 | CHAPTER XXXVIII.
WHAT DORA SAID. Outpost |  |
38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
WHAT DORA SAID.
It had been Dora's intention to return to Iowa immediately
after leaving Sunshine in charge of her own friends;
but Mrs. Legrange insisted so urgently upon her remaining
with them for some weeks at least, and the parting with
the dear child she had so loved and cherished seemed so
cruel as it drew nearer and nearer, that she finally consented
to remain for a short time, and removed to the Neff
House, where Mrs. Legrange had engaged rooms until the
first of October.
To other natures than those called to encounter it, the
relation between these three might, for a time at least,
have been painful and perplexing; but Mrs. Legrange was
possessed of such exquisite tact, Sunshine of such abounding
and at the same time delicate affections, and Dora of
such a noble and generous temper, that they could not but
harmonize: and while 'Toinette bloomed, flower-like, into
new and wonderful beauty bathed in the sunlight of a
with herself as its source. And Dora joyed in her darling's
joy; and, if her heart ached at thought of the coming
loneliness, the pain expressed itself no otherwise than in
an added tenderness.
“That is a noble girl, Fanny,” said Mr. Burroughs one
day. “How different from our dear five hundred friends
at home! Put Mary Elmsly, or Lizzy Patterson, or Miss
Bloomsleigh, or Marion Lee, in her place, and how would
they fill it?”
“She is, indeed, a noble girl,” replied his cousin
warmly. “I never shall forget the tender and wise care
she has taken of Sunshine in this last year. She has
strengthened heart and principle as I am afraid I could
never have done.”
“Paul is coming out for you, isn't he?” pursued Mr.
Burroughs after a pause.
“Yes: he will be here by the 20th. Why did you
ask?”
“Because Dora cannot travel home alone, and I think
of accompanying her. I may stay a while, and study
prairie life.”
Mrs. Legrange looked at him in surprise a moment;
smile was possible now to her.
“Capital!” exclaimed she. “I never thought of it.
But why not?”
“Why not spend a few weeks in Iowa? Well, of course,
why not?” asked Mr. Burroughs a little grimly, and presently
added, —
“That is a pernicious custom of yours, Fanny, — that
rushing at conclusions.”
“Men never rush at conclusions, do they?”
“No: of course not.”
“Very well, then: arrive at your conclusion as leisurely
as you like. It is none the less certain.”
“Pshaw!” remarked Mr. Burroughs; and as his cousin
laughingly turned to bend over Sunshine, and help her read
her story-book, he took his hat and went out, turning his
steps toward the glen.
Not till he reached its deepest recesses, however, did he
find Dora; and then he stood still to look at her, himself un-seen.
But what a white, dumb look of anguish upon the
sweet face! what clouds, heavy with coming showers,
upon the brow! what rainy lights in the upturned eyes!
what a resistless sorrow in the downward curve of the lips,
tightly folded, and firmly set upon the knee, told their story,
— even the rigid lines and constrained attitude of the figure.
Mr. Burroughs's first impulse was artistic; and he longed to
be a sculptor, that he might model an immortal statue of
Silent Grief. The second was human; and he longed to
comfort a sorrow at whose cause he already guessed, and
yet guessed but half. The third was less creditable, but
perhaps as probable, in a man of Mr. Burroughs's temperament
and education; for it was to study and dissect this new
phase of the young girl's character. He quietly approached,
and seated himself beside her with a commonplace remark,
—
“A very pretty bit of scenery, Dora.”
“Yes,” replied she, struggling to resume her usual demeanor.
“I am afraid, however, it does not satisfy your eye,
accustomed to the breadth of prairie views. Confess that
you are a little weary of it and us, and longing for home.”
“I shall probably set out for home to-morrow,” said
Dora, turning away her head, and playing idly with the
grass beside her.
“I thought you were homesick. I am sorry we have so
ill succeeded in contenting you.”
“Oh, don't think that! I have been so happy here these
two weeks! That is the very reason I ought to go.”
“How is that? I don't see the argument.”
“Because this is not my home, or the way I am to live,
or these the people I am to live with; and the sooner I am
away, the better.”
She did not see all the meaning of her words, poor child!
but her companion did, and smiled merrily to himself as he
said, —
“You mean, we do not come up to your standard, and
you cannot waste more time upon us; don't you?”
Dora turned and looked at him, her suspicions roused by
a mocking ring beneath the affected humility of his tone;
and, looking, she caught the covert smile not yet faded from
his eyes.
“It is not kind, Mr. Burroughs, to laugh at me, or to try
to confuse me in this way,” said she steadily. “No doubt,
you know what I mean; and why do you wish to force me
into saying, that the more I see of the life and thoughts and
manners of such people as Mrs. Legrange and you, and
even my own little Sunshine, now so far away from me, the
less fit I feel to associate with them? And, just because it
is so pleasant to me, I feel that I ought to go back at once
I am but a poor country-girl, sir, hardly taught in any thing
except the love of God, and the wish to do something before
I die to make my fellow-creatures a little happier or more
comfortable than I find them. Let me go to my work, and
out of it I will make my life.”
Perhaps never had the self-contained heart of the young
girl so framed itself in words; certainly never had Mr. Burroughs
so fully read it: and when she finished, and, neither
turning from him nor toward him, steadfastly set her eyes
forward, as one who sees mapped out before him the path
he is to tread through all the coming years, he took her
hand in his with a sudden impulse of tenderness, —
“Dora, you will love some one yet; and love will make
you happy.”
“I have loved two people, and lost them both. I do not
mean to love any one else,” said Dora, quietly withdrawing
her hand.
Mr. Burroughs stared at her in astonishment; and, with
a directness more natural than conventional, exclaimed, —
“You have loved twice already!”
