University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
MAKING LOVE.

An accident had occurred to the downward train, and
Rosamond was detained upon the road for a long time, so
that it was already dark when she reached the Granby
depot. Wishing to surprise Mr. Browning, she started
for home on foot, leaving her trunks in charge of the baggage
master. All around the house was still, and stepping
into the hall she was about passing up the stairs, when
the parlor door suddenly opened, throwing a glare of light
upon her face. The same instant some one caught her
round the neck, and kissing her twice, only released her
when she exclaimed, “Mr. Browning, I am surprised at
you!”

“Mr. Browning! Thunder! Just as though I was
my uncle!” cried a familiar voice, and looking at the
speaker, Rosamond recognized Ben Van Vechten! He
had come to Riverside the day previous, he said, and
hearing she was expected, had waited at the depot four
mortal hours, and then returned in disgust.

“But how did you know me?” she asked, and he replied,
“By your daguerreotype, of course. There is but
one such beautiful face in the whole world.”

He was disposed to be complimentary, and Rosamond
was not sorry when his mother appeared, for in her presence
he was tolerably reserved. Mrs. Van Vechten
greeted Rosamond politely, but the old hauteur was there,

and her manner seemed to say, “If you are educated and
refined, I can't forget that you were once my waiting-maid.”

“Where is Mr. Browning?” asked Rosamond, and
Ben replied, “Oh, up in his den having the shakes. He
mopes there all the time. Can't you break him of the
blues?”

“I'll go and try,” answered Rosamond, and she started
up the stairs, followed by Ben, whose mother called him
back, bidding him, in a low voice, “stay where he was,
and not make a fool of himself.”

She could trust her brother, but not her son, and she
thus did the former the greatest favor she could have
done—she let him meet young Rosamond Leyton alone.
The evening was quite chilly for July, and as, since the
receipt of Miss Porter's note, Mr. Browning had seemed
rather agueish, there was a fire burning in the grate, and
it cast its shadows upon him as he sat in his accustomed
chair. His back was toward the door, and he knew
nothing of Rosamond's return until two, soft, white hands
were placed before his eyes, and a voice which tried to be
unnatural, said, “Guess who I am.”

“Rosamond—darling—have you come back to me
again?” he exclaimed, and starting up, he wound his arm
about her, and looked into her face, expecting, momentarily,
to hear her say, “Yes, I know it all.”

But Rosamond did not say so. She merely told him
how glad she was to be at home once more, in her delight
forgetting that Marie Porter had said she loved the man
who held her closely to his side and smoothed her wavy
hair, even while his heart throbbed painfully with memories
of the past and trembled for the future. He longed

to speak of her room-mate, but he dared not betray his
knowledge of her existence, and he sat there waiting, yet
dreading to hear the hated name.

“Did you room alone?” he asked at last, and now remembering
the words, “You do love him,” Rosamond
moved quickly from his side. “She does know,” he
thought, and a silent moan of anguish died upon his lips.
But Rosamond did not know—the movement was actuated
by mere maidenly reserve, and sitting down directly
opposite him, she told him of Miss Porter, whom
she said she liked so well.

“How much of an invalid is she?” asked Mr. Browning,
when he could trust his voice to speak.

“Her health is miserable,” returned Rosamond. “She
has the heart disease, and her waiting-maid told me she
was liable to die at any time if unusually excited.”

It might have been because Rosamond was there that
Mr. Browning thought the room was brighter than it
had been before, and quite calmly he listened while she
told him more of her new friend.

“She seemed so interested in you, and in Riverside,”
said Rosamond, “and even proposed coming home with
me—”

Mr. Browning started suddenly, and as suddenly a coal
snapped out upon the carpet. This was an excuse for
his movement, and Rosamond continued, “She thought,
though, you might not care to see her, being a stranger,
but she sent you her love, and —. You are cold, ain't
you, Mr. Browning? You shiver like a leaf. Ben said
you'd had the ague.”

Rosamond closed the door and commenced again.
“Where was I? Oh, I know. She said if you were not

a confirmed bachelor she would try her powers on you.
`She was irresistible in her diamonds,' she bade me tell
you. But have you an ague chill, really? or what makes
your teeth chatter so? Shall I ring for more coal?”

“No, Rosamond, no. Fire does not warm me; I shall
be better soon.”

