 | Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond |  |
ROSAMOND;
OR,
THE YOUTHFUL ERROR.
A TALE OF RIVERSIDE.
1. CHAPTER I.
THE OWNER OF RIVERSIDE.
All the day long the September rain had fallen, and
when the night closed in it showed no sign of weariness,
but with the same monotonous patter dropped upon the
roof, or beat against the windows of the pleasantly lighted
room where a young man sat gazing at the glowing grate,
and listening apparently to the noise of the storm without.
But neither the winds, nor yet the rain, had a part
of that young man's thoughts, for they were with the
past, and the chain which linked them to that past was
the open letter which lay on the table beside him. For
that letter he had waited long and anxiously, wondering
what it would contain, and if his overtures for reconciliation
with one who had erred far more than himself, would
be accepted. It had come at last, and with a gathering
coldness at his heart he had read the decision,—“she
would not be reconciled,” and she bade him “go his way
alone and leave her to herself.”
“It is well,” he said; “I shall never trouble her again,”
—and with a feeling of relief, as if a heavy load, a dread
of coming evil, had been taken from his mind, he threw
the letter upon the table, and leaning back in his cushioned
chair, tried to fancy that the last few years of his
life were blotted out.
“Could it be so, Ralph Browning would be a different
man,” he said aloud; then, as he glanced round the richly
furnished room, he continued—“People call me happy,
and so perhaps I might be, but for this haunting memory.
Why was it suffered to be, and must I make a life-long
atonement for that early sin?”
In his excitement he arose, and crushing the letter for
a moment in his hand, hurled it into the fire; then, going
to his private drawer, he took out and opened a neatly
folded package, containing a long tress of jet black hair.
Shudderingly he wound it around his fingers, laid it over
the back of his hand, held it up to the light, and then
with a hard, dark look upon his face, threw it, too, upon
the grate, saying aloud, “Thus perisheth every memento
of the past, and I am free again—free as air!”
He walked to the window, and pressing his burning
forehead against the cool, damp pane, looked out upon
the night. He could not see through the darkness, but
had it been day, his eye would have rested on broad acres
all his own; for Ralph Browning was a wealthy man, and
the house in which he lived was his by right of inheritance
from a bachelor uncle for whom he had been named,
and who, two years before our story opens, had died,
leaving to his nephew the grand old place, called Riverside,
from its nearness to the river. It was a most beautiful
spot; and when its new master first took possession
for the elder Browning as people mourn for a good man,
felt themselves somewhat consoled from the fact that his
successor was young and handsome, and would doubtless
prove an invaluable acquisition to their fireside circles,
and furnish a theme for gossip, without which no village
can well exist. But in the first of their expectations they
were mistaken, for Mr. Browning shunned rather than
sought society, and spent the most of his leisure hours in
the seclusion of his library, where, as Mrs. Peters, his
housekeeper, said, he did nothing but mope over books
and walk the floor. “He was melancholy,” she said;
“there was something workin' on his mind, and what it
was she didn't know more'n the dead—though she knew
as well as she wanted to, that he had been crossed in love,
for what else would make so many of his hairs gray, and
he not yet twenty-five!”
That there was a mystery connected with him, was conceded
by most of the villagers, and many a curious gaze
they bent upon the grave, dignified young man, who seldom
joined in their pastime or intruded himself upon
their company. Much sympathy was expressed for him
in his loneliness, by the people of Granby, and more than
one young girl would gladly have imposed upon herself
the task of cheering that loneliness; but he seemed perfectly
invulnerable to maiden charms; and when Mrs. Peters,
as she often did, urged him “to take a wife and be
somebody,” he answered quietly, “I am content to follow
the example of my uncle. I shall probably never marry.”
Still he was lonely in his great house—so lonely that,
though it hurt his pride to do it, he wrote the letter, the
answer to which excited him so terribly, and awoke within
that he did not hear the summons to supper until Mrs.
Peters put her head into the room, asking “if he were
deaf or what.”
Mrs. Peters had been in the elder Browning's household
for years, and when the new owner came, she still
continued at her post, and exercised over her young
master a kind of motherly care, which he permitted because
he knew her real worth, and that without her his
home would be uncomfortable indeed. On the occasion
of which we write, Mrs. Peters was unusually attentive,
and to a person at all skilled in female tactics, it was evident
that she was about to ask a favor, and had made
preparations accordingly. His favorite waffles had been
buttered exactly right—the peaches and cream were delicious—the
fragrant black tea was neither too strong nor
too weak—the fire blazed brightly in the grate—the light
from the chandelier fell softly upon the massive silver service
and damask cloth;—and with all these creature comforts
around him, it is not strange that he forgot the letter
and the tress of hair which so lately had blackened on the
coals. The moment was propitious, and by the time he
had finished his second cup, Mrs. Peters said, “I have
some thing to propose.”
Leaning back in his chair, he looked inquiringly at her,
and she continued: “You remember Mrs. Leyton, the
poor woman who had seen better days, and lived in East
Granby?”
“Yes.”
“You know she has been sick, and you gave me leave
to carry her any thing I chose?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she's dead, poor thing, and what is worse, she
hain't no connection, nor never had, and her little daughter
Rosamond hain't a place to lay her head.”
“Let her come and sleep with you, then,” said Mr.
Browning, rattling his spoon upon the edge of his cup.
“Yes, and what'll she do days?” continued Mrs. Peters.
“She can't run the streets, that's so; now, I don't believe
no great in children, and you certainly don't b'lieve in 'em
at all, nor your poor uncle before you; but Rosamond aint
a child; she's thirteen—most a woman—and if you don't
mind the expense, I shan't mind the trouble, and she can
live here till she finds a place. Her mother, you know,
took up millinering to get a living.”
“Certainly, let her come,” answered Mr. Browning, who
was noted for his benevolence.
This matter being thus satisfactorily settled, Mrs. Peters
arose from the table, while Mr. Browning went back to
the olden memories which had haunted him so much that
day, and with which there was not mingled a single thought
of the little Rosamond, who was to exert so strong an influence
upon his future life.
2. CHAPTER II.
ROSAMOND LEYTON.
Rosamond had been some weeks at Riverside, and during
all that time Mr. Browning had scarcely noticed her
at all. On the first day of her arrival he had spoken
kindly to her, asking her how old she was, and how long
her mother had been dead, and this was all the attention
he had paid to her. He did not even yet know the color
of her eyes, or texture of her hair,—whether it were curly
or straight, black or brown; but he knew in various ways
that she was there—knew it by the sound of dancing feet
upon the stairs, which were wont to echo only to Mrs.
Peters' heavy tread—knew it by the tasteful air his room
suddenly assumed—by the ringing laugh and musical
songs which came often from the kitchen, and by the thousand
changes which the presence of a merry-hearted girl
of thirteen brings to a hitherto silent house. Of him
Rosamond stood considerably in awe, and though she
could willingly have worshipped him for giving her so
pleasant a home, she felt afraid of him and kept out of his
way, watching him with childish curiosity at a distance,
admiring his noble figure, and wondering if she would
ever dare speak to him as fearlessly as Mrs. Peters did.
From this woman Rosamond received all a mother's
care, and though the name of her lost parent was often
on her lips, she was beginning to be very happy in her
new home, when one day toward the middle of October,
Mrs. Van Vechten, who lived South, was coming to Riverside,
together with her son Ben. The lady Mrs. Peters
had never seen, but Ben, who was at school in Albany,
had spent a vacation there, and she described him as a
“great, good-natured fool,” who cared for nothing but
dogs, cigars, fast horses and pretty girls.
Rosamond pushed back the stray curls which had fallen
over her face, glanced at the cracked mirror which gave
her two noses instead of one, and thinking to herself, “I
wonder if he'll care for me,” listened attentively while Mrs.