“Yes. Three times, indeed. I loved my mother and
Picter, and they are both dead. I loved Sunshine, and she
and who, I thought” —
“And then — oh rare result of all these days of suffering,
and hidden bitterness, and a lingering relinquishment
of the sweet and tender hope of her future life! — Dora
gave way all at once, and, covering her face with her hands,
burst into a passion of tears; such tears as women seldom
weep; such tears as Dora herself had shed but two or three
times in her short life.
Mr. Burroughs sat for a moment, looking at her with a
yearning tenderness in his eyes, and then folded her suddenly
in his arms, whispering, —
“Dora, Dora Darling! I love you, and I will be to you
more than all these; and no time nor chance shall rob you
of my love, if only you will give me yours instead.”
But Dora repulsed him vehemently, sobbing, “No, no,
no! you shall not say it! I will not hear it!”
“Not say it? Why not? It is God's truth; and you
must have known it before to-day.”
“No: it is only pity, because you think I want to stay,
and because — No: I will not have it! I will not hear it!
You are quite wrong, Mr. Burroughs: you do not know” —
She stopped in confusion. She had done sobbing now;
regarded her with a strange expression, and then,
taking her hand, said softly, —
“Dora, I have not dared, as you fear that I have, to
fancy that you cared for me. A moment ago, I should not
have dared to ask you as I now do; and remember, Dora,
that I ask for the solemn truth, — do you love me?”
Dora tore away her hand indignantly, and attempted to
rise. She had not spoken, or looked at him. Over the
pale face of the lover shot a gleam of triumph. But he
only said, —
“Dora, it will not be like you to leave me in this way.
It is unjust and untrue.”
“It is you who are unkind and ungenerous,” said the
girl passionately.
“Why, Dora? Why is it ungenerous to ask for a confession
of your love, when I have already told you that all
my heart is in your hands?”
“You fancied that I — that I — liked you; and you knew
I did not want to go home, and you pitied me: and I won't
have it, sir. I do not need pity, and I do not” —
Her voice died away, killed by the falsehood she could
not speak. Mr. Burroughs no longer pressed for an answer
“Pity and kindness!” sadly repeated he. “Dora, if you
only knew how much more I stand in need of your pity than
you of mine, if you only knew what kindness your life has
already done mine, you would not treat me in this manner.”
“You need my pity!” exclaimed Dora, forgetting herself,
and turning to look at him in naïve astonishment;
“and for what?”
“For a purposeless and weary life; for an empty heart
and a corroded faith,” said her lover bitterly; “for an
indifference to men, amounting almost to aversion; for a
trifling estimate of women, amounting almost to contempt;
for wasted abilities and neglected opportunities, — for all
these, Dora, I need your pity, and have a right to claim it:
for it is only since I loved you that I have recognized my
own great needs and deficiencies. Complete the work you
have unconsciously begun, dearest. Reverse the fairy fable,
and let the beautiful princess come to waken with her kiss
the slothful prince, who else might sleep forever.”
“How can you know so soon that I am the princess?”
asked Dora shyly.
“So soon! I felt the truth stirring blindly in my heart
that first night, now a year ago, when I saw you in the old
home, and read your candid eyes, and heard your clear
voice, and marked your steady and serene influence upon
all about you. I hardly knew it then; but, when I was away
from you, I was myself surprised to find how vivid your
impression upon my mind remained. When my cousin
asked me to accompany her here, I silently resolved, that,
before I returned home, I would see you again; would
study as deeply as I might the character I already guessed.
Then, Dora, when I saw you, as I have seen you in these
last weeks, struggling so nobly to render complete the sacrifice
you came hither to make; when I saw the sweetness,
the power, the loftiness, and the divine truth, of your nature,
shining more clearly day by day, and yourself the only one
unconscious of the priceless value of such a nature, — then,
Dora, I came to know for truth what I tell you now, God
hearing me, that you are the woman of all the world whom
I love, honor, and undeservingly long to make my own.
Once more, Dora, — and you cannot now refuse to answer
me at least, — once more I ask, do you or can you love
me?”
He grasped her hands in both his own, and his keen eyes
them; and, though the hot blush seemed to scorch her very
brow, she answered, —
“I did not know it, quite, until to-day; but I believe — I
think — I have cared about you ever since a year ago. That
is, not love; but every one else seemed less than they had
been: and since I knew you here, and since I thought I
must go home, and never see you any more, it was” —
She faltered and stopped, drooping her head before the
tender triumph of his glance. Truth had asserted herself,
as with Dora she must have done in any stress, but now
of a sudden found herself silenced by a timidity as charming
as it was new in the strong and well-poised temperament
of the girl, who, a moment before so brave, now stood
trembling and blushing beneath her lover's gaze.
He drew her to his breast, and pressed his lips to hers.
“Dora, my own wife!” whispered he. “God so deal
with me here and hereafter as I with you, the best gift in
his mighty hand!”
And Dora, hiding her face upon his breast, whispered
again, —
“I was so unhappy an hour ago! and now, as Sunshine
says, I have come to heaven all at once!”
Her lover answered by a mute caress; for there are moments
when words are all too weak for speech. And so he
only clasped her closer in his arms, and bent his head upon
her own; while all about them the hundred voices of the
summer noon whispered benediction on their joy; the eddying
stream paused in its whirl to dimple into laughter at their
feet; the sunlight, broken and flecked by the waving branches,
fell in a shifting golden shower upon their beads; and Nature,
the great mother, through her myriad eyes and tongues,
blessed the betrothal of her dearest child.
| CHAPTER XXXVIII.
WHAT DORA SAID. Outpost | |