Rosamond pitied him, he looked so white and seemed
to be suffering so much, and she remained silent for a
time. Then remembering the note, she handed it to him,
and turning toward the fire, stooped down to fix a bit of
coal which was in danger of dropping from the grate.
While in this attitude a cry between a howl of rage and a
moan of anguish fell upon her ear—her shoulders were
grasped by powerful hands, and looking up she saw Mr.
Browning, his face distorted with passion and his flashing
eyes riveted upon the ring glittering in the firelight. Seizing
her hand, he wrenched it from her finger, and glanced
at the name—then, swift as thought, placed it upon the
marble hearth, and crushed it with his heel.

“It's mine—you've broken it,” cried Rosamond, but he
did not heed her, and gathering up the pieces, he hurled
them into the grate—then, pale as ashes, sank panting into
the nearest chair.

Rosamond was thunder-struck. She did not suppose
he had had time to read the note, and never dreaming
there was any connection between that and his strange
conduct, she believed him to be raving mad, and her first
impulse was to fly. Her second thought, however, was,
“I will not leave him. He has these fits often, now, I
know, and that is why he sent for me. He knew I could
quiet him, and I will.”

So Rosamond staid, succeeding so far in soothing him,

that his eyes lost their savage gleam, and were suffused
with a look of unnatural tenderness when they rested on
her face. He did not ask her how she came by the ring,
for he knew it had been sent as an insult to him, and he
felt a glow of satisfaction in knowing that it was blackening
on the grate. Ben's voice was now heard in the
hall, asking if they intended staying there all night, and
in a whisper Mr. Browning bade Rosamond go down and
apologize for him. She accordingly descended to the parlor,
telling Mrs. Van Vechten that her brother was too
much indisposed to come down, and wished to be excused.
Mrs. Van Vechten bowed coolly, and taking a
book of prints, busied herself for awhile in examining
them; then the book dropped from her hand—her head
fell back—her mouth fell open, and Ben, who was anxiously
watching her, knew by unmistakable sounds that she
was fast asleep. It was now his time, and faithfully did
he improve it, devoting himself so assiduously to Rosamond,
that she was glad when a snore, louder and more
prolonged than any which had preceded it, started the
lady herself, and produced symptoms of returning consciousness.

The next day, and the next, it was the same, and at the
expiration of a week, Ben had determined either to marry
Rosamond Leyton, or go to the Crimean War, this last
being the bugbear with which he intended frightening
his mother into a consent. He hardly dared disobey her
openly for fear of disinheritance, and he would rather she
should express her willingness to receive Miss Leyton as
her daughter. He accordingly startled her one day by
asking her to sanction his intended proposal to the young
girl. Nothing could exceed Mrs. Van Vechten's amazement

and contempt. She would never consent, and if
Ben persisted in making so disgraceful an alliance, she
would disinherit him at once. Ben knew she was in
earnest, and so fell back upon the Crimean war as a last
resort. “He would go immediately—would start that
very day for New York—he had money enough to carry
him there,” and he painted so vividly “death on a distant
battle-field, with a ferocious Russian rifling his trowsers'
pocket,” that his mother began to cry, though she still
refused to relent.

“Choose, mother, choose,” said he. “It's almost car
time—Rosamond or the war,” and he drew on his heavy
boots.

“Oh, Benjamin, you will kill me dead.”

“I know it. I mean to. Rosamond or the war!” and
he buttoned up his coat preparatory to a start.

“Do, Ben, listen to reason.”

“I won't—I won't;—Rosamond or the war! I shall
rush into the thickest of the fight, and be killed the first
fire, of course, and black is so unbecoming to you.”

“Stop, I intreat. You know you are afraid of cannons;”
this was said beseechingly.

“Thunder, mother! No, I ain't! Rosamond or the
war—choose quick. I hear the whistle at East Granby.”

He left the room—went down the stairs, out at the door,
through the yard, and out into the avenue, while his distracted
mother looked after him through blinding tears.
She knew how determined he was when once his mind
was made up, and she feared his present excitement
would last until he was fairly shipped, and it was too late
to return. He would never fight, she was sure, and at
the first battle-sound he would fly, and be hung as a

deserter, no doubt! This touched her pride. She would
rather people should say of her boy that he married a
milliner's daughter than that he was hung, and hurrying
to the window just as Ben looked back, hoping for a
signal, she waved her hand for him to return, calling out
at the top of her voice, “I relent—I relent.”

