DESTINY.
Not for one moment did Edith waver in her purpose, and lest
Richard should suspect what he could not see, she affected a
gayety in his presence sadly at variance with her real feelings.
Never had her merry laugh rang out so frequently before him--never
had her wit been one half so sparkling, and when he passed his
hands over her flushed cheek, feeling how hot it was, he said to
himself, "The roses are coming back, she cannot be unhappy," and
every line and lineament of the blind man's face glowed with the
new-born joy springing up within his heart, and making the world
around him one grand jubilee.
Victor was quick to note the change in his master, and without the
least suspicion of the truth, he once asked Edith, "What made Mr.
Harrington so young and almost boyish, acting as men were supposed
to act when they were just engaged?"
"Victor," said Edith, after a moment's reflection, "can you keep a
secret?"
"Certainly," he replied. "What is it, pray? Is Mr. Harrington
matrimonially inclined?"
Edith's heart yearned for sympathy--for some one to sustain her--
to keep her from fainting by the wayside, and as she could not
confide in Grace, Victor was her only remaining refuge. He had
been the repositary of all her childish secrets, entering into her
feelings as readily and even more demonstratively than any female
friend could have done. Richard would tell him, of course, as soon
as it was settled, and as she knew now that it was settled, why
not speak first and so save him the trouble. Thus deciding, she
replied to his question,
"Yes, Richard is going to be married; but you must not let him
know I told you, till the engagement is made public."
Victor started, but had no shadow of suspicion that the young girl
before him was the bride elect. His master had once been foolish
enough to think of her as such he believed, but that time was
passed. Richard had grown more sensible, and Edith was the future
wife of Arthur St. Claire. Nina would not live long, and after she
was dead there would be no further hindrance to a match every way
so suitable. This was Victor's theory, and never doubting that the
same idea had a lodgment in the minds of both Arthur and Edith, he
could not conceive it possible that the latter would deliberately
give herself to Richard. Grace Atherton, on the contrary, would be
glad to do it; she had been coaxing his master these forty years,
and had succeeded in winning him at last. Victor did not fancy
Grace; and when at last he spoke, it was to call both his master
and Mrs. Atherton a pair of precious fools. Edith looked
wonderingly at him as he raved on.
"I can't bear her, I never could, since I heard how she abused
you. Why, I'd almost rather you'd be his wife than that gay
widow."
"Suppose I marry him then in her stead," Edith said, laughingly.
"I verily believe he'd exchange."
"Of course he would," Victor answered, bitterly. "The older a man
grows, the younger the girl he selects, and it's a wonder he
didn't ask you first."
"Supposing he had?" returned Edith, bending over a geranium to
hide her agitation. "Supposing he had, and it was I instead of
Grace to whom he is engaged."
"Preposterous!" Victor exclaimed. "You could not do such a thing
in your right senses. Why, I'd rather see you dead than married to
your father. I believe I'd forbid the banns myself," and Victor
strode from the room, banging the door behind him, by way of
impressing Edith still more forcibly with the nature of his
opinion.
Edith was disappointed. She had expected sympathy at least from
Victor, had surely thought he would he pleased to have her for his
mistress, and his words, "I would rather see you dead," hurt her
cruelly. Perhaps every body would say so. It was an unnatural
match, this union of autumn and spring, but she must do something.
Any thing was preferable to the aimless, listless life she was
leading now. She could not be any more wretched than she was, and
she might perhaps be happier when the worst was over and she knew
for certain that she was Richard's wife. HIS WIFE! It made her
faint and sick just to say those two words. What then would the
reality be? She loved him dearly as a guardian, a brother, and she
might in time love him as her husband. Such things had been. They
could be again. Aye, more, they should he, and determining
henceforth to keep her own counsel, and suffer Victor to believe
it was Grace instead of herself, she ran into the garden, where
she knew Richard was walking, and stealing to his side, caught his
arm ere he was aware of her presence.
"Darling, is it you?" he asked, and his dark face became
positively beautiful with the radiant love-light shining out all
over it.
Every day the hope grew stronger that the cherished object of his
life might be realized. Edith did not avoid him as he feared she
would. On the contrary she rather sought his society than
otherwise, never, however, speaking of the decision. It was a part
of the agreement that they should not talk of it until the four
weeks were gone, the weeks which to Richard dragged so slowly,
while to Edith they flew on rapid wing; and with every rising sun,
she felt an added pang as she thought how soon the twelfth of May
would be there. It wanted but four days of it when she joined him
in the garden, and for the first time since their conversation
Richard alluded to it by asking playfully, "what day of the month
it was?"
"The eighth;" and Edith's eyes closed tightly over the tears
struggling to gain egress, then with a mighty effort she added,
laughingly,
"When the day after to-morrow comes, it will be the tenth, then
the eleventh, then the twelfth, and then, you know, I'm coming to
you in the library. Send Victor off for that evening, can't you?
