RICHARD’S STORY.
“He was very white, and his voice trembled, while his eyes had in them
the far-off look I had once or twice observed before.
“‘There are some things in our family history,’ he began, ‘which I shall
omit, as they have nothing in particular to do with Anna and myself. For
instance, you know, perhaps, that we once lived at West Lawn in
different circumstances from what mother is living in now, and that we
suddenly sold the place, purchasing a smaller one, and living in a
cheaper, plainer way. Why we did this I need not say, except that Anna
was in no way connected with it.
“‘She was my adopted sister; and she came to us when only six years old.
I was twelve, as was my twin-brother Robert. He went from us years ago,
and has never been heard from since. We fear he is dead, and the
uncertainty is killing my mother. I shall soon be all alone. But I was
telling you of Anna, who grew so fast into our hearts, my brother and I
quarrelling for the honor of drawing her to school. This was in her
childhood, but as she grew older Robert professed to care less for her
than I. “She was a doll-baby,” he said; “a compound of red and white,
and yellow curls.” He would not even acknowledge that she was beautiful,
but said she could not compare with the maidens of New York, where he
went to live when Anna was fourteen and we were twenty. His coldness
troubled me at first, but when I came to think of her as something
dearer than a sister, I was glad that he so seldom came to Morrisville,
for he was far finer-looking than I am. Put us side by side, and
nineteen out of twenty would have given him the preference. But he did
not care for Anna, and when she was sixteen I asked her to be my wife.
It was here, too, Dora, on this very bench, where you are sitting with
me, and it was eleven years ago this very day.
“‘Something most always happens to me on this day—something which leaves
its impress on my mind. One year ago we went to that picnic by the lake.
Do you remember it, Dora?’
“‘Yes,” I gasped, while my cheeks burned painfully. ‘Yes, but go on with
Anna.’
“He was silent a moment, and then continued:
“‘We were in the habit of coming here to sit, she little dreaming how
near we were to the spot of earth where she would ere long be lying. I
have told you that I asked her to be my wife, but I have not told you
how much I loved her, for I did—oh, so much, so much! And she was worthy
of my love. Whatever happened afterward she was worthy then. You have
seen her picture. It hardly does her justice, for no artist can ever
give a correct idea of what that face was when lighted up with life, and
health, and love. I have never seen a face one half as beautiful as
Anna’s. She knew that she was beautiful, but it did not make her vain,
for she knew that God had given her the dangerous gift of beauty, and
she tried to keep His gift unsullied, just as she tried to keep her
heart pure in His sight. I cannot think of a single fault she had unless
it were that she sometimes lacked decision, and was too easily swayed by
those in whom she had confidence. But in all essential points she was
right, serving God with her whole soul, and dedicating herself early to
His service.’
“‘Then why,’ I exclaimed, ‘when Robin asked if she was in heaven sure,
why did you hesitate to tell him yes?’
“A look of pain contracted his features as he replied:
“‘I am speaking of Anna as she was when I asked her to be my wife. We
read of angels falling,—then why not a mortal man? though Heaven knows
that I cannot fully believe that Anna fell. I could not live if I
believed it. Mother’s religious creed and mine differ in one point,
although we profess the same holy faith. To me a child of God is a child
forever, just as no act of mine can make me cease to be my mother’s son.
But to go on. I loved her with my whole soul, and I told her so, while
for a moment she made no reply, except to lay her head upon my arm and
weep. Then lifting up her eyes she said she was too young to know her
own mind yet; that she loved me, and always had,—like a brother at
first, but latterly in a different way, and if I would not require her
to be my wife at once, and would promise to release her should she ever
come to think that she could not be mine, she would answer yes. And so
we were engaged.
