THE MAN OF DESTINY.
The few pleasant days that Clara Anderson had spent with her
school-mates would have brightened her isolated life a little, but for
the reflection that such days would seldom, if ever, come again. It
could not be long before Mary Noel would be going to her home in
Virginia—probably never to return into that neighborhood, and Bertha
Canfield seldom remained at her grandfather’s after the autumn set in.
The next day after her return from the vicinity of the old mill, the
restless girl sat alone by one of the front windows of her home sewing
industriously, but with a feeling of revolt against the toil which
seemed all the more monotonous after that one dash of pleasure.
It was a bright morning, still fresh from the cool washing of the storm;
birds were singing in the great sycamore, and the scent of old-fashioned
roses stole in upon her through the open window. But of all this Clara
seemed unconscious—her thoughts were far away from these bright objects,
and from the interminable seam that grew so rapidly under her slender
fingers. She sewed mechanically, probably almost unconscious of her
task, and the thoughts in her mind were so absorbing that the cheerful
notes of the robins were completely drowned.
She looked both proud and passionate as she sat there, working with
swift unconsciousness, as if she were at war with her destiny, and would
struggle furiously rather than settle into the monotonous quiet which it
offered.
Poor girl, she was fighting against fate, but possessed neither the
nerve nor the steady will necessary for the strife!
Up to this time her history had been nothing very remarkable, but hard
to bear. While her education in the school—from which Mary Noel and
Bertha had just graduated—was incomplete, she had been summoned home to
her father’s funeral, to find that all the property left for the support
of herself and his aged mother was that old gray house and seven acres
of land, on which a single cow and his riding-horse had been left.
Beyond these things, which, excepting the horse, belonged to the
grandmother, Clara had no means of support beyond her own frail, untried
hands. It was a dreary outlook, from which the poor girl shrunk at first
with trembling, but she was brave at heart and sensitively
conscientious. The fretful old woman in that house was left her as a
sacred legacy by the father who was dead. She accepted it, and with it
the duties of a servant and the toil of a seamstress, that no care or
comfort might be wanting to her father’s mother.
Those who know the world will understand that difficulties harder than
toil and more bitter than the servitude of affection stood in this poor
girl’s path. The very beauty and grace which made her lovely as a woman
stood in her way. The daughters of such country magnates as formed the
village aristocracy are seldom disposed to forgive any superiority in
one they deem an inferior. Among the persons of this class that found
deep cause of offence against the proud, helpless girl were the
daughters of Judge Lane, a pompous, purse-proud man, of great wealth
compared to that of his neighbors, and uplifted beyond endurance by his
seat on the bench.
This man had two daughters, arrogant as himself, and a son, who had
spent his vacation at home the summer Clara came from school; and, in
spite of his sisters, had fallen desperately in love with the
unfortunate girl.
This young man, impetuous and warm-hearted, broke into open rebellion
when this grand passion became the subject of criticism and sneers in
his family. His father, who had fostered all his faults by alternate
indulgence and ill-timed severity, was exasperated beyond reason; while
the sister, yet unmarried, spared neither falsehood nor invective in her
condemnation of the poor sewing girl as a flirt and an adventuress.
This cruel injustice did not fail to reach its object, and with haughty
indignation Clara Anderson had forbidden the young man to enter her
presence again.
Since then a long dreary winter had passed. Most of the time old Mrs.
Anderson had been confined to her bed, and the poor girl was often
compelled to watch all night, and pass the next day in unremitting toil.
Work was not so plenty as she could have wished; the amount gained was
barely sufficient for comfort, in addition, she was forced to endure all
manner of slights and covert insults from the people she had so
innocently offended. During the winter she had sometimes heard news of
the young man, but the tidings only gave her pain; they told of his
recklessness, his bad habits, and when, in spite of her prohibition, he
wrote to her, his letters nearly drove her mad with their entreaties and
bitter reproach.
Clara was thinking of these painful themes as she sat at work that day;
but she was not permitted to depress herself with them long.
All at once the girl, Lydia, came in from the garden with a bunch of
radishes, on which the moist earth was clinging, in her hand.
“Miss Clara, just run to the glass and see if all’s right. There’s such
a gentleman hitching his horse at the gate. Grand-looking like that.”
Here Lydia drew up her angular little figure, and shot deceptive cross
glances through the window, and at the startled girl.
“A stranger, Lydia?”
“Yes; proud as a Christmas turkey. There, he is knocking at the door.”
Away flew the girl into the front entry, and directly Waldon followed
her into the room.
Clara arose, thrust her work out of sight, and received him with deep
blushes.
