University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE GUEST AT RIVERSIDE.

The November days had come. The satin dress was
made—the bridal veil sent home—the wreath of orange,
too; and then, one morning when the summer, it would
seem, had come to revisit the scenes of its brief reign,
Mr. Browning kissed his bride elect, and wiped away the
two big tears which dropped from her eyelashes when he
told her that he was going away for that day and the next.

“But when to-morrow's sun is setting, I shall be with
you again,” he said, and he bade her quiet the fluttering
of her little heart, which throbbed so painfully at parting
with him.

“I don't know why it is,” she said, “I'm not one bit
superstitious, but Bruno howled so dismally under my
window all night, and when he ceased, a horrid owl set
up a screech. I told Maria, and she said, in her country
the cry of an owl was a sign that the grave was about to
give up its dead, and she looked so mysterious that she
frightened me all the more—”

“That Maria is too superstitious, and I don't like her
to be with you so much,” said Mr. Browning, his own
cheek turning slightly pale as he thought of the grave
giving up his dead. Thrice he turned back to kiss the
little maiden, who followed him down the avenue, and
then climbed into a box-like seat, which had been built
on the top of the gate-post, and was sheltered by a sycamore.

“Here,” said she, “shall I wait for you to-morrow
night, when the sun is away over there. Oh, I wish
it would hurry.”

He wished so, too, and with another fond good-by
they parted. The day seemed long to Rosamond, and,
though she varied the time by trying on each and every
one of her new dresses, she was glad when it was night,
so she could go to bed and sleep the time away. The
next morning the depression of spirits was gone; he was
coming—she should wait for him beneath the sycamore
—possibly she would hide to make him believe she was
not there, and the bright blushes stole over her dimpled
cheeks as she thought what he would do when he found
that she was there.

“Ten o'clock,” she said to herself, as she heard the
whistle of the upward train. “Seven hours more and he
will come.”

Going to her room, she took a book, in which she tried
to be interested, succeeding so well that, though her windows
commanded a view of the avenue, she did not see
the lady who came slowly up the walk, casting about her
eager, curious glances, and pausing more than once to
note the exceeding beauty of the place. Once she stopped
for a long time, and, leaning against a tree, seemed to be
debating whether to turn back or go on. Deciding upon
the latter, she arose, and quickening her movements, soon
stood upon the threshold. Her ring was answered by
Maria, who betrayed no surprise, for from the upper hall
Mrs. Peters herself was closely inspecting the visitor.

“Is Mr. Browning at home?” the lady asked.

“Gone to Buffalo,” was the laconic reply, and a gleam
of satisfaction flitted over the face of the questioner, who

continued: “And the young lady, Miss Leyton? Has
she gone, too?”

“She is here,” said Maria, still keeping her eye upon
the shadow bending over the balustrade. “What name
shall I give her?”

“No name. I wish to surprise her,” and passing on
into the parlor, the stranger laid aside her hat and shawl
with the air of one perfectly at home; then seating herself
upon a sofa, she examined the room as curiously as
she had examined the grounds of Riverside.

“It seems a pity to mar all this,” she said, “and were
it not that I hate him so much, I would go away forever,
though that would be a greater injury to her than my
coming to life will be. Of course he's told her all, and
spite of her professed liking for me, she is glad that I am
dead. I long, yet dread, to see her amazement; but hist
—she comes.”

There was the sound of little, high-heeled slippers on
the stairs, the flutter of a pink morning gown, and then
Rosamond Leyton stood face to face with—Marie Porter!
The grave had given up its dead, and without any visible
marks of the world prepared for such as she, save, indeed,
the increased fire which burned in her black eyes, the
risen woman sat there much as living people sit—her head
bent forward—her lips apart—and a look of expectation
upon her face. But she was doomed to disappointment.
Rosamond knew nothing of the past, and with a cry of
pleasurable surprise she started forward, exclaiming, “Oh,
Miss Porter, I felt so cross when told a visitor was here,
but now I know who 'tis, I am so glad, for I am very
lonely to-day.”

The hard woman swept her hand a moment before her

eyes, and with that movement swept away the kindly
spirit, which whispered, “Don't undeceive her. Don't
quench the light of that bright face, nor break that girlish
heart.”

But it was necessary; Marie Porter knew that, and
though she repented of what she had done, it was now
too late to retreat, and all she could do was to break the
heart of the unsuspecting girl as tenderly as possible.

“Why are you so lonely?” she said, “This is a most
beautiful spot. I believe I'd like to live here myself.”

“Oh, yes, 'tis a lovely place,” answered Rosamond,
“but—but—Mr. Browning is not here,” and she averted
her crimson face.

“Is Mr. Browning so necessary to your happiness?”
Miss Porter asked, and bringing an ottoman, Rosamond
sat down at her visitor's feet and thus replied: “We
talked so much of him at the Springs that it surely is not
foolish in me to tell you what every body knows. Now,
you won't laugh at me, will you? Mr. Browning and I
are going to—oh, I can't tell it; but, any way, your fortune-telling
is not true.”

