THE SACRIFICE.
For a few days Edith hoped that the fire might defer her marriage
a little longer but almost the first thing which Richard addressed
directly to her was, "Let the preparations go on as usual; there
need be no delay."
So the dressmakers were recalled and bridal finery tossed about
until the whole was finished and the last sewing woman departed,
taking with her, as her predecessors had done, a large budget of
items touching the cool indifference of the bride elect and the
icy reserve of the bridegroom, who was greatly changed, they said.
It is true he was kind and considerate, as of old, and his voice,
whenever he spoke to Edith, was plaintively sad and touching, but
he preferred to be much alone, spending his time in his chamber,
into which few save his valet was admitted. And thus no one
suspected the mighty conflict he was waging with himself, one
moment crying out, "I cannot give her up," and again moaning
piteously, "I must, I must."
The first meeting between himself and Arthur after the fire had
been a most affecting one, Richard sobbing like a child, kissing
the hands wounded so cruelly for him, and whispering amid his
sobs, "You saved my life at the peril of your own, and I shall
never forget it. God help me to do right."
Many times after this he rode down to Brier Hill whither Edith had
frequently preceded him; but Richard never uttered a word of
reproach when near the window he heard a rustling sound and knew
who was sitting there. Neither would he ask a single question when
soft footsteps glided past him and out into the hall, but he
always heard them until they died away, and he knew those little
feet were treading the verge of the grave he had dug within his
heart. It was not yet filled up--that grave--but his mighty love
for Edith may coffined there, and he only waited for the needful
strength to bury it forever by verbally giving her up.
And while he waited the May-days glided by, and where the apple
blossoms once had been, the green hard fruit was swelling now, the
lilacs, purple and limp, had dropped from the tree, the hyacinths
and daffodils were gone, and June with her sunny skies and wealth
of roses, queened it over Collingwood. It lacked but a week now of
the day appointed for the wedding, and Edith wished the time would
hasten, for anything was preferable to the numb, apathetic feeling
which lay around her heart. She had no hope that she should not be
Richard's wife, and she wondered much at his manner, trying more
than once to coax him from his strange mood by playful words, and
even by caresses, which won from him no response--only once, when,
he hugged her tightly to him, kissing her lips and hair, and
saying to her, "God forgive me, Birdie, I never meant to wrong you
and I am going to make amends." The next day when Victor went up
to his room he was struck with the peculiar expression of his
face--a subdued, peaceful expression which told that he was ready
at last to make the great sacrifice--to fold the darkness more
thickly around himself and give to Arthur the glorious daylight he
once hoped would shine for him and Richard would make this
sacrifice in his own way. Edith should read Nina's letter aloud to
him, with Arthur sitting near, and then, when it was finished, he
would ask if it were true, und why she had not told him before.
Dinner was over, and in the library, where Richard had asked Edith
to be his wife, he sat waiting for her now, and for Arthur who had
been invited to Collingwood that afternoon. The day was much like
that other day when Victor alone sat with him, save that the south
wind stealing through the casement was warmer, more fragrant than
the breath of May had been. The robin was not now singing in the
maple tree, but it would come home ere long, and Richard knew full
well the chirping sounds which would welcome its approach. Once he
had likened himself to the mated robin, but now, alas, he knew he
was but the wounded bird, who finds its nest all desolate, its
hopes all fled--I'm a tough old owl," he said, smiling bitterly as
he remembered when first he used that term. Edith was right; she
could not mate with the owl, he thought, just as Arthur stepped
across the threshold, and Edith came flipping down the stairs.
"Sit on a stool at my feet, as you used to do," Richard said to
her; "and you, Arthur, sit by me upon this sofa."
They obeyed him, and after a moment he began, "I have sent for you
my children, not to inflict pain, but to remove it. Heaven forbid
that through me you should suffer longer, or that any act of mine
should embitter your young lives. Do not interrupt me," he
continued, as Edith was about to speak. "I must hasten on, or my
courage all will fail me. Arthur, give me your hands, the hands
that saved my life. I will touch them as carefully, as tenderly as
I am about to deal with you."