Lydia’s description had done no more than justice to this man. He was
indeed a person of noble presence, the very embodiment of mental and
physical power.
Clara, usually self-reliant, received him with embarrassment. He was
altogether a stranger, but the sensation he inspired came from something
deeper than that.
“Will you be seated?” she said at last, returning his salutation.
He complied with her invitation, watching her carefully all the time.
“You will not, I trust, think me intrusive, Miss Anderson, when I tell
you that nothing but the truest friendship for a person who fears to
lose your good opinion has induced me to come.”
The blood rushed into Clara’s face. She glanced quickly up, but no word
escaped her lips.
“This friend is in great trouble,” said Waldon.
“Trouble! What trouble?” questioned the girl, shrinking under the gaze
of those keen gray eyes.
“He has been wild. All young men are apt to be so sooner or later; but
some have the power of redemption.”
Clara did not speak. She understood his meaning, but could not force
herself to confess it.
The man was regarding her keenly. Her evident agitation disturbed him.
“I am afraid this young man has little power in himself. It rests with
you, Miss Anderson, to bring him right.”
“With me!” exclaimed the girl, flushing redly. “I have no such power.
Mr. Lane, I suppose it is Mr. Lane you speak of, possesses all the
strength, all the manhood necessary to his own redemption, if he has
indeed done wrong. Where is he now?”
“Gone to New York; he would not come home. One cannot blame him for not
wanting to show himself until the first stains of his disgrace have died
out.”
“Disgrace!” exclaimed Clara, passionately. “Is mere boyish folly to be
exaggerated into a crime?”
“I was wrong, perhaps, to give his fault the name it is sure to receive
from others,” said Waldon, deferentially.
“What has Mr. Lane done that even his friends censure him?” inquired
Clara.
“It would be easier to say what he has not done,” answered Waldon. “The
last offence was insulting a tuitor, when—”
“Go on; why do you stop?”
“I would rather not be the one to tell you.”
She made an impatient gesture and repeated his last word—
“When?”
“He had been drinking too much, and was not quite accountable for
everything he did.”
Clara breathed hard.
“And they have suspended him?”
“Yes; he was lucky that it was not expulsion. His father is furious; I
have just seen him in behalf of the young man. It is very fortunate that
Edward was not here during the first storm of anger, it would have
separated them forever.”
“His father is more to blame than he,” cried Clara, giving utterance to
her thoughts without reflection.
“The Judge blames you, Miss Anderson, I am sure, without reason,”
replied Waldon, feeling a sort of enjoyment in her pain.
“I know of no right that he has to take my name upon his lips,”
exclaimed Clara, indignantly.
“He thinks that, except for his unfortunate attachment, the young
gentleman would never have been led into these bad habits.”
“Oh,” she cried, vehemently, “had my father lived, Judge Lane would
never have dared to speak of me thus!”
“You will find the son greatly changed,” he continued, making no answer
to her passionate outburst.
“How do you mean?” she asked.
“I hardly know how to answer; I am afraid you will think me
impertinent.”
“I am accustomed to that,” she said, bitterly.
“Not from any one that I shall ever meet, let me hope,” answered Waldon,
with kindling eyes. “Not from Edward Lane!”
“No—no. How could you think it possible?”
“All things are possible to a man who can forget himself,” was the
answer, given with seeming hesitation. “But I do not imagine anything so
base of Lane. He has made me his confidant from the beginning. Even now
I come at his request.”
“His confidant!” repeated Clara, biting her lips.
“Are you offended, Miss Anderson?”
“Offended? No. Mr. Lane has a right to select his own friends.”
“He will never, I trust, find me unworthy of his confidence whatever his
own deserts may be.”
“He asked you to come. He is at variance with his father, away from all
his friends. Oh, sir, I hope that you can reconcile them. He should
return home before it is too late.”
“You wish this?”
“Ah, so much,” exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands.
A cloud came over Waldon’s face, darkening its splendid expression.
“If my errand had been as easily accomplished at the great house as it
is here, Lane might congratulate himself, I see.”
“You are unjust, sir. You do not understand my interest in this matter.”
“I think it is you who misunderstand yourself, young lady,” said Waldon.
Clara pressed her hands hard together till a burning red was left in the
delicate surface, but her haughty spirit kept back the hot tears which
struggled to her eyes.
Waldon saw this and relented.
“I am sorry to have offended or given you pain,” he said.
“Oh, what matters a little more or less?” answered the girl,
passionately; “but you were telling me about this young man. In what
state did you leave him?”
“He was very bitter—bitter and reckless.”
“Toward whom?”