Peters continued,—“This Miss Van Vechten is a mighty
fine lady, they say, and has heaps of niggers to wait on
her at home,—but she can't bring 'em here, for I should
set 'em free—that's so. I don't b'lieve in't. What was
I sayin'? Oh, I know, she can't wait on herself, and
wrote to have her brother get some one. He asked me
if you'd be willin' to put on her clothes, wash her face,
and chaw her victuals like enough.”
“Mr. Browning never said that,” interrupted Rosamond,
and Mrs. Peters replied—“Well, not that exactly,
but he wants you to wait on her generally.”
“I'll do any thing reasonable,” answered Rosamond.
“When will she be here?”
“In two or three days,” said Mrs. Peters, “and I must
hurry, or I shan't have them north chambers ready for her.
Ben ain't coming quite so soon.”
The two or three days passed rapidly, and at the close
of the third a carriage laden with trunks stopped before
the gate at Riverside, and Mrs. Van Vechten had come.
She was a thin, sallow-faced, proud-looking woman, wholly
unlike her brother, whose senior she was by many years.
of her own fancied superiority was perceptible in
every movement. She was Mrs. Richard Van Vechten, of
Alabama—one of the oldest families in the state. Her
deceased husband had been United States Senator—she
had been to Europe—had seen the Queen on horseback—
had passed the residence of the Duchess of Sutherland,
and when Rosamond Leyton appeared before her in her
neatly-fitting dress of black and asked what she could do
for her, she elevated her eyebrows, and coolly surveying
the little girl, answered haughtily, “Comb out my hair.”
“Yes, I will,” thought Rosamond, who had taken a dislike
to the grand lady, and suiting the action to the
thought, she did comb out her hair, pulling it so unmercifully
that Mrs. Van Vechten angrily bade her stop.
“Look at me, girl,” said she; “did you ever assist at
any ones toilet before?”
“I've hooked Mrs. Peters' dress and pinned on Bridget's
collar,” answered Rosamond, her great brown eyes brimming
with mischief.
“Disgusting!” returned Mrs. Van Vechten—“I should
suppose Ralph would know better than to get me such
an ignoramus. Were you hired on purpose to wait on
me?”
“Why, no, ma'am—I live here,” answered Rosamond.
“Live here!” repeated Mrs. Van Vechten, “and pray,
what do you do?”
“Nothing much, unless I choose,” said Rosamond, who,
being a great pet with Mrs. Peters and the other servants,
really led a very easy life at Riverside.
Looking curiously into the frank, open face of the
young girl, Mrs. Van Vechten concluded she was never
her hand she said, “You may go; I can dress myself
alone.”
That evening, as the brother and sister sat together in
the parlor, the latter suddenly asked, “Who is that Rosamond
Leyton, and what is she doing here?”
Mr. Browning told her all he knew of the girl, and she
continued, “Do you intend to educate her?”
“Educate her!” said he—“what made you think of
that?”
“Because,” she answered, with a sarcastic smile, “as
you expect to do penance the rest of your lifetime, I did
not know but you would deem it your duty to educate
every beggar who came along.”
The idea of educating Rosamond Leyton was new to
Mr. Browning, but he did not tell his sister so—he merely
said, “And suppose I do educate her?”
“In that case,” answered the lady, “Ben will not pass
his college vacations here, as I had intended that he should
do.”
“And why not?” asked Mr. Browning.
“Why not?” repeated Mrs. Van Vechten. “Just as
though you did not know how susceptible he is to female
beauty, and if you treat this Rosamond as an equal, it will
be like him to fall in love with her at once. She is very
pretty, you know.”
Mr. Browning did not know any such thing. In fact,
he scarcely knew how the young girl looked, but his sister's
remark had awakened in him an interest, and after
she had retired, which she did early, he rang the bell for
Mrs. Peters, who soon appeared in answer to his call.
“Is Rosamond Leyton up,” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Peters, wondering at the
question.
“Send her to me,” he said, and with redoubled amazement
Mrs. Peters carried the message to Rosamond, who
was sitting before the fire, trying in vain to undo an obstinate
knot in her boot-string.
“Mr. Browning sent for me!” she exclaimed, her cheeks
flushing up. “Wants to scold me, I suppose, for pulling
his sister's hair. I only did what she told me to,” and
with a beating heart she started for the parlor.
Rosamond was afraid of Mr. Browning, and feeling
sure that he intended to reprove her, she took the chair
nearest to the door, and covering her face with her hands,
began to cry, saying—“It was ugly in me, I know, to
pull Mrs. Van Vechten's hair, and I did it on purpose,
too; but I wont do so again, I certainly wont.”
Mr. Browning was confounded. This was the first intimation
he had received of the barberic performance, and
for a moment he remained silent, gazing at the little girl.
Her figure was very slight, her feet and hands were very
small, and her hair, though disordered now and rough,
was of a beautiful brown, and fell in heavy curls around
her neck. He saw all this at a glance, but her face, the
point to which his attention was chiefly directed, he could
not see until those little hands were removed, and as a
means of accomplishing this he at last said, kindly—“I
do not understand you, Rosamond. My sister has entered
no complaint, and I did not send for you to censure you.
I wish to talk with you—to get acquainted. Will you
come and sit by me upon the sofa?”
Rosamond's hands came down from her face, but she
did not leave her seat; neither did Mr. Browning now
upon her, giving him a much better view of her features
than if she had been nearer to him. If, as Mrs. Peters
had said, Ben Van Vechten was fond of pretty girls, he
in a measure inherited the feeling from his uncle, who
was an ardent admirer of the beautiful, and who now
felt a glow of satisfaction in knowing that Rosamond
Leyton was pretty. It was a merry, sparkling, little face
which he looked upon, and though the nose did turn
up a trifle, and the mouth was rather wide, the soft,
brown eyes, and exquisitely fair complexion made ample
amends for all. She was never intended for a menial—
she would make a beautiful woman—and with thoughts
similar to these, Mr. Browning, after completing his
survey of her person, said—“Have you been to school
much?”
“Always, until I came here,” was her answer; and he
continued—“And since then you have not looked in a
book, I suppose?”
The brown eyes opened wide as Rosamond replied,—
“Why, yes I have. I've read ever so much in your library
when you were gone. Mrs. Peters told me I might,”
she added hastily, as she saw his look of surprise, and
mistook it for displeasure.
“I am perfectly willing,” he said; “but what have you
read? Tell me.”
Rosamond was interested at once, and while her cheeks
glowed and her eyes sparkled, she replied—“Oh, I've read
Shakespeare's Historical Plays, every one of them—and
Chlide Harold, and Watts on the Mind, and Kenilworth,
and now I'm right in the middle of the Lady of the
Lake. Wasn't Fitz-James the King? I believe he
that.”
Mr. Browning could not forbear a smile at her enthusiasm,
but without answering her question, he said,—
“What do you intend to do until you are old enough?”
Rosamond's countenance fell, and after tapping her foot
upon the carpet awhile, she said, “Mrs. Peters will get
me a place by-and-by, and I s'pose I'll have to be a milliner.”
“Do you wish to be one?”
“Why, no; nor mother didn't either, but after father
died she had to do something. Father was a kind of a
lawyer, and left her poor.”
“Do you wish to go away from here, Rosamond?”
There were tears on the long-fringed eye-lashes as the
young girl replied, “No, sir; I'd like to live here always,
but there's nothing for me to do.”
“Unless you go to school. How would you like
that?”
“I have no one to pay the bills,” and the curly head
shook mournfully.
“But I have money, Rosamond, and suppose I say that
you shall stay here and go to school?”
“Oh, sir, will you say so? May I live with you always?”
and forgetting her fear of him in her great joy, Rosamond
Leyton crossed over to where he sat, and laying both her
hands upon his shoulder, continued—“Are you in earnest,
Mr. Browning? May I stay? Oh, I'll be so good to
you when you are old and sick!”
It seemed to her that he was old enough to be her
father, then, and it almost seemed so to him. Giving her
a very paternal look, he answered, “Yes, child, you shall
be wondering what keeps you.”