“I knew the Crimea would fetch her,” said Ben; “lucky
I thought of that,” and without going to his mother at all,
he sought out Rosamond. Half an hour later he astonished
the former by rushing into her presence, and exclaiming,
“She's refused me, mother; and she meant it,
too. Oh, I shall die—I know I shall. Oh, oh, oh!” and
Ben rolled on the floor in his frantic grief. As nearly as
she could, Mrs. Van Vechten learned the particulars of
his interview with Rosamond, and, though at first secretly
pleased that he had been refused, she felt a very little
piqued that her son should thus be dishonored, and when
she saw how wretched it had made him, her feelings were
enlisted in his behalf, and she tried to soothe him by
saying that her brother had a great deal of influence
with Rosamond, and they would refer the matter to
him.

“Go now, mother. Don't wait a minute,” pleaded
Ben, and Mrs. Van Vechten started for her brother's
library.

She found him alone, and disclosed the object of her
visit at once. Rosamond had refused her son, who, in
consequence, was nearly distracted, and threatened going
to the Crimean war—a threat she knew he would execute
unless her brother persuaded Rosamond to revoke her decision,
and think again.

Mr. Browning turned as white as marble, but his sister

was too much absorbed in her own matters to heed his
emotions, and she continued—

“Of course it will be mortifying to us all to have her
in the family, and maybe Ben will get over it; but they
must be engaged somehow, or he'll go away. I'll send
her up to you immediately,” and she hurriedly left the
room in quest of Rosamond. For a moment Mr. Browning
sat like one stupefied; then, covering his face with his
hands, he moaned, “Must this come upon me, too? Must
I, who love her so madly, bid her marry another? And
yet what does it matter? She can never be mine—and
if she marries Ben I can keep them with me always, and
that vile woman will have no cause for annoying me. She
said Rosamond loved me, but I pray Heaven that may not
be so.”

A light tread echoed in the hall, and with each fall of
those little feet, Ralph Browning's heart throbbed painfully.
Another moment and Rosamond was there with
him—her cheeks flushed—her eyelashes wet with tears,
and her whole manner betrayed an unusual degree of excitement.

“I understand from your sister,” said she, “that you
wish me to marry Ben, or leave your house. I will do the
latter, but the former—never! Shall I consider our interview
at an end?”

She turned to leave the room, but Mr. Browning caught
her dress, exclaiming, “Stay, Rosamond, and hear me. I
never uttered such words to Mrs. Van Vechten. I do
not wish you to marry Ben, unless you love him. Do you
love him, Rosamond? Do you love any body?”

This was not what he intended to say—but he had said
it, and now he waited for her answer. To the first question

it came in a decided “No, I do not love him,” and to
the last it came in burning blushes, stealing over her
cheek—her forehead—her neck, and speaking in her downcast
eye. She had never believed that she did love her
guardian, until told that he wished her to marry another,
when it burst upon her in all its force, and she could no
more conceal it now than she could stop the rapid beatings
of her heart. He saw it all in her tell-tale face,
and forgetting every thing, he wound his arms around
her, and drawing her to his side, whispered in her ear,
“Darling Rosamond, say that you love me. Let me
hear that assurance once, and I shall be almost willing to
die.”

“Ladies do not often confess an attachment until sure
it is returned,” was Rosamond's answer, and doubly forgetful
now of all the dreary past, Ralph Browning poured
into her ear hot, burning words of love—hugging her
closer and closer to him until through the open window
came the sound of Mr. Peters' voice calling to the stranger
girl who had that morning entered service at Riverside
as a waiting-maid in general. Maria was the name,
and as the ominous word fell upon Mr. Browning's ear,
he started, and pushing Rosamond from him, turned his
face away so she could not see the expression of mute
despair settling down upon it. Sinking upon the lounge
he buried his face in its cushions while Rosamond looked
curiously upon him, feeling sure that she knew what it
was that so affected him. He had told her of his love—
had said that she was dearer to him than his life, and in
confessing this he had forgotten the dark shadow upon
his life, and it was the dread of telling it to her—the pain
of saying “I love you, but you cannot be my wife,” which

affected him so strangely. But she knew it all, and she
longed to assure him of her sympathy. At last when he
seemed to be more calm, she stole up to him, and kneeling
at his side bent over him so that her bright hair mingled
with his own.