He's sure to come in when I don't want him, if he's here," and
this she said because she feared it would be harder to say yes if
Victor's reproachful eyes should once look upon her, as they were
sure to do, if he suspected her designs.
Richard could not understand why Victor must be sent away, but
anything Edith asked was right, and he replied that Victor should
not trouble them.
"There, he's coming now!" and Edith dropped the hand she held, as
if fearful lest the Frenchman should suspect.
This was not the proper feeling, she knew, and returning to the
house, she shut herself up in her room, crying bitterly because
she could not make herself feel differently!
The twelfth came at last, not a balmy, pleasant day as May is wont
to bring, but a rainy, dreary April day, when the gray clouds
chased each other across the leaden sky, now showing a disposition
to bring out patches of blue, and again growing black and heavy as
the fitful showers came pattering down. Edith was sick. The strong
tension of nerves she had endured for four long weeks was giving
way. She could not keep up longer; and Richard breakfasted and
dined without her, while with an aching head she listened to the
rain beating against her windows, and watched the capricious
clouds as they floated by. Many times she wished it all a dream
from which she should awaken; and then, when she reflected that
'twas a fearful reality, she covered her head with the bed-clothes
and prayed that she might die. But why pray for this? She need not
be Richard's wife unless she chose--he had told her so repeatedly,
and now she too said "I will not!" Strange she had not thus
decided before and stranger still that she should be so happy now
she had decided!
There was a knock at the door, and Grace Atherton asked to be
admitted.
"Richard told me you were sick," she said, as she sat down by
Edith's side; "and you do look ghostly white. What is the matter,
pray?"
"One of my nervous headaches;" and Edith turned from the light so
that her face should tell no tales of the conflict within.
"I received a letter from Arthur last night," Grace continued,
"and thinking you might like to hear from Nina, I came round in
the rain to tell you of her. Her health is somewhat improved, and
she is now under the care of a West India physician, who holds out
strong hopes that her mental derangement may in time be cured."
Edith was doubly glad now that she had turned her face away, for
by so doing she hid the tears which dropped so fast upon her
pillow.
"Did Arthur mention me?" she asked, and Grace knew then that she
was crying.
Still it was better not to withhold the truth, and bending over
her she answered,
"No, Edith, he did not. I believe he is really striving to do
right."
"And he will live with Nina if she gets well?" came next from the
depths of the pillows where Edith lay half smothered.
"Perhaps so. Would you not like to have him?" Grace asked.
"Ye-e-e-s. I sup-pose so. Oh, I don't know what I like. I don't
know anything except that I wish I was dead," and the silent
weeping became a passionate sobbing as Edith shrank further from
Grace, plunging deeper and deeper among her pillows until she was
nearly hidden from view.
Grace could not comfort her; there was no comfort as she saw, and
as Edith refused to answer any of her questions upon indifferent
topics, she ere long took her leave, and Edith was left alone. She
had reversed her decision while Grace was sitting there, and the
news from Florida was the immediate cause. She should marry
Richard now, and her whole body shook with the violence of her
emotions; but as the fiercest storm will in time expend its fury,
so she grew still at last, though it was rather the stillness of
despair than any healthful, quieting influence stealing over her.
She hated herself because she could not feel an overwhelming joy
at the prospect of Nina's recovery; hated Arthur because he had
forgotten her; hated Grace for telling her so; hated Victor for
saying he would rather see her dead than Richard's wife; hated
Mrs. Matson for coming in to ask her how she was; hated her for
staying there when she would rather be alone, and made faces at
her from beneath the sheet; hated everybody but Richard, and in
time she should hate him--at least, she hoped she should, for on
the whole she was more comfortable when hating people than she had
ever been when loving them. It had such a hardened effect upon
her, this hatred of all mankind, such a don't care influence, that
ahe rather enjoyed it than otherwise.
And this was the girl who, as that rainy, dismal day drew to its
close and the sun went down in tears, dressed herself with a firm,
unflinching hand, arranging her hair with more than usual care,
giving it occasionally a sharp pull, as a kind of escape valve to
her feelings and uttering an impatient exclamation whenever a pin
proved obstinate and did not at once slip into its place. She was
glad Richard was blind and could not see her swollen eyes, which,
in spite of repeated bathings in ice-water and cologne would look
red and heavy. Her voice, however, would betray her, and so she
toned it down by warbling snatches of a love song learned ere she
knew the meaning of love, save as it was connected with Richard.
It was not Edith Hastings who left that pleasant chamber, moving
with an unfaltering step down the winding stairs and across the
marble hall, but a half-crazed, defiant woman going on to meet her
DESTINY and biting her lip with vexation when she heard that
Richard had company--college friends, who being in Shannondale on
business had come up to see him.