Rosamond started to leave the room, but ere she reached
the door she paused, and turning to Mr. Browning, said,
“You have made me so happy, and I like you so much, I
wish you'd let me kiss your hand—may I?”
It was a strange question, and it sent the blood tingling
to the very tips of Mr. Browning's fingers.
“Why, ye-es,—I don't know. What made you think
of that?” he said, and Rosamond replied,—“I always
kissed father when he made me very happy. It was all I
could do.”
“But I am not your father,” stammered Mr. Browning;
“I shall not be twenty-five until November. Still
you can do as you please.”
“Not twenty-five yet,” repeated Rosamond;—“why,
I thought you were nearer forty. I don't believe I'd better,
though I like you just as well. Good night.”
He heard her go through the hall, up the stairs, through
the upper hall, and then all was still again.
“What a strange little creature she is,” he thought;
“so childlike and frank, but how queer that she should
ask to kiss me! Wouldn't Susan be shocked if she knew
it, and won't she be horrified when I tell her I am going
to educate the girl. I shouldn't have thought of it but
for her. And suppose Ben does fall in love with her. If
he knew a little more, it would not be a bad match.
Some body must keep up our family, or it will become extinct.
Susan and I are the only ones left, and I”—
here he paused, and starting to his feet, he paced the floor
hurriedly, nervously, as if seeking to escape from some
pursuing evil. “It is terrible,” he whispered, “but I can
to dream strange dreams of tresses black, and ringlets
brown,—of fierce, dark eyes, and shining orbs, whose
owner had asked to kiss his hand, and mistaken him for
her sire.
3. CHAPTER III.
BEN'S VISIT.
The next morning, as Mrs. Van Vechten was slowly
making her toilet alone, there came a gentle rap at her
door, and Rosamond Leyton appeared, her face fresh and
blooming as a rose-bud, her curls brushed back from her
forehead, and her voice very respectful, as she said—“I
have come to ask your pardon for my roughness yesterday.
I can do better, and if you will let me wait on you
while you stay, I am sure I shall please you.”
Mrs. Van Vechten could not resist that appeal, and she
graciously accepted the girl's offer, asking her the while
what had made the change in her behavior. Always
frank and truthful, Rosamond explained to the lady that
Mr. Browning's kindness had filled her with gratitude and
determined her to do as she had done. To her Mrs. Van
Vechten said nothing, but when she met her brother at
the breakfast table, there was an ominous frown upon her
face, and the moment they were alone she gave him her
opinion without reserve. But Mr. Browning was firm.
“He should have something to live for,” he said, “and
Heaven only knew the lonely hours he passed with no
object in which to be interested. Her family, though unfortunate,
are highly respectable,” he added, “and if I
can make her a useful ornament in society, it is my duty
to do so.”
Mrs. Van Vechten knew how useless it would be to remonstrate
with him, and she gave up the contest, mentally
resolving that “Ben should not pass his College vacations
there.”
When the villagers learned that Mr. Browning intended
to educate Rosamond and treat her as his equal, they ascribed
it wholly to the influence of his sister, who, of
course, had suggested to him an act which seemed every
way right and proper. They did not know how the lady
opposed it, nor how, for many days, she maintained a cold
reserve toward the young girl, who strove in various
ways to conciliate her, and at last succeeded so far that
she not only accepted her services at her toilet, but even
asked of her sometimes to read her to sleep in the afternoon,
a process neither long nor tedious, for Mrs. Van
Vechten was not literary, and by the time the second page
was reached she usually nodded her full acquiescence to
the author's opinions, and Rosamond was free to do as she
pleased.
One afternoon when Mrs. Van Vechten was fast asleep
and Rosamond deep in the “Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner,”
(the former having selected that poem as an opiate
because of its musical jingle,) there was the sound of a
bounding step upon the stairs, accompanied by the stirring
notes of Yankee Doodle, which some one whistled at the
top of his voice. Rosamond was about going to see who
it was, when the door opened and disclosed to view a long
lank, light-haired, good-natured looking youth, dressed in
the extreme of fashion, with a huge gold chain dangling
across his vest, and an immense diamond ring upon his
little finger. This last he managed to show frequently by
caressing his chin, where, by the aid of a microscope, a
was Ben! He had just arrived, and learning that his
mother was in her room, had entered it unceremoniously.
The unexpected apparition of a beautiful young girl
startled him, and he introduced himself to her good graces
by the very expressive exclamation, “Thunder! I beg
your pardon, Miss,” he continued, as he met her surprised
and reproving glance. “You scared me so I didn't know
what else to say. It's a favorite expression of mine, but
I'll quit it, if you say so. Do you live here?”
“I wait upon your mother,” was the quiet answer,
which came near wringing from the young man a repetition
of the offensive word.
But he remembered himself in time, and then continued,
“How do you know she's my mother? You are right,
though. I'm Ben Van Vechten—the veriest dolt in school,
they say. But, as an offset, I've got a heart as big as an
ox; and now, who are you? I know you are not a waiting-maid!”
Rosamond explained who she was, and then, rather
pleased with his off-hand manner, began to question him
concerning his journey, and so forth. Ben was delighted.
It was not every girl who would of her own accord talk
to him, and sitting down beside her, he told her twice
that she was handsome, was cautiously winding his arm
around her waist, when from the rosewood bedstead
there came the sharp, quick word, “Benjamin!” and, unmindful
of Rosamond's presence, Ben leaped into the
middle of the room, ejaculating, “Thunder! mother,
what do you want?”
“I want her to leave the room,” said Mrs. Van Vechten,
pointing toward Rosamond, who, wholly ignorant of the
she had displeased the capricious lady.
Although Ben Van Vechten would not have dared to
do a thing in direct opposition to his mother's commands,
he was ot ordinarily afraid of her, and he now listened
impatiently, while she told him that Rosamond Leyton
was not a fit associate for a young man like himself, “She
was a sort of nobody, whom her brother had undertaken
to educate,” she said, “and though she might be rather
pretty, she was low-born and vulgar, as any one could
see.”
Ben confessed to a deficiency of eye-sight on that point,
and then, as his mother showed no signs of changing the
conversation, he left her abruptly, and sauntered off into
the garden, where he came suddenly upon Rosamond, who
was finishing the Ancient Mariner in the summer-house,
her favorite resort.
“So we've met again,” said he, “and a pretty lecture
I've had on your account.”
“Why on my account,” asked Rosamond; and Ben,
who never kept a thing to himself, told her in substance
all his mother had said.
“She always wakes in the wrong time,” said he, “and
she saw me just as I was about to give you a little bit of
a hug—so”—and he proceeded to demonstrate.
Rosamond's temper was up, and equally indignant at
mother and son, she started to her feet, exclaiming, “I'd
thank you, sir, to let me alone.”
“Whew-ew,” whistled Ben. “Spunky, ain't you. Now
I rather like that. But pray don't burst a blood vessel.
I've no notion of making love to you, if mother does think
so. You are too small a girl.”
“Too small a girl,” repeated Rosamond, scornfully.
“I'm fourteen to-morrow—quite too old to be insulted,”
and she darted away, followed by the merry laugh of the
good-humored Ben.
Two hours before, Rosamond would not have been so
excited, for though nearly fourteen, she was in thought
and feeling a very child, as was proved by her asking to
kiss her benefactor's hand; but Mrs. Van Vechten's remarks,
repeated to her by Ben, had wrought in her a
change, and, in some respects, transformed her into a
woman at once. She did not care so much for the liberties
Ben had attempted to take, but his mother's words
rankled in her bosom, awakening within her a feeling of
bitter resentment; and when, next day, the lady's bell
rang out its summons for her to come, she sat still upon
the door-steps and gave no heed.
“Rosamond,” said Mrs. Peters, “Mrs. Van Vechten is
ringing for you.”
“Let her ring, I'm not going to wait on her any
more,” and Rosamond returned to the book she was
reading.