“Mr. Browning,” she whispered softly, “I know your
secret, and I do not love you less.”

“You, Rosamond, you know it!” he exclaimed, gazing
fixedly at her. “It cannot be. You would never do as
you have done.”

“But I do know it,” she continued, taking both his
hands in hers, and looking him steadily in the eye, by
way of controlling him, should he be seized with a sudden
attack, “I know exactly what it is, and though it will
prevent me from being your wife, it will not prevent me
from loving you just the same, or from living with you
either. I shall stay here always—and—and—pardon me,
Mr. Browning, but when you get furious, as you sometimes
do, I can quiet you better than any one else, and it
may be, the world will never need to know you are a
madman!”

Mr. Browning looked searchingly into her innocent eyes,
and then, in spite of himself, he laughed aloud. He understood
why she should think him a madman, and though
he repented of it afterward, he hastened to undeceive her
now. “As I hope to see another day, it is not that,” he
said. “It is far worse than insanity; and, Rosamond,
though it breaks my heart to say it, it is wicked for me
to talk of love to you, and you must not remember what
I said. You must crush every tender thought of me.
You must forget me—nay, more—you must hate me.
Will you, Rosamond?”

“No—no—no,” she cried, and laying her face in his
lap, she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

“Leave me,” he whispered, “or I shall go mad, for I
know I am the cause of this distress.”

There was decision in the tones of his voice, and it stilled
the tumult in Rosamond's bosom. Rising to her feet, she
said calmly, “I will go, but I cannot forget that you deceived
me. You have wrung from me a confession of my
love, only to throw it back upon me as a priceless thing.”

Not thus would he part with her, and grasping her
arm, he began, “Heaven knows how much more than my
very life I love you—”

He did not finish the sentence, for through the air a
small, dark object came, and, missing its aim, dropped
upon the hearth, where it was broken in a hundred pieces.
It was a vase which stood upon the table in the hall, and
Ben Van Vechten's was the hand that threw it! Impatient
at the delay, he had come up in time to hear his
uncle's last words, which aroused his Southern blood at
once, and seizing the vase, he hurled it at the offender's
head—then, rushing down the stairs, he burst upon his
mother with “Great thunder! mother; Uncle Ralph is
making love to Rosamond himself, and she likes it too. I
saw it with my own eyes! I'll hang myself in the barn,
or go to the Crimean war!” and Ben bounded up and
down like an India-rubber ball. Suddenly remembering
that another train was due ere long, he darted out of the
house, followed by his distracted mother, who, divining
his intention, ran swiftly after him, imploring him to return.
Pausing for a moment, as he struck into the highway,
he called out, “Good-by, mother. I've only one
choice left—War! Give my love to Rosamond, and tell

her I shall die like a hero. You needn't wear black, if
you don't want to. Good-by.”

He turned the corner—he had started for the war—and
mentally resolving to follow him in the next train, Mrs.
Van Vechten returned to the house, and sought her
brother.

“Ralph,” she began sternly, “have you talked of love
to Rosamond?”

Mr. Browning had borne so much that nothing startled
him now, and returning her glance unflinchingly, he replied,
“I have.”

“How, then—is Marie dead?” the lady asked.

“Not to my knowledge—but hist,” was the reply, as
Mr. Browning nodded toward the hall, where a rustling
movement was heard.

It was the new girl, coming with dust-pan and brush to
remove the fragments of the vase, though how she knew
they were there, was a question she alone could answer. For
a single instant her dull, gray eye shot a gleam of intelligence
at the occupants of the room, and then assuming
her usual appearance, she did what she came to do, and
departed. When they were again alone, Mrs. Van Vechten
demanded an explanation of her brother, who gave it
unhesitatingly. Cold-hearted as she always seemed, Mrs.
Van Vechten had some kind feelings left, and, touched by
her brother's tale of suffering, she gave him no word of
reproach, and even unbent herself to say that a brighter
day might come to him yet. Then she spoke of Ben, announcing
her determination of following him that night.
To this plan Mr. Browning offered no remonstrance, and
when the night express left the Granby station, it carried
with it Mrs. Van Vechten, in pursuit of the runaway Ben.