would lavish so much affection, wasting on
her the surplus love which, perhaps, could not be given to the
father--husband. How then was her castle destroyed, when Richard
said,
"She, too, is dead, so Mrs. Jamieson told me, and there is none of
the family left save you."
"I wish I knew where mother was buried," Edith sighed, her tears
falling to the memory of her girl mother, whose features it seamed
to her she could recall, as well as a death-bed scene, when
somebody with white lips and mournful black eyes clasped her in
her arms and prayed that God would bless her, and enable her
always to do right.
It might have been a mere fancy, but to Edith it was a reality,
and she said within herself,
"Yes, darling mother, I will do right, and as I am sure yon would
approve my giving myself to Richard, so I will be his wife."
One wild, longing, painful throb her heart gave to the past when
she had hoped for other bridegroom than the middle-aged man on
whose knee she sat, and then laying her hot face against his
bearded cheek, she whispered,
"You've told the story, Richard. It does not need Marie to confirm
it, though she, too, will come sometime to tell me who I am, but
when she comes, I shan't be Edith Hastings, shall I. The initials
won't be changed, though. They will be 'E.H.' still--Edith
Harrington. It has not a bad sound, has it?"
"Don't, darling, please don't," and Richard's voice had in it a
tone much like that which first rang through the room, when Edith
said,
"It cannot be."
"Richard," and Edith took his cold face between her soft, warm
hands, "Richard, won't you let the singing bird call you husband?
If you don't, she will fly away and sing to some one else, who
will prize her songs. I thought you loved me, Richard."
"Oh, Edith, my precious Edith! If I knew I could make the love
grow where it is not growing--the right kind of love, I mean--I
would not hesitate; but, darling, Richard Harrington would die a
thousand deaths rather than take you to his bosom an unloving
wife. Remember that, and do NOT mock me; do not deceive me. You
think now in the first flush of your gratitude to me for having
saved your life and in your pity for my blindness that you can do
anything; but wait awhile--consider well--think how I shall be old
while you still are young,--a tottering, gray-haired man, while
your blood still retains the heat of youth. The Harringtons live
long. I may see a hundred."
"And I shall then be seventy-nine; not so vast a difference,"
interrupted Edith.
"No, not a vast difference then," Richard rejoined, "but 'tis not
then I dread. 'Tis now, the next twenty-five years, during which I
shall be slowly decaying, while you will be ripening into a
matured, motherly beauty, dearer to your husband than all your
girlish loveliness. 'Tis then that I dread the contrast in you;
not when both are old; and, Edith, remember this, you can never be
old to me, inasmuch as I can never see you. I may feel that your
smooth, velvety flesh is wrinkled, that your shining hair is thin,
your soft round arms more sinewy and hard, but I cannot see it,
and in my heart I shall cherish ever the image I first loved as
Edith Hastings. You, on the contrary, will watch the work of death
go on in me, will see my hair turn gray, my form begin to stoop,
my hand to tremble, my eyes grow blear and watery, and when all
has come to pass, won't you sicken of the shaky old man and sigh
for a younger, more vigorous companion?"
"Not unless you show me such horrid pictures," Edith sobbed,
impetuously, for in her heart of hearts she felt the truth of
every word he uttered, and her whole soul revolted against the
view presented to her of the coming time.
But she would conquer such feelings--she would be his wife, and
drying her eyes she said, "I can give you my decision now as well
as at any other time, but if you prefer it, I will wait four weeks
and then bring you the same answer I make you now--I will be your
wife."
"I dare not hope it," returned Richard, "You will change your
mind, I fear, but, Edith, if you do not,--if you promise to be
mine, don't forsake me afterwards, for I should surely die," and
as if he already felt the agony it would cost him to give his
darling up after he had once possessed her, he clasped his hands
upon his heart, which throbbed so rapidly that Edith heard its
muffled beat and saw its rise and fall. "I could not lose you and
still live on without you, Edith," and he spoke impetuously, "You
won't desert me, if you promise once."
"Never, never," she answered, and with a good night kiss upon his
lips she went out from the presence of the man she already looked
upon as her future husband, breathing freer when she stood within
the hall where he was not, and freer still when in her own chamber
there was a greater distance between them.
Alas, for Edith, and a thousand times alas, for poor, poor
Richard!