Meantime, flurried and impatient, the lady above stairs
pulled at the bell-rope, growing more nervous and angry
with every pull, until at last, as she heard her brother's
step in the hall, she went out to him and said, “I wish
you'd send that girl to me. I've rung at least fifty times;
and dare say she's enticing Ben again. I knew it would
be so.”
Going hurriedly down the stairs, Mr. Browning sought
out Rosamond and said to her, “My sister is ringing for
you.”
“I know it, sir;” and the brown eyes, which heretofore
which puzzled him.
“Then why do you not go?” he asked; and the young
girl replied, “I shall not wait upon her any more.”
“Rosamond!” said Mr. Browning. There was severity
in the tone of his voice, and Rosamond roused at once.
“She says I am vulgar, and low-born, and have designs
upon Ben,” said she, “and it's a falsehood. My mother
was as much a lady as she. I am not vulgar, and I hate
Ben, and I won't stay here if I must wait on her. Shall
I go away?”
If Rosamond left, the life of the house went with her.
This Mr. Browning knew; but man-like, he did not wish
to be conquered by a woman, and after questioning her as
to the nature of Mrs. Van Vechten's offence, he answered,
“My sister says some foolish things, I know, but it is my
request that you attend to her while she stays, and I expect
to be obeyed.”
That last word was unfortunate, for Rosamond had a
strong will of her own, and tapping her little foot upon
the ground, she said saucily, “And suppose you are not
obeyed?”
He did not tell her she must leave Riverside, but he
said, “You must answer for your disobedience to me, who
have certainly some right to control you;” then, fearing
that his own high temper might be tried more than he
chose to have it, he walked away just in time to avoid
hearing her say, “she cared less for him than for his
sister!”
Rosamond was too impulsive not to repent bitterly of
her conduct; and though she persisted in leaving Mrs.
Van Vechten to herself, and refused to speak to Ben,
she almost cried herself sick, and at last, startled
Mrs. Peters, just as that lady was stepping into bed, by
declaring that she must see Mr. Browning before she slept.
Mr. Browning sat in his library, alone. He did not
usually retire early, but this night he had cause for wakefulness.
The burst of passion he had witnessed in his
protege, had carried him back to a time when another than
little Rosamond Leyton had laughed his wishes to scorn.
“And is it ever thus with them?” he said. “Are all
women furies in disguise?—and Rosamond seemed so
gentle, so good.”
He did not hear the low knock on his door, for his
thoughts were far away in the south-land, where he had
learned his first lesson of womankind. Neither did he
hear the light footfall upon the floor, but when a sweet,
tearful voice said to him, “Mr. Browning, are you feeling
so badly for me?” he started, and on a hassock at his
feet saw Rosamond Leyton. The sight of her was unexpected,
and it startled him for a moment, but soon recovering
his composure, he said gently: “Why are you here?
I supposed you were in bed.”
Rosamond began to cry, and with her usual impetuosity
replied, “I came to tell you how sorry I am for behaving
so rudely to you. I do try to govern my temper so hard,
but it sometimes gets the mastery. Won't you forgive
me, sir? It wasn't Rosamond that acted so—it was a
vile, wicked somebody else. Will you forgive me?” and
in her dread that the coveted forgiveness might be withheld,
she forgot that he was only twenty-four, and laid her
head upon his knee, sobbing like a little child.
“Had she done like this, how different would my life
have been,” thought Mr. Browning, and involuntarily
caressing the curly head, he was about to speak, when
Rosamond interrupted him, saying,
“I won't deceive you, Mr. Browning, and make you
think I'm better than I am. I am sorry I acted so to you,
but I don't believe I'm sorry about Mrs. Van Vechten. I
don't like her, for she always treats me as though I were
not near as good as she, and I can't wait on her any more.
Must I? Oh, don't make me,” and she looked beseechingly
into his face.
He could not help respecting her for that inborn feeling,
which would not permit herself to be trampled down, and
though he felt intuitively that she was having her own
way after all, he assured her of his forgiveness, and then
added: “Mrs. Van Vechten will not require your services,
for she received a letter to-night, saying her presence was
needed at home, and she leaves us to-morrow.”
“And Ben?” she asked—“does he go, too?”
“He accompanies his mother to New York,” Mr. Browning
said, “and I believe she intends leaving him there with
a friend, until his school commences again.”
In spite of herself, Rosamond rather liked Ben, and feeling
that she was the cause of his banishment from Riverside,
her sympathy was enlisted for him, and she said, “If
I were not here, Ben would stay. Hadn't you rather send
me away?”
“No, Rosamond, no; I need you here,” was Mr.
Browning's reply, and then as the clock struck eleven, he
bade her leave him, saying it was time children like her
were in bed.
As he had said, Mrs. Van Vechten was going away,
traveling dress, appearing very unamiable, and looking
very cross at Rosamond, with whom she finally parted
without a word of reconciliation. Ben on the contrary,
was all affability, and managed slyly to kiss her, telling
her he should come there again in spite of his mother.
After their departure the household settled back into
its usual monotonous way of living, with the exception
that Rosamond, being promoted to the position of an
equal, became, in many respects, the real mistress of
Riverside, though Mrs. Peters nominally held the reins,
and aside from superintending her work, built many castles
of the future when her protege would be a full grown
woman and her master still young and handsome!
4. CHAPTER IV.
ROSAMOND'S EDUCATION.
One year has passed away since Mrs. Van Vechten departed
for the South, and up the locust lined avenue which
leads to Riverside, the owner of the place is slowly riding.
It is not pleasant going home to-night, and so he lingers
by the way, wondering why it is that the absence of a
child should make so much difference in one's feelings!
During the year Rosamond had recited her lessons to him,
but with many others he fancied no girl's education could
be finished unless she were sent away—and two weeks
before the night of which we write he had taken her himself
to Atwater Seminary, a distance of more than two
hundred miles, and then, with a sense of desolation for
which he could not account, he had returned to his home,
which was never so lonely before. There was no merry
voice within the walls,—no tripping feet upon the stairs,—
no soft, white hand to bathe his forehead when suffering
from real or fancied headaches,—no slippers waiting by
his chair,—no flowers on the mantle,—no bright face at
the window,—no Rosamond at the door.
Of all this was he thinking that November afternoon,
and when at last he reached his house, he went straight
to his library, hoping to find a letter there, telling him of
her welfare. But letter there was none, and with a feeling
of disappointment he started to the parlor. The door
was ajar and he caught glimpses of a cheerfully blazing
the curtains were put back just as they used to be when
she was there. It seemed like the olden time, and with
spirits somewhat enlivened he advanced into the room.
His favorite chair stood before the fire, and so near to it
that her head was leaning on its arm, sat a young girl.
Her back was turned toward him, but he knew that form
full well, and joyfully he cried, “Rosamond, how came
you here?”
Amid her smiles and tears, Rosamond attempted to tell
him the story of her grievances. She was homesick, and
she could not learn half so much at the Atwater Seminary
as at home—then, too, she hated the straight-jacket rules,
and hated the lady-boarder, who pretended to be sick,
and wouldn't let the school-girls breathe, especially Rosamond
Leyton, for whom she seemed to have conceived a
particular aversion.
Pleased as Mr. Browning was to have Rosamond with
him again, he did not quite like her reasons for coming
back, and he questioned her closely as to the cause of her
sudden return.
“I shouldn't have come, perhaps,” said Rosamond, “if
that sick woman hadn't been so nervous and disagreeable.
She paid enormous sums for her board, and so Mrs.
Lindsey would hardly let us breathe for fear of disturbing
her. My room was over hers, and I had to take off my
shoes and walk on tip-toe, and even then she complained
of me, saying I was rude and noisy, when I tried so hard
to be still. I made some hateful remark about her in the
hall, which she overheard, and when Mrs. Lindsey scolded
me for it, saying she was a very wealthy lady from Florida,
and accustomed to every attention at home, I said back
and tell you, and so I thought I'd come and tell you myself.”
