DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE.
The shadowy woods which skirt the lake shore tell no tales of what they
see, neither do the mossy rocks, nor yet the plashing waves kissing the
pebbly beach, and so Dora was free to pour out her griefs, knowing there
was no listening human ear, and forgetting for a time that there was an
eye which kept watch over her, as with her face upon the yielding sand
she moaned so piteously. She could not sit where she and Richard sat,
and so she chose the projecting trunk of a fallen tree, and sat where
her feet could touch the water below if she should wish it so, as once
she did, dipping the tip of her thin slipper, and holding it there till
it was wet through to see what the feeling was!
Dora did not try to pray. She never thought of that, but only remembered
how desolate, how miserable she was, vainly imagining that to rest
beneath the waters lying so calmly at her feet was to end all the pain,
the misery, and woe.
The sun was going down the west now very fast, and out upon the bosom of
the lake, at some distance from the shore, it cast a gleam like
burnished gold, and Dora, gazing wistfully upon it, fancied that if she
could but reach that spot, and sink into that golden glory, it would be
well with her. No thoughts of the hereafter crossed her disordered mind,
and so she sat and watched the shining spot, until there came to her a
memory of the night when Robin died, and the time when the sunshine
round Anna’s picture looked like the bed of fire upon the lake.
“They are in heaven,” she said; adding mournfully, “and where is that
heaven?”
“Not where they go who take their lives in their own hands,” seemed
whispered in her ear, and with a shudder she woke to the great peril of
her position.
“Save me, O God!” she sobbed, as she moved cautiously back from her seat
upon the tree, breathing freer when she knew that beneath her there was
no dark, cold water into which she could dip her feet at pleasure.
She had dipped them there until both hose and slippers were dripping
wet, but this she did not heed, and once off from the tree, she sat down
where Richard sat, and tried to look the present calmly in the face,—to
see if there were not some bright, happy spots, if she would but accept
them. With her head bowed down, she did not hear the footstep coming
through the woods, and drawing near to her; but when a strange voice
said interrogatively, “Miss Freeman?” she started and uttered a nervous
cry, for the face she saw was the face of a stranger. And yet it was so
like to Dr. West, that she looked again to reassure herself.
“I am Robert West,” the man began, abruptly. “I am Richard’s brother. He
sent me here,—he sent me to _his Dora_, and you are she.”
For an instant a tumultuous throb of joy shot through Dora’s heart, but
it quickly passed, as she answered Robert:
“You are mistaken, sir. I am to be Squire Russell’s wife to-morrow.”
Sitting down beside her, Robert repeated rapidly a part of what the
reader already knows, telling her of Anna, of his own sin, and
exonerating Richard from all blame. Then he told her of the meeting in
California, of his long illness,—of Richard’s anguish when he heard that
she was to be married,—of the reaction when that letter so long in
coming was received,—of his haste to embark for home, and his illness
during the voyage,—illness which made him so weak that he was brought
from New York on pillows, and partly in his brother’s arms.
“But he has reached here in safety,” Robert continued. “He arrived
perhaps an hour ago. He is at his old boarding-place, Miss Markham’s,
and mother is there with him. He knows you are not married yet, and
would have come to you himself, but for his illness, which made it
impossible, and so he sent me to say that even as he loves you, so he
believes that you love him, and to beg of you not to sacrifice your
happiness to a mistaken sense of duty. You could not be found when I
inquired for you, but a servant said she saw you going towards the lake,
and as she pointed me the way, I came on until I found you. Miss
Freeman, you know my brother, and know that there lives no better, more
upright man, or one who will make you happier as your husband. You have
heard my errand, and now what word shall I take back to Richard, or will
you go yourself and see him?”
Dora had sat like one stunned as Robert told his story; hope, joy, and
despair alternately succeeding each other in her heart as she listened.
At a glance, too, she took in all the difficulties of her position, and
saw how impossible it was for her to overcome them. This was in her mind
when Robert asked if she would go to Richard, and with a bitter moan she
answered:
“No, no; oh no! he has come too late. I cannot break my word to John,
and he trusting me so fully. Tell Richard it might have been, but cannot
be now.”
Again Robert West pleaded for his brother, and for the poor heart-broken
girl beside him, but her answer was just the same:
“It might have been, but cannot be now.”
At last as it grew darker around them, and the night dew made Dora
shiver, Robert gave up the contest, and said:
“You must go home, Miss Freeman. It is imprudent to stay here longer in
the damp night air. I am satisfied that you do not know what you are
saying, and so I shall see Squire Russell, and acquaint him with the
whole.”
In an instant Dora was on her knees, begging that her betrothed might be
spared this pain.
“Think of the sorrow, the disappointment, the disgrace,—for to-morrow
morning early is the wedding, and everybody knows. Why, our passage to
Europe is secured, and we must go.”
“Not if I have the power to prevent it,” was Robert’s reply, as he led
her across the fields, still insisting that he should see Squire
Russell.
At last, when she saw how much in earnest he was, she said, “I will tell
him myself; I can do it more gently, and it will not hurt so much. Don’t
go to him, but leave it with me.”