Arthur complied with his request, and pressing the right one,
Richard continued,
"I joined this once with another, a tiny, little hand, now laid
away beneath the Southern flowers; and you said after me, 'I,
Arthur, take thee, Nina, for my wife.' You remember it, don't
you?"
Arthur could not speak, and, save the violent start which Edith
gave, there came no answer to Richard's question as he went on:
"It is only a few weeks since I learned who was that boy husband
of eighteen and that girlish bride of fifteen and a half, but I
know it now. I know it all, and this explains much that has been
strange in me of late. Edith," and he felt for her bowed head,
"Edith, I have here Nina's letter, written by stealth, and brought
by Victor to me, and you must read it to us--then tell me, if you
can, why I have so long been deceived?"
Edith had glanced at the beginning, and with a choking voice she
said,
"No, no, oh, Richard, no. Don't require it of me. Anything but
that. I never knew she wrote it. I never meant--oh, Richard,
Richard!"
She laid her head now on his knee and sobbed aloud, while he
continued:
"You must read it to me, 'Tis the only punishment I shall inflict
upon you."
"Read it, Edith," Arthur said, withdrawing one of his hands from
Richard's, and resting it upon her head thus to re-assure her,
Richard guessed his intention and laid his own on Arthur's. Edith
felt the gentle, forgiving pressure, even through the wounded,
bandaged hand, and this it was which gave her strength to read
that message, which brought Nina before them all, a seemingly
living, breathing presence. And when it was finished there was
heard in that library more than one "great cry, like the breaking
up of the ice on the Northern ponds."
Richard was the calmest of the three. The contents of the letter
were not new to him, and did not touch so tender a chord as that
which thrilled and quivered in Arthur's heart as he listened to
the words of his sweet child-wife, the golden haired Nina. Though
dead she was all powerful yet, and Nina, from her grave, swayed a
mightier sceptre than Nina living could have done.
"Edith," Richard said, when her agitation had in a measure
subsided, "you have read the letter, now tell me, is it true?
Crazy people do not always see or hear aright. Did Nina? Has
Arthur loved you all the time?"
"Spare Edith," Arthur cried; "And question me. I did love Edith
Hastings, even when I had no right so to do."
"And would you ask her to be your wife if there were no Richard in
the way, and she was free as when you first knew and loved her?"
Arthur knew the blind man was not trifling with him, and he
answered promptly,
"I would, but she will bear me witness that never since Nina died,
have I sought, by word or deed, to influence her decision."
"I believe you," Richard said; "and now, let us compare our love
for her, one with the other. Let us see which is the stronger of
the two. Do you love Edith so much that you would give her to
another, if you knew she loved that other best? If she were
promised to you by a vow she dared not break, would you give her
to me, supposing I was preferred before you?"
Arthur was very white, as he answered,
"That would not be one-half so hard as the yielding her to one
whom she did not love, and, Richard, I have done this. I have
given her to you, even when I knew that a word from me would have
kept her from you."
"That is hardly an answer to my question," Richard rejoined, "but
it shows how honorable you have been. I question whether I could
have done as much. Your sense of right and wrong was stronger than
your love."
"But," said Arthur, quickly interrupting him, "you must not think
that I loved Edith less, because I did not speak. Silence only fed
the flame, and she cannot be so inexpressibly dear to you as she
is to me. Oh, Richard, Richard, you do not know how much I love
her."
"Don't I?" and Richard smiled mournfully; then turning to Edith,
he continued, And you, my darling, I would hear from you now. Is
it Richard or Arthur you prefer?"
"Oh, Richard," Edith cried, "I meant to keep my vow, and never let
you know. I was going to be a true, a faithful wife, even if it
killed me--I certainly was--but, forgive me, Richard, I did love
Arthur first, Arthur best, Arthur most of all," and again the
"great cry" smote on Richard's ear, touching a chord like that
which is touched in a mother's bosom when she hears her suffering
infant's wail.
"Edith," he said, "if I insist upon it, will you still be my
wife?"