“Every one; his father and—”
“Myself; do not hesitate.”
“_You_, most of all.”
“And why—what have I done that he should blame me in his misfortune?”
“Nevertheless, he does blame you very much. He says you drove him into
dissipation by your coldness and your pride—that you, as well as his
father, must take the consequences.”
Those harsh words restored Clara’s strength; she unclasped her hands,
drew her form proudly up, saying:
“So be it then. What are the consequences to me?”
Waldon was silent for several moments, then he said:
“Shall you write to him?”
Clara looked for an instant as if she could have annihilated him for the
insolence of this question, but, restraining herself, answered:
“No; I have never written to Mr. Lane. It would do no good now.”
Waldon left his seat, and walked up and down the room, looking at the
troubled and most beautiful face of the girl now and then with admiring
glances.
“I have been so unfortunate as to offend you,” he said, drawing close to
her, and speaking with tender humility.
“No; I am over sensitive on this subject. It has troubled me so much.”
“You feel deeply for this young man? His disgrace wounds you?”
“Yes, I do feel for him.”
“Does that feeling amount to love?”
Waldon bent over the girl as he spoke—his fine eyes dwelt upon her face
with an expression that sent a thrill through her frame. His voice,
sweet and earnest, had no tone of audacity in it. His very soul seemed
to await her answer.
Clara lifted her eyes, but instantly the white lids fell again. This man
had asked an unwarrantable question, but she did not feel it as such.
Why did he ask it? Why did he wish to know?
“You cannot answer me.”
There was intense disappointment in the man’s voice when he said this.
Clara looked up fearlessly now, and met his glance with a smile.
“Yes, I can answer; though you have no right to ask.”
Waldon drew a deep breath. Her smile reassured him.
“He was kind to me, very; his society was pleasant, and I liked him; but
love, oh no, that is a thing apart!”
“You are heart-free then. The disgrace of this young man will not reach
you. I knew it. I felt it.”
The warmth of Waldon’s manner, the sweet force of his words, brought the
rich, warm blood into Clara’s face. There was an imperceptible homage in
all this that touched the latent vanity, which was thrown out, like
foam, from the deep waters of her pride. Such homage was rare to her
now, and she felt it all the more keenly.
“My errand is but half done,” said Waldon. “I was commissioned by this
unhappy young man to entreat your forgiveness—to plead with you for the
future; but now, that I have seen you, the task is too much.”
“Tell Mr. Lane that I have nothing to forgive—that his errors have
injured no one so much as himself. That even greater faults will never
induce me to forget his kindness, or regard him as less than a friend.”
“And this is all?”
“This is all. Only, if you are his friend, entreat him—beseech him—force
him into a more noble course of life.”
“That he may become more worthy of you?”
“That he may become more worthy of himself, and I of the honest
friendship I bear him.”
“You are asking me to undertake a hopeless task, Miss Anderson; but I
will not neglect anything that promises to carry out your wishes. From
what I have seen of the old potentate up yonder, Lane will have little
help in that direction. The Judge does not even wish him to come home.”
“Still, you will do your best, Mr.——? I beg pardon, but your
announcement was so singular that I did not hear the name.”
Waldon took a card from his pocket, and gave it to her.
Clara glanced at it, and lifted her face with a look of surprise to his.
“Waldon, Waldon, surely I have seen that name!”
“I fancy you will find it yonder,” answered the man, pointing to a
volume, in red and gold, that lay on the old-fashioned candle-stand in a
corner of the room.
Clara started from her chair, took up the volume and cast a swift glance
over the title-page. Then, turning to her visitor all smiles and
animation, she reached forth her hand.
“Ah, how well I know you—how happy, how proud I shall be that I have
been introduced to you under my grandmother’s roof. Now I can understand
the generous friendship of this visit.”
“Can you go a step further, and invite me to repeat it? I am staying
some few miles from here, and in my rides have no object better than
exercise. If I should drop into this village again, will you turn me out
of doors?”
“Turn you out of doors?” answered Clara, with graceful enthusiasm. “Do
we turn singing birds from our trees, or roses from our windows?”
Waldon took her hand, bent over it with the subtle reverence he might
have bestowed on a princess, and took his leave.
At another time the news she had heard regarding young Lane would have
filled Clara’s heart with sorrow. Now she scarcely thought of him, but
sat down, folded both hands in her lap, and unconsciously allowed a
succession of delicious sighs to flutter through her parted lips.
“How strange—how wonderfully strange that he, of all men living, should
have sought me in this house. He whose ideas have haunted me at my work
with such startling power. Oh, this is happiness!”