“Will you tell him all and ask to be released?” Robert said, making her
stand still while she replied, “I’ll tell him all, how I love Richard
best; but I shall not ask to be released.”
Robert was satisfied, for from what he had heard of Squire Russell he
believed he would never require of Dora so great a sacrifice.
“I shall be here with the early dawn,” he said, as he left her at the
gate.
Dora did not reply, but stood with her eyes riveted upon the house
across the street, where she knew was Dr. West. There was a light
shining from the windows of the upper room, while the figure of a woman
wearing a widow’s cap was occasionally seen passing to and fro.
“That is Richard’s room,” she whispered, feeling an intense desire to
fly at once to his side and assert her right to stay there.
Then, remembering her promise to Robert, she walked slowly to the house,
meeting in the door with Johnnie, who, wild with excitement, exclaimed,
“Hurrah, guess who has come! Dr. West,—and I have been in to see him.
He’s whiter than a ghost, and what is funny, his chin fairly shook when
I told him I was to have a new mother to-morrow, and what do you think,
that woman, his mother, put me out of the room and said too much talking
hurt him. Did you know he was here?”
“Yes, I knew, Johnnie; where’s your father?” Dora asked, feeling that if
she waited longer her courage would give way.
“Father’s in the library, and he’s ordered us youngsters to keep out. I
guess he’s expecting you, for he asked lots of times where you was, and
nobody knew, Jessie’s over there,” and Johnnie jerked his shoulder in
the direction of the doctor’s window.
Very slowly, as if going to her grave, Dora walked on till she came to
the library door. It was shut, and as she stood there trembling, she
caught the sound of a voice praying within, a voice which trembled with
happiness and gratitude as John Russell thanked the God who had given to
him Dora.
“I can’t; oh, I can’t,” Dora sighed, as, faint and sick, she leaned
against the wall, while that prayer proceeded.
Then, when it was finished, still feeling that she could not talk with
him that night, she went up to her room, and in the garments all damp
and stained with night dew, and the slippers wet with the waters of the
lake, she sat down by the open window and watched the light across the
way, until she heard Jessie coming and knew that Robert was with her.
They were talking, too, of her, for she heard her name coupled with Dr.
West’s, while Jessie said, “It’s dreadful, and I do so pity Squire
Russell,—he is such a nice, good man.”
And Jessie did pity him and Dora, too, hardly knowing what was best, or
what she ought to advise. She had been present when Robert returned from
his interview with Dora, and as Richard could not wait till she was gone
she came to know the whole, expressing great surprise, and wounding
Richard cruelly by saying, “It has gone so far that I do not believe it
can be prevented.”
But Robert thought differently, and repeated Dora’s promise to talk with
Squire Russell that night.
“Then he will give her up,” Jessie exclaimed, “he is so generous and so
wholly unselfish. Oh, how I do pity him!” and in the heat of her great
pity Jessie would almost have been Dora’s substitute, if by that means
she could have saved the Squire from pain.
She did admire and like him, and appreciated his kind, affable, pleasant
ways, all the more because they were so exactly the opposite of her
father’s quick, brusque, nervous manner. The door of the library was
open now, and she saw him sitting there as she passed, and longed so
much to go and comfort him if the blow had fallen, or prepare him for it
if it had not. I’ll see Dora first, she thought, and she hastened up to
Dora’s door, but it was locked, while to her whispered question, “Have
you told him yet?” Dora answered, “No, no, not yet; I can’t to-night.
Please leave me, Jessie; I want to be alone.”
It was the queerest thing she ever heard of, Jessie thought, as she
turned away,—queerer than a novel ten times over. Then, as she spied
Johnnie in the parlor, the little meddlesome lady felt a great desire to
see if he suspected anything; but Johnnie did not, and only talked of
Europe and the grand things he should see. Not a hint or insinuation,
however broad, would he take, and mentally styling him stupid and dull,
Jessie left him in disgust, and walked boldly into the library,
apologizing for her call by saying she had been to see Dr. West, and
thought the Squire might wish to hear directly from him. The Squire was
very glad to hear, and glad also to see Jessie, who amused and
interested him.
“I have been thinking of calling myself, with Dora, but have not seen
her this evening. Where is she?” he said.
“Locked in her room,” Jessie replied, as she took the chair he offered
her, and continued: “Dora acts queerly, but I suppose that is the way I
shall do the night before I am married. Wouldn’t I feel so funny,
though! Do you know you and Dora seem to me just like a novel, in which
I am a side character; but to keep up the romance some tall, handsome
knight ought at the last minute to appear and carry her off.”
“And so make a tragedy so far as I am concerned,” the Squire said,
playfully, as he smoothed the little black curly head moving so
restlessly.
“Oh, I guess you would not die,” Jessie replied; “not if Dora loved the
knight the best. You would rather she should have him, and some time you
would find another Dora who loved you best of all.”
Jessie was growing very earnest, very sympathetic, very sorry for the
unsuspecting bridegroom, and as his hand still continued to smooth her
curls, she suddenly caught it between her own, and giving it a squeeze
darted from the room, leaving the Squire to wonder at her manner, and to
style her mentally “a nice little girl, whom it would not be hard for
any man to love.”