“‘After that I seemed to tread on air, so happy and so full of
anticipation was my whole being. I had been graduated the previous year,
and I was then a student in Dr. Lincoln’s office, but I boarded at home,
and saw Anna every day, counting the hours from the time I left her in
the morning until I returned late in the afternoon to our fashionable
dinner, for we observed such matters then. I shut my eyes at times, and
those days come back again, bringing with them Anna as she used to look
when she came out to meet me, her curls falling about her childish face,
and her white robes giving her the look of an angel. I loved her too
much. I almost placed her before Him who has declared He will have no
idols there, and so I was terribly punished. We were to be married on
her twentieth birthday, and until about a year previous to that time I
had not the shadow of a suspicion that Anna’s love was not wholly my
own. I well remember the time, a dreary, rainy autumn day, when she came
into my room, and leaning one hand on my shoulder, parted my hair with
the other, as she was wont to do.
“‘“Richard,” she began, “isn’t it just as wicked to act a lie as it is
to tell one?”
“‘“I supposed it was,” I said, and she continued:
“‘“Then you won’t be angry when I tell you what I must. I was very young
when I promised to be your wife, and I am afraid I did not quite know
what I was doing. I love you dearly, Richard, but you seem more like my
brother; and, Richard, don’t turn so white and tremble so,—I shall marry
you if you wish it; but please don’t, oh! don’t—”
“‘She was weeping bitterly now,—was on her knees before me, my Anna, my
promised wife. I had thought her low-spirited for some days, but had no
thought of this, and the shock was a terrible one. I could not, however,
see her so disturbed, when I had the power to relieve her, and after
talking with her calmly, dispassionately, I released her from the
engagement and she was free. I did not even hint at the possibility of
her learning to love me in time, because I fancied she would be more apt
to do so if wholly untrammelled; but that hope alone kept my heart from
breaking during the wretched weeks which followed, and in which Anna’s
health seemed failing, and her low spirits to increase. A change of air
was proposed, and she was sent to Boston, where my mother has relatives.
It was on the eve of the new year when she came back to us, with a
white, scared look upon her face, which became at last habitual, making
it painful to look at her, she appeared so nervous and frightened. It
was as if some great terror were continually haunting her, or some
mighty secret, which it was death to divulge and worse than death to
cover up. I supposed it to be a fear of what I might require of her, and
so I said to her one day that if the thing preying upon her mind was a
dread lest I should seek to make her my wife, she might put that aside,
as I should not annoy her in that way.
“‘Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her eyes,—a look so
full of anguish and remorse, that I turned away, for I could not meet
it.
“‘“O, Richard,” she moaned, drawing back so I could not touch her, “you
don’t know how wretched I am. It almost seems as if God had forgotten
that I did try to serve Him, Richard. What is the unpardonable sin? Is
it to _deceive_?”
“‘I thought she referred to her relations with me, and I tried to soothe
her agitation, telling her she had not deceived me; that she had told me
frankly how she felt; that she was wholly truthful and blameless.
“‘With a cry which smote cruelly on my ear, she exclaimed:
“‘“No, no, you kill me! Don’t talk so! I am not blameless; but, oh! I
don’t know what to do! Tell me, Richard, tell me, which is worse, to
deceive, or break a solemn vow?”
“‘I had no idea what she meant, and without directly answering her
questions I tried to quiet her, but it was a useless task. She only
wrung her hands and sobbed more passionately, saying God had cast her
off, and she was lost forever. This seemed to be the burden of her grief
for many days, and then she settled down into a stony calm, more
terrible than her stormy mood had been, because it was more hopeless.
She did not talk to us now except to answer questions in monosyllables,
and would sit all day by the window of her chamber, looking afar off as
if in quest of some one who never came.
“We thought when she came home that we had as much as we could bear, for
a domestic calamity had overtaken us, involving both ruin and disgrace,
unless it were promptly met; but in our concern for Anna, we forgot the
other trouble, else we had fainted beneath the rod. At last the asylum
was recommended, and the first of March we carried her there, taking
every precaution that her treatment should be the kindest and most
considerate.”
“‘How long ago was that?’ I asked, starting suddenly, as a memory of the
past swept over me.