There was a dizzy whirl in Mr. Browning's brain—a
pallor about his lips—for a terrible suspicion had flashed
upon him, and leaning forward, he said in a voice almost
a whisper, “What was the Florida lady's name?”
“Potter, or Porter—yes, Miss Porter, that was it. But
what is the matter? Are you sick?” Rosamond asked,
as she saw how white he was.
“Only a sudden faintness. It will soon pass off,” he
said. “Tell me more of her. Did she see you? Were
you near her?”
“No,” answered Rosamond. “She was sick all the time
I was there, and did not leave her room. The girls said,
though, that she was rather pretty, but had big, black,
evil-looking eyes. I don't know why it was, but I felt
afraid of her—felt just as though she was my evil genius.
I couldn't help it—but you are sick, Mr. Browning—you
are pale as a ghost. Lie down upon the sofa, and let me
bring the pillows, as I used to do.”
She darted off in the direction of his sleeping-room,
unconscious of the voice which called after her, asking if
it were not dark in the hall, and bidding her take a light.
“But what does it matter?” he said, as he tottered to
the sofa. She is not here. Atwater Seminary is two
hundred miles away. She can't harm Rosamond now.”
By this time Rosamond came with the pillows, which
she arranged upon the sofa, making him like down while
she sat by, and laid her hand soothingly upon his burning
forehead.
“We will have tea in here to-night,” she said, “I told
any better?” and she brought her rosy face so near to his
that he felt her warm breath upon his cheek.
“Yes, I am better,” he replied, “but keep your hand
upon my forehead. It assures me of your presence, when
my eyes are shut.”
So Rosamond sat beside him, and when Mrs. Peters
came in to lay the cloth, she found them thus together.
Smiling knowingly, she whispered to herself, “'Nater is
the same every where,” and the good lady bustled in
and out, bringing her choicest bits and richest cake in
honor of her pet's return. That night, freed from boarding-school
restraint, Rosamond slept soundly in her own
pleasant chamber, but to Ralph Browning, pacing up and
down his room, there came not a moment of unconsciousness.
He could not forget how near he had been to one
who had embittered his whole life—nor yet how near to
her young Rosamond had been, and he shuddered as if
the latter had escaped an unseen danger. Occasionally,
too, the dread thought stole over him, “suppose she
should come here, and with her eagle eyes discover what,
if it exist at all, is hidden in the inmost recesses of my
heart.”
But of this he had little fear, and when the morning
came he was himself again, and, save that it was haggard
and pale, his face gave no token of the terrible night he
had passed. But what should he do with Rosamond?
This was the question which now perplexed him. He had
no desire to send her from him again, neither would she
have gone if he had—and he at last came to the very sensible
conclusion that the school in his own village was
quite as good as any, and she accordingly became an attendant
remained for two years and a half, over which time we
will pass silently and introduce her again to our readers,
when she is nearly eighteen—a graduate—a belle—and
the sunshine of Riverside.
5. CHAPTER V.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
During the time which had elapsed since Ben Van
Vechten first made the acquaintance of Rosamond, he
had not once been to Riverside, for failing to enter college,
and overwhelmed with mortification at his failure,
he had returned to Alabama, from which place he wrote
to her occasionally, always addressing her as a little girl,
and speaking of himself as a very ancient personage in
comparison with herself. But that Rosamond was now
no longer a little girl, was proved by her finely rounded
figure, her intelligent face, her polished manners and self-reliant
air. And Rosamond was beautiful, too—so beautiful
that strangers invariably asked who she was, turning
always for a second look, when told she was the adopted
sister or daughter—the villagers hardly knew which—of
the wealthy Mr. Browning. But whether she were the
daughter or the sister of the man with whom she lived,
she was in reality the mistress of his household, and those
who at first slighted her as the child of a milliner, now
gladly paid her homage as one who was to be the heir of
Mr. Browning's wealth. He would never marry her, the
wise ones thought—would never marry anybody—and so,
with this understanding, he was free to talk, walk, and
ride with her as often as he chose. He liked her, the
people said, but did not love her, while Rosamond herself
harsh was his manner toward her at times.
This coldness had increased of late, and when the Lawries,
who, next to Mr. Browning, were the most aristocratic
people in the place, suggested that she should accompany
them for a few weeks to the Springs, she was
delighted with the plan, and nothing doubting that Mr.
Browning would be glad to have her out of the way, she
went to him for his consent. She found him in his
library, apparently so absorbed in reading that he did not
observe her approach until she stood between him and
the light. Then he looked up quickly, and, as she fancied,
an expression of displeasure passed over his face.
“Excuse me for disturbing you,” she said, rather
petulantly; “I have to break in upon your privacy if I
would see you at all.”
He gave her a searching glance, and then laying aside
his book and folding his arms, said pleasantly, “I am at
your service now, Miss Leyton. What is it you wish?”
Very briefly she stated her request, and then sitting
down in the window, awaited his answer. It was not
given immediately, and when he did speak, he said—
“Rosamond, do you wish to go?”
“Of course I do,” she replied, “I want to go where it
is not as lonesome as I find it here.”
“Lonesome, Rosamond, lonesome,” he repeated, “Riverside
has never been lonesome since—” he paused a
moment and then added, “since you came here.”
The shadow disappeared from Rosamond's face, as she
replied—“I did not suppose you cared to have me here.
I thought you did not like me.”
“Not like you, Rosamond?” and over his fine features
continued:—“You are so cold at times, and shun me as
it were; inventing excuses to drive me from you when
you know I would rather stay.”
“Oh, Rosamond,” he groaned, “how mistaken you are.
The world would be to me a blank were it not for you;
and if my manner is sometimes cold and cruel, it is because
stern duty demands it should be so. I cannot lay
bare my secret heart to you of all others, but could you
know me as I am, you would censure much, but pity
more.” He paused a moment, then, scarcely knowing
what he said, he continued—“Rosamond, we will understand
each other. I shall never marry—never can marry.
In your intercourse with me, will you always remember
that?”
“Why, yes,” answered Rosamond, puzzled to comprehend
him. “I'll remember that you say so, but it is not
likely you'll keep your word.”
“I am not trifling with you,” he said. Marriage is not
for me. There is a dreadful reason why I cannot marry,
and if at times I am cold toward you, it is because—because—”
Rosamond's eyes were riveted upon his face;—darker
and darker they grew, becoming at last almost black in
their intensity. She was beginning to understand him,
and coloring crimson, she answered bitterly, “I know
what you would say, but you need have no fears, for I
never aspired to that honor. Rosamond Leyton has yet
to see the man she could love.”
“Rosamond,” and Mr. Browning's voice was so low,
so mournful in its tone that it quelled the angry feelings
in the young girl's bosom, and she offered no resistance
as he did so—“Listen to me. You came here a little
girl, and at first I did not heed you, but you made your
presence felt in various ways, until at last I thought I
could not live without you. You are a young lady now—
the world calls you beautiful. To me you are beautiful.
Oh, so beautiful,” and he laid one hand upon her shining
hair, softly, tenderly, nay, proudly, as if she had been his
child. “I am not old yet, and it would be natural that
we should love each other, but we must not—we cannot.”
“And lest I should love you too well, you have tried
to make me hate you,” interrupted Rosamond, trying in
vain to release herself from his powerful grasp, and adding,
“but you can spare yourself the trouble. I like you
too well to hate you; but as I live, I would not marry
you if I could. I mean what I say!”
He released her hand, and returning to his chair, laid
his head upon the table, while she continued—“I know
just about how well you like me—how necessary I am to
your comfort, and since fate has decreed that we should
be thrown together, let us contribute to each other's happiness
as far as in us lies. I will think of you as a brother,
if you like, and you shall treat me as a sister, until somebody
takes me off your hands. Now, I can't say I shall
never marry, for I verily believe I shall. Meantime, you
must think of me just as you would if you had a wife.
Is it a bargain, Mr. Browning?”