This she learned from Victor, whom she met in the hall, and who
added, that he never saw his master appear quite so dissatisfied
as when told they were in the library, and would probably pass the
night. Edith readily guessed the cause of his disquiet, and
impatiently stamped her little foot upon the marble floor, for she
knew their presence would necessarily defer the evil hour, and she
could not live much longer in her present state of excitement.
"I was just coming to your room," said Victor, "to see if you were
able to appear in the parlor. Three men who have not met in years
are stupid company for each other; and then Mr. Harrington wants
to show you off I dare say. Pity the widow wasn't here."
Victor spoke sarcastically, but Edith merely replied,
"Tell your master I will come in a few minutes."
Then, with a half feeling of relief, she ran back to her room,
bathing her eyes afresh, and succeeding in removing the redness to
such an extent, that by lamplight no one would suspect she had
been crying. Her headache was gone, and with spirits somewhat
elated, she started again for the parlor where she succeeded in
entertaining Richard's guests entirely to his satisfaction.
It was growing late, and the clock was striking eleven when at
last Richard summoned Victor, bidding him show the gentleman to
their rooms. As they were leaving the parlor Edith came to
Richard's side and in a whisper so low that no one heard her, save
himself, said to him,
"Tell Victor he needn't come back."
He understood her meaning, and said to his valet,
"I shall not need your services to-night. You may retire as soon
as you choose."
Something in his manner awakened Victor's suspicions, and his keen
eyes flashed upon Edith, who, with a haughty toss of the head,
turned away to avoid meeting it again.
The door was dosed at last; Victor was gone; their guests were
gone, and she was alone with Richard, who seemed waiting for her
to speak; but Edith could not. The breath she fancied would come
so freely with Victor's presence removed, would scarcely come at
all, and she felt the tears gathering like a flood every time she
looked at the sightless man before her, and thought of what was to
come. By a thousand little devices she strove to put it off, and
remembering that the piano was open, she walked with a faltering
step across the parlor, closed the instrument, smoothed the heavy
cover, arranged the sheets of music, whirled the music stool as
high as she could, turned it back as low as she could, sat down
upon it, crushed with her fingers two great tears, which, with all
her winking she could not keep in subjection, counted the flowers
on the paper border and wondered how long she should probably
live. Then, with a mighty effort she arose, and with a step which
this time did not falter, went and stood before Richard, who was
beginning to look troubled at her protracted silence. He knew she
was near him now, he could hear her low breathing, and he waited
anxiously for her to speak.
Edith's face was a study then. Almost every possible emotion was
written upon it. Fear, anguish, disappointed hopes, cruel longings
for the past, terrible shrinkings from the present, and still more
terrible dread of the future. Then these passed away, and were
succeeded by pity, sympathy, gratitude, and a strong desire to do
right. The latter feelings conquered, and sitting down by Richard,
she took his warm hand between her two cold ones, and said to him,
"'Tis the twelfth of May to-night, did you know it?"
Did he know it? He had thought of nothing else the livelong day,
and when, early in the morning, he heard that she was sick, a sad
foreboding had swept over him, lest what he coveted so much should
yet be withheld. But she was there beside him. She had sought the
opportunity and asked if he knew it was the twelfth, and, drawing
her closer to him, he answered back: "Yes, darling; 'tis the day
on which you were to bring me your decision. You have kept your
word, birdie. You have brought it to me whether good or bad. Now
tell me, is it the old blind man's wife, the future mistress of
Collingwood, that I encircle with my arm?"
He bent down to listen for the reply, feeling her breath stir his
hair, and hearing each heart-beat as it counted off the seconds.
Then like a strain of music, sweet and rich, but oh, so touchingly
sad, the words came floating in a whisper to his ear, "Yes,
Richard, your future wife; but please, don't call yourself the old
blind man. It makes you seem a hundred times my father. You are
not old, Richard--no older than I feel!" and the newly betrothed
laid her head on Richard's shoulder, sobbing passionately.
Did all girls behave like this? Richard wished he knew. Did sweet
Lucy Collingwood, when she gave her young spring life to his
father's brown October? Lucy had loved her husband, he knew, and
there was quite as much difference between them as between himself
and Edith. Possibly 'twas a maidenly weakness to cry, as Edith was
doing. He would think so at all events. It were death to think
otherwise, and caressing her with unwonted tenderness, he kissed
her tears away, telling her how happy she had made him by
promising to be his--how the darkness, the dreariness all was
gone, and the world was so bright and fair. Then, as she continued
weeping and he remembered what had heretofore passed between them,
he said to her earnestly: "Edith, there is one thing I would know.
