THE LAND OF FLOWERS.
It was the original plan for the party to remain two weeks or more
at the Mountain House, and then go on to Saratoga, but so
delighted were they with the place that they decided to tarry
longer, and the last of August found them still inmates of the
hotel, whose huge white walls, seen from the Hudson, stand out
from the dark wooded landscape, like some mammoth snow bank,
suggestive to the traveller of a quiet retreat and a cool shelter
from the summer's fervid heat. Edith's health and spirits were
visibly improved, and her musical laugh often rang through the
house in tones so merry and gleeful that the most solemn of the
guests felt their boyhood coming back to them as they heard the
ringing laugh, and a softer light suffused their cold, stern eyes
as they paused in the midst of some learned discussion to watch
the frolicsome, graceful belle of the Mountain House--the bride
elect of the blind man.
It was known to be so now. The secret was out--told by Victor,
when closely questioned with regard to Edith's relationship to Mr.
Harrington. It created much surprise and a world of gossip, but
shielded Edith from attentions which might otherwise have been
annoying, for more than Richard thought her the one of all others
whose presence could make the sunshine of their life. But Edith
was betrothed. The dun leaves of October would crown her a wife,
and so one pleasant morning some half a score young men, each as
like to the other as young men at fashionable places of resort are
apt to be, kicked their patent leather boots against the pillars
of the rear piazza, broke a part of the tenth commandment
shockingly, muttered to themselves speeches anything but
complimentary to Richard, and then, at the appearance of a plaid
silk travelling dress and brown straw flat, rushed forward en
masse, each contending frantically for the honor of assisting Miss
Hastings to enter the omnibus, where Richard was already seated,
and which was to convey a party to the glens of the Kauterskill
Falls.
Edith had been there often. The weird wildness of the deep gorge
suited her, and many an hour had she whiled away upon the broken
rocks, watching the flecks of sunlight as they came struggling
down through the overhanging trees, listening to the plaintive
murmur of the stream, or gazing with delight upon the fringed,
feathery falls which hung from the heights above like some long,
white, gauzy ribbon. Richard, on the contrary, had never visited
them before, and he only consented to do so now from a desire to
gratify Edith, who acted as his escort in place of Victor. Holding
fast to her hand he slowly descended the winding steps and
circuitous paths, and then, with a sad feeling of helpless
dependence, sat down upon the bank where Edith bade him sit,
herself going off in girlish ecstasies as a thin spray fell upon
her face and she saw above her a bright-hued rainbow, spanning the
abyss.
"They are letting the water on," she cried, "Look, Richard! do
look!" and she grasped his hand, while he said to her mournfully,
"Has Birdie forgotten that I am blind, and helpless, and old--that
she must lead me as a child?"
There was a touching pathos in his voice which went straight to
Edith's heart, and forgetting the rainbow, she eat down beside
him, still keeping his hand in hers, and asked what was the
matter? She knew he was unusually disturbed, for seldom had she
seen upon his face a look of so great disquiet. Suddenly as she
remembered his unwillingness to come there alone, it flashed upon
her that it might arise from an aversion to seem so dependent upon
a weak girl in the presence of curious strangers. With Victor he
did not mind it, but with her it might be different, and she asked
if it were not so.
"Hardly that, darling; hardly that;" and the sightless eyes
drooped as if heavy with unshed tears. "Edith," and he pressed the
warm hand he held, "ours will be an unnatural alliance. I needed
only to mingle with the world to find it so. People wonder at your
choice--wonder that one so young as you should choose a battered,
blasted tree like me round which to twine the tendrils of your
green, fresh life."
"What have you heard?" Edith asked, half bitterly, for since their
engagement was known at the hotel, she had more than once
suspected the truth of what he said to her. The world did not
approve, but she would not tell Richard that she knew it, and she
asked again what he had heard.
"The ear of the blind is quick," he replied; "and as I sat waiting
in the stage this morning I heard myself denounced as a 'blind old
Hunks,' a selfish dog, who had won the handsomest girl in the
country. Then, as we were descending to this ravine you remember
we stopped at the foot of some stairs while you removed a brier
from your dress, and from a group near by I heard the whispered
words, 'There they come--the old blind man, who bought his ward
with money and gratitude. 'Twas a horrid sacrifice! Look how
beautiful she is!' Darling, I liked to hear you praised, but did
not like the rest. It makes me feel as if I were dragging you to
the altar against your will. And what is worse than all, the
verdict of the people here is the verdict of the world. Edith, you
don't want me. You cannot wish to call one husband whose
dependence upon you will always make you blush for your choice. It
was gratitude alone which prompted your decision. Confess that it
was, and I give you back your troth. You need not be the old blind
man's wife."