“‘Seven years,’ he replied, and I continued:
“‘Was it in Utica? If so, I must have seen her, for seven years this
summer Mrs. Randall and I visited a schoolmate in Utica, and one day we
went from curiosity to the lunatic asylum, but I did not see a face like
Anna’s in the portrait. Oh yes,’ and I started again, ‘I remember now a
young girl with the most beautiful golden hair, but her face was resting
on the window-sill, and she would neither look up nor answer my
questions,—that was Anna,’ and in my excitement I could scarcely control
myself to listen, while Richard continued:
“‘It is possible, and seems like her, as she would not answer any one.
“‘Every two weeks mother and I visited her, but after the first time she
never spoke to us; but tried to hide away where we could not see her.
She gave them no trouble whatever, as she seldom left her chair by the
window, where she sat the live-long day, looking westward, just as she
did at home. She had written one letter, they said, and when we asked to
whom, the matron could only remember that she believed it was to
California, adding that the attendant who then took the letters to the
office had sickened since and died. It was to some imaginary person, no
doubt, she said, and so that subject was dismissed by my mother, but I
could not so soon forget it, and when next I visited her, I said
abruptly:
“‘“Anna, what correspondent have you in California?”
“‘Instantly her face was pallid with fear, and she fell at my feet
senseless. This was a mystery upon which I dwelt day and night, finding
no solution whatever to it, and forgetting it at last as the terrible
tragedy drew to a close.
“‘Late in July mother went again to visit Anna, and when she returned
her hair was almost as white as you now see it, while her whole
appearance was indicative of some great, crushing sorrow which had
fallen suddenly upon her. Anna had asked to be taken home, she said,—had
fallen on her knees, and clasping her dress had kissed it abjectly,
crying piteously, “Home, mother; take poor Anna home; let her die
there.”
“‘It was the first time she had spoken to us in months, and we could not
refuse. So she came,—the seventh day of August,—travelling by railroad
to the station, and coming the remainder of the way in our carriage. Her
last fancy was that she could not walk, and I met her at our gate,
carrying her into the house—and upstairs to her old room, which had been
made ready for her. As I laid her upon the bed, she clasped her arms
tightly round my neck, and whispered, “God has forgiven me, Richard,
will you?”
“‘I kissed her, and then went down to mother, who needed my services
more than Anna, and who lay all that evening on the lounge as white and
rigid as stone. The next day I saw a good deal of Anna, and hope
whispered that she was getting better. The scared, wild look was gone,
and a bright, beautiful color burned upon her cheeks. Her hair, which
had been cut, was growing out again more luxuriant than ever, and curled
in short ringlets about her head. She talked a little, too, asking if we
had ever heard from Robert, and bidding me tell him, when he came back,
that she spoke kindly of him before she died. This was the eighth. The
next day was her birthday, the one fixed upon for our bridal. I do not
know if she remembered it, but I thought of nothing else as the warm,
still hours glided by, and to myself I said it may be some other day.
Anna is better. Anna will get well. Alas! I little dreamed of the
scathing blow in store for me; the frightful storm which was to rage so
fiercely round me, and whose approach was heralded by the arrival of Dr.
Lincoln, who had been there before, holding private consultations with
my mother, and looking, when he came from them, stern, perplexed,
mysterious, and sorry.
“‘Dora, you know what all this portended, but you do not know, neither
can you begin to guess, how heavy,—how full of agony was the blow which
awaited me, when just at nightfall I came up from the office where I had
been for several hours. “Anna was dying.” This was the message which
greeted me in the hall, and like lightning I fled up the stairs, meeting
on the upper landing with my mother, who had grown old twenty years
since morning.
“‘“Richard, my boy, my poor boy, can you bear it? have they told you? do
you know?”
“‘“Yes,” I said, “Anna is dying. I must see her; let me go,” and I tore
away from the hands which would have held me back until I was to some
extent prepared.