She spoke playfully, but he knew she was in earnest,
and from his inmost soul he blessed her for having thus
brought the conversation to a close. He would not tell
her why he had said to her what he had—it was not what
he intended to say, and he knew she was in a measure deceived,
not tell her that he trembled for himself far more than
for her, and it was not for her then to know how much
he loved her, nor how that love was wearing his life away
because of its great sin. He was growing old now very
fast. The shadows of years were on his brow, and Rosamond
almost fancied she saw his brown locks turning
white. She was a warm-hearted, impulsive girl, and going
toward him, she parted from his forehead the hair,
streaked with grey, saying softly to him, “Shall it not be
so? May I be your sister?”
“Yes, Rosamond, yes,” was his answer; and then,
wishing to bring him back to the point from which they
started, Rosamond said abruptly—“And what of the
Springs? Can I go?”
The descent was a rapid one, but it was what he needed,
and lifting up his head, he replied, just as he had done
before, “Do you want to go?”
“Not as much as I did when I thought you were
angry, and if you would rather, I had quite as lief stay
with you.”
“Then stay,” he said, “and we will have no more misunderstandings.”
The next evening, as he sat alone in the parlor, a servant
brought to him a letter, the superscription of which
made him reel, as if he would have fallen to the floor. It
was nearly four years since he had seen that hand-writing
—he had hoped never to look upon it again—but it was
there before his eyes, and she who wrote that letter was
coming to Riverside—“would be there in a few days,
Providence permitting. Do not commit suicide on my
account,” she wrote, “for I care as little as yourself to
after other prey, I shall keep my own counsel.”
The letter dropped from his nerveless fingers—the objects
in the room swam before his eyes, and like one on
whom a crushing weight has fallen, he sat bewildered,
until the voice of Rosamond aroused him, and fleeing to
his chamber he locked the door, and then sat down to
think. She was coming to Riverside, and wherefore?
He did not wish for a reconciliation now—he would rather
live there just as he was, with Rosamond.
“Nothing will escape her,” he said; “those basilisk eyes
will see every thing—will ferret out my love for that fair
young girl. Oh, Heaven, is there no escape!”
He heard the voice of Anna Lawrie in the yard. She
was coming for Rosamond's decision, and quick as thought
he rang the bell, bidding the servant who appeared to send
Miss Leyton to him.
“Rosamond,” he said, when she came to the door, “I
have changed my mind. You must go to the Springs.”
“But I'd rather stay at home—I do not wish to go,”
she said.
“I say you must. So tell Miss Lawrie you will,” he
answered, and his eyes flashed almost savagely upon her.
Rosamond waited for no more. She had discovered the
impediment to his marrying. It was hereditary insanity,
and she had seen the first signs of it in him herself! Magnanimously
resolving never to tell a human being, nor let
him be chained if she could help it, however furious he
might become, she went down to Miss Lawrie, telling her
she would go.
One week from that day was fixed upon for their departure,
and during that time Rosamond was too much
Browning. Of one thing she was sure, though—he was
crazy; for what else made him stalk up and down the
gravel-walk, his head bent forward, and his hands behind
him, as if intently thinking. Once, when she saw him
thus, she longed to go out to him, to tell him she knew
his secret, and that she would never leave him, however
unmanageable he should become! But his manner toward
her now was so strange that she dared not, and she was
almost as glad as himself when at last the morning came
for her to go.
“Promise me one thing,” he said, as they stood together
a moment alone. “Don't write until you hear from
me, and don't come home until I send for you.”
“And suppose the Lawries come, what then?” she
asked, and he replied, “No matter; stay until I write.
Here are five hundred dollars in case of an emergency,”
and he thrust a check into her hand. “Stop,” he continued,
as the carriage came round—“did you put your
clothes away where no one can see them, or are you taking
them all with you?”
“Why no, why should I?” she answered. “Ain't I
coming back?”
“Yes, yes—Heaven only knows,” he said. “Oh, Rosamond,
it may be I am parting with you forever, and at
such a moment, is it a sin for you to kiss me? You asked
to do so once. Will you do it now?”
“I will,” she replied, and she kissed, unhesitatingly, his
quivering lips.
The Lawries were at the door—Mrs. Peters also—and
forcing down his emotion, he bade her a calm good-bye.
The carriage rolled away, but ere its occupants were six
belonged to Rosamond had disappeared from her room,
which presented the appearance of any ordinary bedchamber,
and when Mrs. Peters, in great alarm, came to
Mr. Browning, asking what he supposed had become of
them, he answered quietly—“I have put them in my private
closet and locked them up!”
6. CHAPTER VI.
MARIE PORTER.
The Hotels were crowded with visitors. Every apartment
at — Hall, from basement to attic, was full, save
two small rooms, eight by ten, so dingy and uncomfortable,
that only in cases of emergency were they offered to
guests. These, from necessity, were taken by the Lawries,
but for Rosamond there was scarcely found a standing
point, unless she were willing to share the apartment of a
sick lady, who had graciously consented to receive any
genteel, well-bred person, who looked as though they
would be quiet and not rummage her things more than
once a day!
“She was a very high-bred woman,” the obsequious
attendant said, “and her room the best in the house; she
would not remain much longer, and when she was gone
the young lady could have it alone, or share it with her
companions. It contained two beds, of course, besides a
few nails for dresses.”
“Oh, do take it,” whispered the younger Miss Lawrie,
who was not yet thoroughly versed in the pleasures of a
watering place, and who cast rueful glances at her cheerless
pen, so different from her airy chamber at home.
So Rosamond's trunks were taken to No. 20, whither
she herself followed them. The first occupant, it would
seem, was quite an invalid, for though it was four in the
afternoon, she was still in bed. Great pains, however,
could have been more perfect than the arrangement of her
pillows—her hair—her wrapper, and the crimson shawl
she wore about her shoulders. Rosamond bowed to her
politely, and then, without noticing her particularly, went
over to the side of the room she supposed was to be hers.
She had just lain aside her hat when the lady said, “That
open blind lets in too much light. Will you please shut
it Miss — I don't know what to call you.”
“Miss Leyton,” answered Rosamond, “and you are—”
“Miss Porter,” returned the speaker.
“Rosamond started quickly, for she remembered the
name, and looking for the first time directly at the lady,
she met a pair of large black eyes fixed inquiringly upon
her.
“Leyton—Leyton,” repeated the lady, “where have I
heard of you before?”
“At Atwater Seminary, perhaps,” suggested Rosamond,
a little doubtful as to the manner in which her intelligence
would be received.
A shadow flitted over the lady's face, but it was soon
succeeded by a smile, and she said graciously, “Oh, yes,
I know. You annoyed me and I annoyed you. It was
an even thing, and since we are thrown together again,
we will not quarrel about the past. Ain't you going to
close that blind? The light shines full in my face, and,
as I did not sleep one wink last night, I am looking horridly
to-day.”
“Excuse me, madam,” said Rosamond, “I was so taken
by surprise that I forgot your request,” and she proceeded
to shut the blind.
This being done, she divested herself of her soiled garments,
going in quest of her companions, when the lady asked if
she had friends there. Rosamond replied that she had,
at the same time explaining how uncomfortable they
were.
“The Hotel is full,” said the lady, “and they all envy
me my room; but if I pay for the best, I am surely entitled
to the best. I shall not remain here long, however.
Indeed, I did not expect to be here now, but sickness
overtook me. I dare say I am the subject of many anxious
thoughts to the person I am going to visit.”
There was a half-exultant expression upon the lady's
face as she uttered these last words, but in the darkened
room, Rosamond did not observe it. She was sorry for
one thus detained against her will, and leaning against the
foot-board, she said, “You suffer a great deal from ill
health, do you not? Have you always been an invalid?”
“Not always. I was very healthy once, but a great
trouble came upon me, shocking my nervous system terribly,
and since then I have never seen a well day. I was
young when it occurred—about your age, I think. How
old are you, Miss Leyton?”
“I am eighteen next October,” was Rosamond's reply,
and the lady continued, “I was older than that. Most
nineteen. I am twenty-eight now.”