For an instant Edith's heart leaped up, and the sun spots dancing
on the leaves were brighter than she had ever seen them, but the
feeling passed away, and laying both her hands reverently in
Richard's, she said,
"I will be your wife. I care nothing for the world, and we won't
mingle in it any more to cause remarks. We'll stay at Collingwood,
where people know us best. Let's go home to-morrow. I'm tired of
this hateful place. Will you go?"
Ere Richard could answer, Grace Atherton was heard exclaiming,
"Ah, here you are, I've hunted everywhere. Mr. Russell," and she
turned to the dark man at her side, "this is Mr. Harrington--Miss
Hastings--Mr. Russell, from Tallahassee." Edith did not at first
think that Tallahassee was in Florida, not many miles from
Sunnybank, and she bowed to the gentleman as to any stranger,
while Grace, who had just arrived in another omnibus, explained to
her that Mr. Russell was a slight acquaintance of Arthur's; that
the latter being in town, and accidentally hearing that he was
coming North, had intrusted him with some business matters, which
would require his visiting Grassy Spring--had given him a letter
of introduction to herself, said letter containing a note for
Edith--that Mr. Russell had been to Shannondale, and ascertaining
their whereabouts, had followed them, reaching the Mountain House
in the morning stage.
"He can spend but one day here," she added, in conclusion, "and
wishing him to see as much as possible of our northern grandeur I
brought him at once to the Falls. Here is your note," and tossing
it into Edith's lap she moved away.
A note from Arthur! How Edith trembled as she held it in her hand,
and with a quick, furtive glance at sightless eyes beside her, she
raised the dainty missive to her lips, feeling a reproachful pang
as she reflected that she was breaking her vow to Richard. Why had
Arthur written to her--she asked herself this question many times,
while Richard, too, asked,
"What news from Florida?" ere she broke the seal and read, not
words of changeless and dark despair, but words of entreaty that
for the sake of Nina, sick, dying Nina, she would come at once to
Florida, for so the crazy girl had willed it, pleading with them
the live-long day to send for Miggie, precious Miggie, with the
bright, black eyes, which looked her into subjection, and the soft
hands which drove the ugly pain away.
"All the summer," Arthur wrote, "she has been failing. The heat
seems to oppress her, and several times I've been on the point of
returning with her to the North, thinking I made a mistake in
bringing her here, but she refuses to leave Sunnybank. Old sights
and familiar places have a soothing effect upon her, and she is
more as she used to be before the great calamity fell upon her.
Her disease is consumption, hereditary like her insanity, and as
her physical powers diminish her mental faculties seem to
increase. The past is not wholly a blank to her now; she remembers
distinctly much that has gone by, but of nothing does she talk so
constantly as of Miggie, asking every hour if I've sent for you--
how long before you'll come; and if you'll stay until she's dead.
I think your coming will prolong her life; and you will never
regret it, I am sure. Mr. Russell will be your escort, as he will
return in three weeks."
To this note two postscripts were appended--the first in a
girlish, uneven hand, was redolent of the boy Arthur's "Florida
rose."
"Miggie, precious Miggie--come to Sunnybank; come to Nina. She is
waiting for you. She wants you here--wants to lay her poor, empty
head, where the bad pain used to be, on your soft, nice bosom--to
shut her eyes and know it is your breath she feels--your sweet,
fragrant breath, and not Arthur's, brim full of cigar smoke. Do
come, Miggie, won't you? There's a heap of things I want to fix
before I die, and I am dying, Miggie. I see it in my hands, so
poor and thin, not one bit like they used to be, and I see it,
too, in Arthur's actions. Dear Arthur boy! He is so good to me--
carries me every morning to the window, and holds me in his lap
while I look out into the garden where we used to play, you and I.
I think it was you, but my brain gets so twisted, and I know the
real Miggie is out under the magnolias, for it says so on the
stone, but I can't help thinking you are she. Arthur has a new
name for me, a real nice name, too. He took it from a book, he
says--about just such a wee little girl as I am. 'Child-wife,'
that's what he calls me, and he strokes my hair so nice. I'm
loving Arthur a heap, Miggie. It seems just as if he was my
mother, and the name 'Child-wife' makes little bits of waves run
all over me. He's a good boy, and God will pay him by and by for
what he's been to me. Some folks here call me Mrs. St. Claire. Why
do they? Sometimes I remember something about somebody somewhere,
more than a hundred years ago, but just as I think I've got hold
of it right, it goes away. I lose it entirely, and my head is so
snarled up. Come and unsnarl it, wont you? Nina is sick, Nina is
dying, Nina is crazy. You must come."