“‘I did not heed her voice, for through the half-closed door I caught a
glimpse of Anna. She saw me, too, and her hand was beckoning. I was
half-way across the room, when a sound met my ear which took all
consciousness away, and for the next three hours I was insensible to
pain. Then came the horrid waking, but the blow had stunned me so, I
neither felt nor realized as I did afterwards. I went straight to Anna,
for she was asking for me, she from whom the rest stood aloof as from a
polluted thing. Through all the horror she had never spoken a word, or
made the slightest sound, and this suppression of feeling was hastening
her end. Nothing but the words, “Tell Richard to come,” had passed her
lips since, and when I went to her she could only whisper faintly,
“Forgive me, Richard. It’s all right, but I promised not to tell. It’s
right, it’s right.” Then she continued, entreatingly, “Let me lay my
head on your arm as it used to lie, and kiss me once in token of
forgiveness.”
“‘Dora, you are a woman, and women judge their sex more harshly than we
do, but you would not have had me refuse that dying request?’
“‘I should hate you if you had,’ I sobbed, while he continued:
“‘Mother made a motion of dissent. She was casting a stone, but I did
not heed her. I lifted Anna up; I held her on my bosom; I pushed away
the clustering curls; I kissed the quivering lips sueing for forgiveness
and assuring me all was right. I forgave her then and there as I hoped
to be forgiven; I said I would care for her baby; I received her last
injunction; I kept her in my arms until the last fleeting breath went
out, and when I laid her back upon the pillow she was dead!
“‘Death wipes out many a stain, and Anna, by her dying, threw over the
past a veil of charity, which only a few of the coarser, unfeeling ones
ever tried to rend. There was gossip and talk, and wonder, and pity, and
surmise, and something suspicious thrown upon me, the more readily as
people generally did not know that our engagement had been broken; but I
outlived it all, and when, three months after Anna died, I rose from a
sick-bed, and went forth among people again, they gave me only sympathy
and friendly words, never mentioning either Anna or Robin in my
presence.
“‘During that sickness, my opinion with regard to the practice of
medicine underwent a change, and greatly to the horror of good old Dr.
Lincoln, with whom I studied, I became a homœopathist. This furnished me
with an excuse for leaving Morrisville, as I wished to investigate that
mode of treatment, and gain every possible information from physicians
whom I knew to be intelligent and thorough. I went first to New York,
and after a few months commenced my new practice in Boston; thence, as
you know, I went to Beechwood. Once I hoped mother might be persuaded to
go with me, but she said:
“‘“I would rather stay here, where people know all about it. I could not
bear to be questioned concerning Robin.”
“‘Women are different from men; it takes them longer to rise above
anything like disgrace, and mother has never been what she was before
Anna’s death. She came in time to love Robin dearly, but his misfortune
added to her grief, until her cup seemed more than full. Her health is
failing rapidly, and a change of place is necessary. For a long time
past I have had it in my mind to sell the cottage and take mother to
Beechwood. A friend of mine stands ready to purchase at any time. I saw
him two hours since, and to-morrow the papers will be drawn which will
deprive us of our home.’
“‘And your mother!’ I exclaimed, ‘will she go to Beechwood?’
“‘Not at present. Not until she is better, Dora. I am going with mother
to California as soon as I can arrange my affairs at home. I may not
return for a long time, certainly not for a year.’
“There was a tremulousness in the tone of his voice as he told me this,
while to me the world seemed changed, and I felt how desolate his going
would leave me. Still I made no comment, and after a moment he
continued:
“‘And now, Dora, comes the part which to me is most important of all.
