THE LETTER WRITTEN.
Old Mrs. Anderson was feeling her infirmities more than usual in those
days, and kept her bed most of the time. She understood, in a vague way,
that some gentleman who knew Edward Lane called at the house very
frequently, and read such books as Clara pined for, but had no time to
peruse, while she worked; but this gave the old lady no real uneasiness.
In her young days visits not made after dark, or on Sunday evenings,
were never suspected of carrying an idea of love-making with them.
Certainly the thought never entered that old Connecticut woman’s mind.
She was rather pleased with the improved cheerfulness of her
granddaughter, and imputed it entirely to the hours of reading, which
were indeed the only time in which the girl could be said to live; all
the rest was given up to such dreams as turn earth into heaven.
Waldon never would have entered that old brown house but for the glimpse
he had attained of Clara that day as she rode by the Stone Tavern. He
had accepted the mission from young Lane, because it gave him an
opportunity of seeing her more nearly.
Then his selfish impetuosity came out in full force. With one sweep of
his will, he sought to take the life of this bright, beautiful being
into his own—to possess the soul so capable of appreciating the drift of
his mind and the greatness of his ambition.
What he was to render for these possessions—how long he was to keep
them—were questions that never disturbed him in the first glow of a
kindling passion. This girl was more than beautiful. In her nature lay
capacities for worship that he craved. A worse man would have been far
less dangerous. There is no guarding against a being who asks only for
the worship you long to give and the thoughts you pine to share. It is
your whole life that he seizes upon and sacrifices without remorse,
because no legal or social wrong can fasten upon the theft of a soul. He
had no wicked purpose in his mind, no definite thought of the future.
The excitement of a grand passion, while it lasted, was enough for him.
In truth, this man fancied that he was acting a friendly part by the
young student who trusted him, but to whom success in love would prove
ruinous to his after fortunes.
Thus, days that were lighted by a glow of paradise stole on. To that
poor girl the hours of her toil seemed like the blooming of flowers. The
joy of expectation possessed her before Waldon appeared; a sweet flutter
of contentment settled down upon her when he came. At night she thought
only of the morning, and haunting desires of expectation ran through all
her dreams like silver threads in a woof of silk.
In short, Clara Anderson loved this man ardently, unreasoningly,
fatally, perhaps.
Directly after Mrs. Forbes’ visit, a letter had been sent to Edward Lane
from the old brown house, bearing Clara Anderson’s signature. No one had
asked her to write it, or suggested the sending; yet Clara was conscious
that Waldon desired the thing she was doing, and sought to end this
semblance of an old love in a concise cold dismissal even of the
friendship she had awarded him.
Edward Lane received this letter, and knowing of his married sister’s
visit to her father’s house, believed that it was the result of some new
indignity offered to the proud girl.
The letter made him desperate. A longing seized him to return home. He
felt bitter and unforgiving toward his father; he was still furious with
his sisters, but Clara he must and would see once more.
The unhappy young man could not believe in the truth or the reality of
that letter; he must see her, must hear her own lips pronounce the words
which would shut out all hope and leave him wrecked in the very outset
of existence. She should decide his doom with her own lips, before he
could believe it sealed.
With his usual impetuosity, he yielded at once to this desire. The very
next morning found him on his way home, ready to meet his father’s
reproof with dogged indifference, his sister’s tears and reproaches with
harsh words, and to defy them all if Clara could be induced to relent.
Persistent opposition had kindled this young man’s passion into
obstinacy and mingled with it feelings of obstinacy, which would never
have been brought out in force had the liking, which was, at first, but
a fancy, been left to the natural course of events.
As it was, Lane had injured his reputation and destroyed his own
self-respect to an extent that years might not atone for. The
injudicious action of his family had cast him adrift, suffering from a
sense of injury, impetuous in feeling, thwarted in his dearest hopes,
and made to feel an alien in his own household.