"Yes, Richard, and it will not be so dreadful now that you know I
do love Arthur best, for I do, I do, I can't help it, and I have
tried so hard. He is young like me, and then I loved him first, I
loved him best."
And in this last the whole was embodied. Edith loved Arthur best.
Richard knew she did, and turning to Arthur, he continued,
"And what will you do if I insist? Will memories of the love you
bore your lost Nina sustain and comfort you?"
Richard spoke half-tauntingly, but Arthur conquered the emotion of
anger he felt arising within him at this allusion to the past, and
answered mildly,
"As I hope for Heaven, I did love my poor Nina at the last, with a
love which, had it been sooner born, would have made me a happier
man; and Nina knew it too, I told her so before she died, and I
would fain have kept her with me, but I could not, and now, if I
lose Edith, too, it will not be so hard, because I did love Nina,
and sweet memories of her will keep my soul from fainting, when I
am far away from her little grave, far away from you, and far away
from Edith."
Arthur arose to leave the room, but Richard held him back, saying
to him,
"You have answered well. Now listen to me. Edith Hastings cannot
be dearer to you than she is to me, but think you I will compel
her to be mine? Should I be happy, knowing that always in her
dreams another arm than mine encircled her dear form, that other
lips than mine were pressed to hers, which moaned in sleep not
Richard's, but Arthur's name? And this would surely be. The wife I
mockingly called mine would be yours in spirit; whether on land or
sea, and I ask for no such bride. Were I sure I could win her
love, even though it might not be in years, not all the powers of
earth should wrest her from me. But I cannot. Such is her
temperament that she would give me only hatred, and I do not
deserve this from her."
"Oh, I wouldn't, I wouldn't," Edith sobbed, and Richard continued,
"Hush, my child, I know how it would be, even if I did forget it
for a time. You must not be the blind man's wife, though the
giving you up is like tearing me asunder. And now, Edith, let me
hold you once more as I never shall hold you again. It will make
me strong to do what I must do."
Edith could not move, but Arthur lifted her up, and placing her in
Richard's lap, laid one of his own hands pityingly on the head of
the blind man, whose tears dropped on Edith's neck, as he breathed
over her his farewell.
"Light of my eyes, joy of my heart, you know not what it costs me
to give you up, but God in Heaven knows. He will remember all my
pain, removing it in His own good time, and I shall yet be happy.
It is true, a black, dreary waste stretches on into the future,
but beyond it, even in this world, the bright daylight is shining,
and Richard will reach it at last,--will learn to think of you
without a pang, to love you as his sister. Arthur, I give to you
my darling. I release her from her vow, and may the kind Father
bless you both, giving you every possible good. Let no sorrow for
me mingle with your joy. I shall have grief and heaviness for a
time, but I am strong to bear it. Morning will break at last. Let
the wedding night be kept the same as is appointed, there need be
no change, save in the bridegroom, and of that the world will all
approve. And, Edith, if during the coming week I am not much with
you, if I stay altogether in my room, do not try to see me. I once
thought you would be my wife. I know you cannot now, and you must
not come to me at present. But on your bridal night, I shall go
with you to the church. It would look strangely if I did not. I
shall return with you to the house, shall force myself to hear
them call you by another name than mine, and then, the next
morning Arthur must take you away--for a time, I mean. I know you
will wish to thank me, but I'd rather you would not. God will
reward me in some way for the sacrifice I make this day. Now,
Edith, kiss me once, kiss me twice, with your arms around my neck.
Lay your soft cheek against mine. Yes--so--so--" and over the dark
face there broke a shadowy smile, as Edith did his bidding,
kissing him many, many times, and blessing him for the great
happiness bestowed upon her.
"There, that will do. Now, Arthur, lead me to my room, and sit
with me until this horrid giddiness is gone, and my heart beats
more naturally."
He put Edith from his lap--passed his hand slowly over her face as
if thus he would remember it, and then, leaning heavily on
Arthur's arm, tottered from the room--the noble Richard who had
made this mighty sacrifice.