Rosamond did not know why she said it, but she rejoined
quickly, “Twenty-eight, So is Mr. Browning!”
“Who? exclaimed the lady, the tone of her voice so
sharp—so loud and earnest, that Rosamond was startled,
and did not answer for an instant.
When she did, she said, “I beg your pardon; it is Mr.
Browning who is twenty-eight.”
“Ah, yes, I did not quite understand you. I'm a little
hard of hearing. Who is Mr. Browning?”
The voice had assumed its usually soft, smooth tone,
and Rosamond could not see the rapid beatings of the
heart, nor the eager curiosity lurking in the glittering
black eyes. The lady seemed indifferent, and smoothed
carelessly the rich Valenciennes lace, which edged the
sleeve of her cambric wrapper.
“Did you tell me who Mr. Browning was, dear?” and
the black eyes wandered over the counterpane, looking
everywhere but at Rosamond, so fearful was their owner
lest they should betray the interest she felt in the answer.
“Mr. Browning,” said Rosamond, “is—is—I hardly
know what he is to me. I went to his house to live when
I was a little, friendless orphan, and he very kindly educated
me, and made me what I am. I live with him still
at Riverside.”
“Ye-es—Riverside—beau-ti-ful name—his country-seat
—I—sup-pose,” the words dropped syllable by syllable
from the white lips, but there was no quiver in the voice
—no ruffle upon her face.
Raising herself upon her elbow, the lady continued,
“Pray don't think me fidgety, but won't you please open
that shutter. I did not think it would be so dark. There,
that's a good girl. Now, come and sit by me on the bed,
and tell me of Riverside. Put your feet in the chair, or
take this pillow. There, turn a little more to the light.
I like to see people when they talk to me.”
Rosamond complied with each request, and then, never
dreaming of the close examination to which her face was
subjected, she began to speak of her beautiful home—
upon the virtues of its owner.
“You like him very much,” the lady said, nodding a
little affirmative nod to her own question.
“Yes, very—very much,” was Rosamond's answer;
and the lady continued, “And Mrs. Browning? Do you
like her, too?”
“There is no Mrs. Browning,” returned Rosamond,
adding quickly, as she saw in her auditor's face an expression
she did not understand, “but it is perfectly proper
I should live there, for Mrs. Peters, the housekeeper, has
charge of me.”
“Perhaps, then, he will marry you,” and the jeweled
hands worked nervously under the crimson shawl.
“Oh, no, he won't,” said Rosamond, decidedly, “he's
too old for me. Why, his hair is turning gray!”
“That's nothing,” answered the lady, a little sharply.
“Everybody's hair turns early now-a-days. Sarah found
three or four silver threads in mine, this morning. Miss
Leyton, don't you love Mr. Browning?”
“Why, yes,” Rosamond began, and the face upon the
pillow assumed a dark and almost fiendish expression.
“Why, yes, I love him as a brother, but nothing else. I
respect him for his goodness, but it would be impossible
to love him with a marrying love.”
The fierce expression passed away, and Miss Porter was
about to speak when Anna Lawrie sent for Rosamond,
who excused herself and left the room, thinking that, after
all, she should like her old enemy of Atwater Seminary
very much.
Meantime “the enemy” had buried her face in her pillows,
and clenching her blue veined fists, struck at the
Riverside had he been standing there.
“Fine time he has of it,” she muttered, “living there
with her, and she so young and beautiful. I could have
strangled her—the jade!—when she sat here talking so
enthusiastically to me, of him! And she loves him, too.
I know she does, though she don't know it herself. But
I must be wary. I must seem to like this girl—must win
her confidence—so I can probe her heart to its core, and
if I find they love each other!”—she paused a moment,
then grinding her teeth together, added slowly, as if the
sound of her voice were musical and sweet, “Marie Porter
will be avenged!”
That strange woman could be a demon or an angel, and
and as the latter character suited her just now, Rosamond,
on her return to her room, found her all gentleness and
love.
That night, when all around the house was still, the full
moon shone down upon a scene which would have chilled
the blood of Ralph Browning and made his heart stand
still. Upon a single bedstead near the window Rosamond
Leyton lay calmly sleeping—her brown curls floating o'er
the pillow—her cheeks flushed with health and beauty—
her lips slightly apart and her slender hands folded gracefully
upon her bosom. Over her a fierce woman bent—
her long, black hair streaming down her back—her eyes
blazing with passion—her face the impersonation of malignity
and hate; and there she stood, a vulture watching a
harmless dove. Rosamond was dreaming of her home,
and the ogress, standing near, heard her murmur, “dear
Mr. Browning.”
For a moment Marie Porter stood immovable—then
believed, and now if he loves her, the time I've waited for
so long has come.”
All that night she lay awake, burning with excitement
and thirsting for revenge, and when the morning came,
the illness was not feigned which kept her in her bed and
wrung from her cries of pain. She was really suffering
now, and during the next few days, Rosamond staid almost
constantly at her side, administering to her wants,
and caring for her so tenderly that hatred died out of the
woman's heart, and she pitied the fair young girl, for in
those few days she had learned what Rosamond did not
know herself, though she was gradually waking up to it
now. It was a long time since she had been separated
from Mr. Browning, and she missed him so much, following
him in fancy through the day, and at night wondering
if he were thinking of her, and wishing he could hear the
sound of her voice singing to him as she was wont to do
when the twilight was over the earth. Anon there crept
into her heart a feeling she could not define—a feverish
longing to be where he was—a sense of desolation and
terrible pain when she thought of his insanity, and the
long, dreary years which might ensue when he would lose
all knowledge of her. She did not care to talk so much
of him now, but Miss Porter cared to have her, and caressingly
winning the girl's confidence, learned almost every
thing—learned that there was an impediment to his marrying,
and that Rosamond believed that impediment to be
hereditary insanity—learned that he was often fitful and
gloomy, treating his ward sometimes with coldness, and
again with the utmost tenderness. Of the interview in
the library Rosamond did not tell, but she told of every
and then compelling her, against her will, to go; and
Marie Porter, holding the little hands in hers, and listening
to the story, read it all, and read it aright, gloating
over the anguish she knew it cost Ralph Browning to see
that beautiful girl each day and know he must not win her.
“But I pity her,” she said, “for there is coming to her
a terrible awakening.”
Then, for no other reason than a thirst for excitement,
she longed to see that awakening, and one day when they
sat together alone, she took Rosamond's hand in hers,
and examining its scarcely legible lines, said, half playfully,
half seriously, “Rosamond, people have called me
a fortune-teller. I inherited the gift from my grandmother,
and though I do not pretend to much skill, I can
surely read your destiny. You love Mr. Browning. I
have known that all along. You think of him by day—
you dream of him by night, and no thought is half so
sweet as the thought of going home to him. But,
Rosamond, you will not marry him. There is an impediment,
as you say, but not insanity. I cannot tell you
what it is, but I can see,” and she bent nearer to the hand
which trembled in her own. “I can see that for you to
marry him, or—mark me, Rosamond—for you even to
love him, is a most wicked thing—a dreadful sin in the
sight of Heaven, and you must forget him—will you?”
Rosamond had laid her face upon the bed and was sobbing
hysterically, for Miss Porter's manner frightened
her even more than her words. In reply to the question,
“Will you?” she at last answered passionately, “No, I
won't!” It is not wicked to love him as I do. I am his
sister, nothing more.”
Miss Porter's lip curled scornfully a moment, and then
she said, “Let me tell you the story of my life, shall I?”
No answer from Rosamond, and the lady continued:
“When I was about your age I fancied I loved a man
who, I think, must have been much like Mr. Browning—”
“No, no,” interrupted Rosamond. “Nobody was
ever like Mr. Browning. I don't want to hear the story.
I don't want any thing but to go home.”