Men do not often lay bare their secrets except to one they love! It has
cost me a great effort to go over the past, and talk to you of Anna, but
I felt that I must do it. I must tell you that the heart I would offer
you has on its surface a scar, but, Dora, only a scar; believe me, only
a scar. It does not quicken now one pulse the faster when I remember
Anna, who was to have been my wife. I loved her. I lost her; and were
she back just as she used to be, and I knew you as I know you now, I
should give you the preference. You are not as beautiful as Anna, but
you are better suited to my taste,—you better meet the requirements of
my maturer manhood. I cannot tell when my love for you began. I was
interested in you from the first. I have watched and pitied you these
four years, wishing often that I could lighten the load you bore so
uncomplainingly, and when you came away this time, life was so dreary
and monotonous that I said to myself, “Whether Dora hears of Anna or
not, I’ll tell her when she returns, and ask her to be my wife.” At
first I was a very coward in the matter, and cautioned mother against
revealing anything, but afterward thought differently. If you are to be
mine, there should be no concealments of that nature, and so I have told
you all, giving you leave to repeat it if you please. There is one
person whom I would particularly like to know it, and that is Jessie
Verner.’
“The mention of that name was unfortunate, for it roused the demon of
jealousy, and when he continued:
“‘Dora, will you be my wife? Will you give me a right to think of and
love you during the time I am absent?’
“I answered pettishly:
“‘If I say no, would you not be easily consoled with Jessie? You seem to
admire her very much.’
“While he was talking to me he had risen, and now he was leaning against
the iron fence, where he could look me directly in the face, and where
I, too, could see him. As I spoke of Jessie, an amused expression
flitted over his features, succeeded by one more serious as he replied:
“‘I never supposed Jessie could be won even if I wished to win her, but
now that I am at the confessional, I will say that next to yourself
Jessie Verner attracts and pleases me more than any one with whom I have
met since Anna died. There is about her a life and sparkle which would
put to rout a whole regiment of blues, while her great kindness to
mother and Robin show her to be a true, genuine woman at heart. I have
seen but little of her. I admire her greatly, and had I never met you,
Dora, I might have turned to Jessie. Surely this should not make you
jealous.’
“I knew it should not, but I think I must have been crazy; certainly I
was in a most perverse, unreasonable mood, and I answered:
“‘I am not jealous, but I have seen your great admiration for Jessie,
and if on so short an acquaintance you like her _almost_ as well as you
do me, whom you have known for years, it would not take long for you to
like her better, so I think it wise for you to wait until you know your
mind.’
“I wonder he did not leave me at once; he did move away quickly, saying:
“‘It is not like you, Dora, to trifle thus. You either love me or you do
not. I cannot give you up willingly. You are tired, weak, excited, and
you need not answer me now, though I hoped for something different. I
shall think of you, love you, pray for you, while I am gone, and
possibly write to you; then, when I return, I shall repeat the question
of to-day, and ask you again to be my wife.’
“He was perfectly collected now, and something in his manner awed me
into silence. The sun had already set, and the night dews beginning to
fall. He was the first to notice it, and with tender care he drew my
shawl a second time about my neck, and then taking my arm in his, led me
away from Anna’s grave out into the streets, where more than one turned
to look inquiringly after us, whispering their surmise that we were
really engaged.
“He stayed in Morrisville three days after that, and Mattie invited him
to tea, with Judge Verner’s family and Dr. Lincoln. He came, as I knew
he would, but the judge and the doctor kept him so constantly talking of
homœopathy that I hardly saw him at all till just as he was going, when
he held my hand in his own and looked into my eyes so kindly that I
could scarcely keep back the tears which would have told him that I
loved him now, and he need not wait a year. A bad headache had prevented
Bell from coming, and as the judge was called away on business, the
doctor walked home with Jessie, while I watched them as far as I could
see, feeling myself grow hot and angry when I saw how Jessie leaned upon
his arm, and looked up in his face as confidingly as a child.
“Remembering that he wished her to know of Anna, I tried one day to tell
her, but she knew it already from Mrs. West, and exonerated Richard from
all blame. She is at the cottage a great deal, and Mattie thinks her
greatly interested in Dr. West. I wish he had not said that next to me
he preferred Jessie, for it haunts me continually, and makes me very
unamiable.”