The second postscript showed a bolder, firmer hand, and Edith
read,
"I, too, echo Nina's words, 'Come, Miggie, come.' Nina wants you,
and I--Heaven only knows how much I want you--but, Edith, were you
in verity Richard's wife, you could not be more sacred to me than
you are as his betrothed, and I promise solemnly that I will not
seek to influence your decision. The time is surely coming when I
shall be alone; no gentle Nina, sweet 'Child-wife' clinging to me.
She will be gone, and her Arthur boy, as she calls me, free to
love whomsoever he will. But this shall make no difference. I have
given you to Richard. I will not wrong the blind man. Heaven bless
you both and bring you to us."
The sun shone just as brightly in the summer sky--the Kauterskill
fell as softly into the deep ravine--the shouts of the tourists
were just us gay--the flecks of sunshine on the grass danced just
as merrily, but Edith did not heed them. Her thoughts were riveted
upon the lines she had read, and her heart throbbed with an
unutterable desire to respond at once to that pleading call--to
take to herself wings and fly away--away over mountain and valley,
river and rill, to the fair land of flowers where Nina was, and
where too was Arthur. As she read, she uttered no sound, but when
at last Richard said to her,
"What is it, Birdie? Have you heard bad news?" her tears flowed at
once, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, she answered,
"Nina is dying--dear little, bright-haired Nina. She has sent for
me. She wants me to come so much. May I, Richard? May I go to
Nina?"
"Read me the letter," was Richard's reply, his voice unusually low
and sad.
Edith could not read the whole. Arthur's postscript must be
omitted, as well as a portion of Nina's, but she did the best she
could, breaking down entirely when she reached the point where
Nina spoke of her Arthur boy's goodness in carrying her to the
window.
Richard, too, was much affected, and his voice trembled as he
said, "St. Claire is a noble fellow. I always felt strangely drawn
toward him. Isn't there something between him and Nina--something
more than mere guardianship?"
"They were engaged before she was crazy," returned Edith, while
Richard sighed, "poor boy, poor boy! It must be worse than death.
His darkness is greater than mine."
Then his thoughts came back to Edith's question, "May I go to
Nina?" and his first feeling was that she might, even though her
going would necessarily defer a day to which he was so continually
looking forward, but when he remembered the danger to which she
would be exposed from the intense heat at that season of the year,
he shrank from it at once, mildly but firmly refusing to let her
incur the fearful risk.
"Could I be assured that my bird would fly back to me again with
its plumage all unruffled I would let her go," he said, "but the
chances are against it. You would surely sicken and die, and I
cannot let you go."
Edith offered no remonstrance, but her face was very white and her
eyes strangely black as she said, "Let us go home, then; go to-
morrow. This is no place for me, with Nina dying."
Nothing could please Richard more than to be back at Collingwood,
and when Grace came to them he announced his intention of leaving
on the morrow. Grace was willing, and Victor, when told of the
decision, was wild with delight. Mr. Russell, too, decided to go
with them to Shannondale, and when, next morning, the party came
out to take the downward stage, they found him comfortably seated
on the top, whither he had but little trouble in coaxing Grace,
who expressed a wish to enjoy the mountain scenery as they
descended.
"Will Miss Hastings come up, too?" he asked, but Edith declined
and took her seat inside between Richard and Victor, the latter of
whom had heard nothing of the letter; neither did Edith tell him
until the next day when, arrived at Collingwood, they were alone
for a moment in the library--then she explained to him that Nina
was sick, possibly had sent for her.
"I thought things would work out after a time, though honestly I'd
rather that little girl shouldn't die if it could be brought round
any other way," was Victor's reply, which called a flush at once
to Edith's cheek.
"Victor Dupres," said she, "never hint such a thing again. It is
too late now; it cannot be--it shall not be; and if I go, Arthur
has promised not to say one word which can influence me."
"If you go," repeated Victor, "Then you have some intention of
going--I thought he had objected."
"So he has," returned Edith, the same look stealing into her eyes
which came there at the Falls. "So he has, but if Nina lives till
the middle of October I shall go. My mind is made up."
"Oh, consistency, thou art a jewel," muttered Victor, as hearing
some one coming, he walked away. "Means to jump down the lion's
throat, but does not expect to be swallowed! Splendid logic that!"
and Victor shrugged his shoulders at what seemed so contradictory
as Edith's talk and Edith's conduct.