“Mr. Browning and you are going to be married. Is
that it?” the woman asked; and with a quick, upward
glance of her soft, brown eyes, Rosamond replied, “Yes,
that's it—that's it; and oh, you can't begin to guess how
happy I am. He is not crazy either. It was something
else, though I don't know what, for he never told me, and
I do not care to know. The obstacle has been removed,
whatever it was, and it has wrought such a change in
him. He's so much younger—handsomer, now, and so
kind to me. I'm glad you've come, Miss Porter, and
you'll stay till after the wedding. It's the twentieth, and

he has bought me so many new things. We are going
to Europe. Just think of a winter in Paris, with Mr.
Browning! But, what! Are you crying?” and Rosamond
started as a burning tear fell upon her forehead.

“Rosamond Leyton,” said Miss Porter, in a voice husky
with emotion, “I have not wept in eight long years, but
the sight of you, so innocent, so happy, wrings the tears
from my stony heart, as agony will sometimes force out
the drops of perspiration when the body is shivering with
cold. I was young like you once, and my bridal was
fixed—” She paused, and stealing an arm around her waist,
Rosamond said pleadingly, “Tell me about it, Miss Porter,
I always knew you had a history. Did the man die?”

“No—no. Better for me if he had—aye, and better,
too, for you.”

This last was a whisper, and Rosamond did not hear it.
Her thoughts were bent upon the story, and she continued,
“Will it pain you too much to tell it now?”

“Yes, yes, wait,” Miss Porter said, “Wait until after
dinner, and meantime, as I cannot possibly stay until the
20th, perhaps you will let me see your dresses.”

Nothing could please Rosamond more, and gay as a
little child, she led the way to a large upper room, which
contained her wedding outfit. Proudly she displayed
her treasures, flitting like a bird from one pile of finery to
another, and reserving the most important until the very
last.

“There's the dinner-bell,” she suddenly exclaimed, “I
did not think it could be one. Only four hours more—
but come, let us go down and after dinner, if you'll never
tell Mrs. Peters, nor any body, I'll try on my bridal dress
and let you see if it is becoming. I want so much to

know how it looks, since Maria put the rose-buds in the
berthe. And then your story. I must hear that.”

As they were going down the stairs Miss Porter took
Rosamond's hand and said, “How is this?—Where is my
ring?”

Rosamond could not tell her of an act which now that
it no longer had insanity for an excuse, puzzled her not a
little. So she made some trivial excuse, which, however,
did not deceive her auditor. But the latter deemed
it wise to say no more just then, and silently followed her
young friend into the dining-room. Dinner being over
they went up to Rosamond's chamber, the closet of which
contained the bridal robes.

“Two o' clock,” said Rosamond, consulting her watch,
then bringing out the rich white satin and exquisite over-skirt
of lace, she continued, “I shall have just time to try
this on, hear your story and get dressed before Mr. Browning
comes. How short the day seems, with you here! I
told him I'd be sitting in that little box which you possibly
noticed, built on the gate-post against the tree.—And
he'll be so disappointed not to find me there, that maybe
you won't mind my leaving you awhile when the sun is
right over the woods.”

“Certainly not,” answered Miss Porter, and the dressing-up
process began, Rosamond chatting gayly all the
while and asking if it were very foolish for her to try on
the dress. “I should not do it,” she said, “if you would
stay. Can't you?”

The answer was a decided negative, and adjusting her
little slipper, Rosamond stood up while her companion
put over her head the satin dress. It fitted admirably,
and nothing could have been fairer than the round, chubby

arms and plump, well-shaped shoulders which the shortcomings
of the dress showed to good advantage. Now
the lace over-skirt—now the berthe—and then the veil,
with the orange-wreath twined among the flowing curls,
and Rosamond was dressed at last.

“How do I look?” she asked, but Marie Porter made
no immediate reply, and as she gazed upon the young girl,
so beautiful, so innocent and unsuspecting, who can tell
of the keen anguish at her heart, or how she shrank from
the bitter task which she must do, and quickly, too, for
the clock pointed to three, and her plan was now to strike
the dove and then flee ere the eagle came. She would
thus wound him more deeply, for the very uncertainty
would add fresh poison to his cup of agony.

“How do I look?” Rosamond asked again, and after
duly complimenting the dress, Miss Porter added, “I promised
you my story, and if I tell it at all to-day, I must
begin it now, for it is long, and I would finish it ere Mr.
Browning comes.”

“Very well, I'm all attention,” said Rosamond, and
like a lamb before its slaughterer she knelt before the woman,
bending low her graceful head to have the wreath
removed.

This done, Miss Porter said, “Have you any camphor
handy, or hartshorn? I am sometimes faint and may
want them.”

“Yes, both, here, in the bathing-room,” said Rosamond,
and she brought them to the lady, who placed them upon
the table—not for herself, but for one who would need
them more—for poor, poor Rosamond. The disrobing
proceeded slowly, for the little girl was well pleased with
the figure reflected by the mirror. But Miss Porter could

not wait, and when the wreath, the veil, and berthe were
removed, she seated herself by the window in a position
which commanded a full view of her victim's face; and
forcing down the throbbings of her heart, which it seemed
to her were audible in that silent room, she commenced
the story.