Is it a divided love you bring me, or is it no love at all. I have
a right to ask you this, my darling. Is it gratitude alone which
prompted your decision? If it is, Edith, I would die rather than
accept it. Don't deceive me, darling, I cannot see your face--
cannot read what's written there. Alas! alas! that I am blind to-
night; but I'll trust you, birdie; I'll believe what you may tell
me. Has an affection, different from a sister's, been born within
the last four weeks? Speak! do you love me more than you did? Look
into my eyes, dearest; you will not deal falsely with me then."
Like an erring, but penitent child, Edith crept into his lap, but
did not look into the sightless eyes. She dared not, lest the gaze
should wring from her quivering lips the wild words trembling
there, "Forgive me, Richard, but I loved Arthur first." So she hid
her face in his bosom, and said to him,
"I do not love you, Richard, as you do me. It came too sudden, and
I had not thought about it. But I love you dearly, very dearly,
and I want so much to be your wife. I shall rest so quietly when I
have you to lean upon, you to care for. I am young for you, I
know, but many such matches have proved happy, and ours assuredly
will. You are so good, so noble, so unselfish, that I shall be
happy with you. I shall be a naughty, wayward wife, I fear, but
you can control me, and you must. We'll go to Europe sometime,
Richard, and visit Bingen on the Rhine, where the little baby girl
fell in the river, and the brave boy Richard jumped after her.
Don't you wish you'd let me die? There would then have been no bad
black-haired Edith lying in your lap, and torturing you with fears
that she does not love you as she ought."
Edith's was an April temperament, and already the sun was shining
through the cloud; the load at her heart was not so heavy, nor the
future half so dark. Her decision was made, her destiny accepted,
and henceforth she would abide by it nor venture to look back.
"Are you satisfied to take me on my terms?" she asked, as Richard
did not immediately answer.
He would rather she had loved him more, but it was sudden, he
knew, and she was young. He was terribly afraid, it is true, that
gratitude alone had influenced her actions, but the germ of love
was there, he believed; and by and by it would bear the rich, ripe
fruit. He could wait for that; and he loved her so much, wanted
her so much, needed her so much, that he would take her on any
terms.
"Yes" he said at last, resting his chin upon her bowed head, "I am
satisfied, and never since my rememberance, has there come to
Richard Harrington a moment so fraught with bliss as this in which
I hold you in my arms and know I hold my wife, my darling wife,
sweetest name ever breathed by human tongue--and Edith, if you
must sicken of me, do it now--to-night. Don't put it off, for
every fleeting moment binds me to you with an added tie, which
makes it harder to lose you."
"Richard," and, lifting up her head, Edith looked into the eyes
she could not meet before, "I swear to you, solemnly, that never,
by word or deed, will I seek to be released from our engagement,
and if I am released, it will be because you give me up of your
own free will. You will be the one to break it, not I."
"Then it will not be broken," came in a quick response from
Richard, as he held closer to him one whom he now felt to be his
forever.
The lamps upon the table, and the candles on the mantel flashed
and smoked, and almost died away--the fire on the marble hearth
gave one or two expiring gasps and then went out--the hands of the
clock moved onward, pointing to long after midnight, and still
Richard, loth to let his treasure go, kept her with him, talking
to her of his great happiness, and asking if early June would be
too soon for her to be his bride.
"Yes, yes, much too soon," cried Edith. "Give me the whole summer
in which to be free. I've never been any where you know. I want to
see the world. Let's go to Saratoga, and to all those places I've
heard so much about. Then, in the autumn, we'll have a famous
wedding at Collingwood, and I will settle down into the most
demure, obedient of wives."
Were it not that the same roof sheltered them both, Richard would
have acceded to this delay, but when he reflected that he should
not be parted from Edith any more than if they were really
married, he consented, stipulating that the wedding should take
place on the anniversary of the day when she first came to him
with flowers, and called him "poor blind man."
"You did not think you'd ever be the poor blind man's wife," he
said, asking her, playfully, if she were not sorry even now.
"No," she answered. Nor was she. In fact, she scarcely felt at
all. Her heart was palsied, and lay in her bosom like a block of
stone--heavy, numb, and sluggish in its beat.
Of one thing, only, was she conscious, and that a sense of
weariness--a strong desire to be alone, up stairs, where she was
not obliged to answer questions, or listen to loving words, of
which she was so unworthy. She was deceiving Richard, who, when
his quick ear caught her smothered yawn, as the little clock
struck one, bade her leave him, chiding himself for keeping her so
long from the rest he knew she needed.
"For me, I shall never know fatigue or pain again," he said, as he
led her to the door, "but my singing-bird is different--she must
sleep. God bless you, darling. You have made the blind man very
happy."
He kissed her forehead, her lips, her hands, and then released
her, standing in the door and listening to her footsteps as they
went up the winding stairs and out into the hall beyond--the dark,
gloomy hall, where no light was, save a single ray, shining
through the keyhole of Victor's door.