As she had said, Edith meant to go, nay more, was determined to
go, and when, on the third day after their return, Mr. Russell
came for her final decision, she said to him, ere Richard had time
to speak,
"I shall not go now; it is too early for that, but if Nina
continues worse, I will come to her the latter part of October. I
am writing so to her to-day."
Richard was confounded, and could only stammer out,
"Who is to be your escort?"
"You, Richard;" and Edith clasped his arm, thus reassuring him at
once.
She had some thought, some consideration for him; she did not
intend to desert him wholly, and he playfully tapped her chin,
laughing to think how the little lady had boldly taken matters
into her own hands, telling what should be with as much sang froid
as if she were master instead of himself. And Richard rather liked
the independent spirit of Edith, particularly when he found that
he was not wholly left out of her calculations. And so he arranged
with Mr. Russell, that if Nina were not better as the autumn
advanced, Edith should perhaps go down to see her.
Arthur had made his marriage with Nina public as soon as he
returned to Sunnybank, but as Mr. Russell's home was in
Tallahassee, and he himself a quiet, taciturn man, he had not
heard of it, and in speaking of Nina to Edith, he called her Miss
Bernard, as usual, and thus Richard still remained in ignorance,
never suspecting that golden haired Nina was the same young girl
he had married years before.
Poor Richard, he was ignorant of many things and never dreamed how
light and gay was Edith's heart at the prospect of going to
Florida, even though she half expected that when she went it would
be as his wife. But Richard determined it otherwise. It cost him a
struggle so to do, but his iron will conquered every feeling, save
those of his better judgment, and calling Edith to him one day two
weeks after Mr. Russell's departure, he said,
"Birdie, I've come to the conclusion that a blind man like me will
only be in your way, in case you go to Florida. I am not an
interesting traveling companion. I require too much care, and I
dread the curious gaze of strangers. It makes me very
uncomfortable. So on the whole I'd rather stay at home and let
Victor go in my stead. What does Birdie say?"
"She says you are the noblest, most unselfish man that ever
lived," and Edith kissed his lips, chiding herself seriously for
the spirit which whispered to her that she too would rather go
without him. "I won't stay very long," she said. "Our wedding need
not be deferred more than two months; say, till the first of
January, at 7 o'clock, just as we before arranged it for October,
only a more quiet affair, I shall then be your New Year's gift.
Does that suit you, dearest?"
She did not often call him thus, and when she did she was sure of
accomplishing her purpose. The strong man melted beneath a few
words of love, becoming a very tool in the hands of a weak girl.
"Yes, darling," he replied, "that will do--but supposing we hear
that Nina is better, or dead--what then?"
The mere possibility was terrible to Edith, but she answered
calmly,
"Then we'll be married in October, just as first proposed;" and
thus was the die cast, and a fresh link added to the chain of
Edith's destiny. She was going to Florida; going to Arthur; and
going alone, so far as Richard was concerned.
Spying Victor coming up the walk from the post-office, she ran out
to meet him, telling him of the journey before him, and almost
crying for joy when he placed in her hand a worn envelope bearing
the post-mark of Tallahassee. It was from Arthur, and contained a
few lines only, telling of Nina's increasing illness, and her
restless, impatient desire for Miggie. In conclusion he wrote,
"We have had no fever this summer. You will be perfectly safe in
coming any time after the middle of October. I shall welcome Mr.
Harrington most cordially if he sees fit to accompany you."
Edith could read this to Richard, and she did, feeling a pang at
the perfect faith with which he answered,
"Were it not for the tedious journey I believe I would go with
you, but it's too much of an undertaking. I won't trammel you with
so great a burden. I'd rather stay at home and anticipate my
darling's return."
Then with the same forethought and careful consideration which
marked all his actions, Richard consulted with her as to the beat
time for her to start, fixing upon the 15th of October, and making
all his arrangements subservient to this. He did not tell her how
lonely he should be without her--how he should miss her merry
laugh, which, strange to say, grew merrier each day; but he let
her know in various ways how infinitely precious she was to him,
and more than once Edith felt constrained to give up the journey,
but the influences from Florida drew her strangely in that
direction, and revolving to pay Richard for his self-denial by an
increase of love when she should return, she busied herself with
her preparations until the 15th of October came, and her trunks
stood ready in the hall.
"If I could only read your letters myself, it would not seem one-
half so bad," Richard said, when at the last moment, he held
Edith's hand, "but there's a shadow over me this morning--a dark
presentiment that in suffering you to leave me I am losing you
forever."
Edith could not answer, she pitied him so much, and kissing his
lips, she put from her neck his clinging arms, wiped his tears
away, smoothed his ruffled hair, and then went out from his
presence, leaving him there in his sorrow and blindness alone.