I will not tell her until it's more necessary, thought
Miss Porter, but if I mistake not she will go home much
sooner than she anticipates. And she was right, for on
that very night Mr. Browning sat reading a letter which
ran as follows:
“I find myself so happy with your little Rosamond,
who chances to be my room-mate, that I have postponed
my visit to Riverside until some future time, which, if
you continue neutral, may never come—but the moment
you trespass on forbidden ground, or breathe a word of
love into her ear—beware! She loves you. I have found
that out, and I tell it because I know it will not make
your life more happy, or your punishment easier to
bear!”
He did not shriek—he did not faint—he did not move
—but from between his teeth two words came like a
burning hiss, “Curse her!” Then, seizing his pen, he
dashed off a few lines, bidding Rosamond “not to delay
a single moment, but to come home at once.”
“She knows it all,” he said, “and now, if she comes
here, it will not be much worse. I can but die, let what
will happen.”
This letter took Rosamond and the Lawries by surprise,
saw how eager Rosamond was to go, she smiled a hard,
bitter smile, and said, “I've a half a mind to go with
you.”
“What! where? To Riverside?” asked Rosamond,
suspending her preparations for a moment, and hardly
knowing whether she were pleased or not.
“Yes, to Riverside,” returned Miss Porter, “though on
the whole, I think I'd better not. Mr. Browning may not
care to see me. If he does, you can write and let me know.
Give him my love, and say that if you had not described
him as so incorrigible an old bach, I might be coming
there to try my powers upon him. I am irresistible in
my diamonds. Be sure and tell him that; and stay,
Rosamond, I must give you some little token of my affection.
What shall it be?” and she feigned to be thinking.
Most cruel must her thoughts have been, and even she
hesitated a moment ere she could bring herself to such an
act. Then with a contemptuous “Pshaw!” she arose and
opening her jewel box took from a private drawer a plain
gold ring, bearing date nine years back, and having inscribed
upon it simply her name “Marie.” This she
brought to Rosamond, saying, “I can't wear it now;—my
hands are too thin and bony, but it just fits you,—see—”
and she placed it upon the third finger of Rosamond's left
hand!
Rosamond thanked her,—admired the chaste beauty of
the ring and then went on with her packing, while the
wicked woman seated herself by the window and leaning
her head upon her hands tried to quiet the voice of conscience
which cried out against the deed she had done.
“It does not matter,” she thought. “That tie was
go. But will he see it! Men do not always observe such
things,” and then, lest he should not quaff the cup of bitterness
prepared for him, she wrote on a tiny sheet of
gilt-edged paper, “Look on Rosamond's third finger!”
This she carefully sealed and gave to Rosamond, bidding
her hand it to Mr. Browning, and saying in answer
to her look of inquiry, “It is about a little matter concerning
yourself. He can show it to you, if he thinks proper!”
“The omnibus, Miss, for the cars,” cried a servant at
the door, and with a hurried good-bye to her friends,
Rosamond departed and was soon on her way to Riverside.
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,
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
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
`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,
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
NEWS.
Nearly two weeks had passed away since the exciting
scene in Mr. Browning's library, and during that time
Rosamond had kept herself aloof from her guardian, meeting
him only at the table, where she maintained toward
him a perfectly respectful but rather freezing manner.
She was deeply mortified to think he had won from her a
confession of her love, and then told her how useless—nay,
worse—how wicked it was for her to think of him. She
knew that he suffered intensely, but she resolutely left him
to suffer alone, and he would rather it should be so. Life
was growing more and more a wearisome burden, and
when, just one week after the library interview, he received
a note in the well-remembered handwriting, he
asked that he might die and forget his grief. The letter
was dated at the Springs, where Miss Porter was still
staying, though she said she intended starting the next
day for Cuyler, a little out-of-the-way place on the lake,
where there was but little company, and she could be
quiet and recruit her nervous system. The latter had
been terribly shocked, she said, by hearing of his recent
attempt at making love to Rosamond Leyton! “Indeed,”
she wrote, “it is to this very love-making that you owe
this letter from me, as I deem it my duty to keep continually
before your mind the fact that I am still alive.”
With a blanched cheek Mr. Browning read this letter
who gave her the information. There were no spies
about his premises. Rosamond would not do it, and it
must have been his sister, though why she should thus
wish to annoy him he did not know, when she, more
than any one else, had been instrumental in placing him
where he was. Once he thought of telling Rosamond
all, but he shrank from this, for she would leave his
house, he knew, and, though she might never again
speak kindly to him, he would rather feel that she was
there.
And so another dreary week went by, and then one
morning there came to him tidings which stopped for an
instant the pulsations of his heart, and sent through his
frame a thrill so benumbing and intense that at first
pity and horror were the only emotions of which he
seemed capable. It came to him in a newspaper paragraph,
which in substance was as follows:
“A sad catastrophe occurred on Thursday afternoon at
Cuyler, a little place upon the lake, which of late has
been somewhat frequented during the summer months.
Three ladies and one gentleman went out in a small
pleasure-boat which is kept for the accommodation of
the guests. They had not been gone very long when a
sudden thunder-gust came on, accompanied by a violent
wind, and the owner of the skiff, feeling some alarm for
the safety of the party, went down to the landing just
in time to see the boat make a few mad plunges with the
waves, and then capsize at the distance of nearly half a
mile from the shore.
“Every possible effort was made to save the unfortunate
pleasure-seekers, but in vain; they disappeared
the bodies has not yet been recovered. It is that of a Miss
Porter, from Florida. She had reached Cuyler only the
day previous, and was unaccompanied by a single friend,
save a waiting-maid, who seems overwhelmed with grief
at the loss of her mistress.”
This, then, was the announcement which so affected
Ralph Browning, blotting out for a moment the wretched
past, and taking him back to the long ago when he first
knew Marie Porter and fancied that he loved her. She
was dead now—dead. Many a time he whispered that
word to himself, and with each repetition the wish grew
strong within him—not that she were living, but that
while living he had not hated her so bitterly, and with
the softened feeling which death will always bring, he
blamed himself far more than he did her. There had been
wrong on both sides, but he would rather now, that she
had been reconciled to him ere she found that watery
grave. Hand in hand with these reflections came another
thought; a bewildering, intoxicating thought. He was free
at last—free to love—to worship—to marry Rosamond.
“And I will go to her at once,” he said, after the first
hour had been given to the dead; “I will tell her all the
truth.”
He arose to leave the room, but something staid him
there, and whispered in his ear, “There may be some
mistake. Cuyler is not far away. Go there first and
investigate.”
For him to will was to do, and telling Mrs. Peters he
should be absent from home for a time, he started immediately
for Cuyler, which he reached near the close of the
day. Calm and beautiful looked the waters of the lake
ill-fated Marie slept, they kept over her an unruffled watch
and told no tales of her last dying wail to the careworn,
haggard man who stood upon the sandy beach, where
they said that she embarked, and listened attentively
while they told him how gay she seemed that day, and
how jestingly she spoke of the dark thunder-head which
even then was mounting the western horizon. They had
tried in vain to find her, and it was probable she had sunk
into one of the unfathomable holes with which the lake
was said by some to abound. Sarah, the waiting-maid,
wept passionately, showing that the deceased must have
had some good qualities, or she could not thus have attached
a servant to her.
Looking upon Mr. Browning as a friend of her late
mistress, she relied on him for counsel, and when he advised
her immediate return to Florida, she readily consented,
and started on the same day that he turned his
face toward Riverside. They had said to him, “If we
find her, shall we send her to your place?” and with an
involuntary shudder he had answered, “No—oh, no. You
must apprise me of it by letter, as also her Florida friends
—but bury her quietly here.”
They promised compliance with his wishes, and feeling
that a load was off his mind, he started at once for home.
Certainty now was doubly sure. Marie was dead, and as
this conviction became more and more fixed upon his
mind, he began to experience a dread of telling Rosamond
all. Why need she know of it, when the telling it would
throw much censure on himself. She was not a great
newspaper reader—she had not seen the paragraph,
and would not see it. He could tell her that the obstacle
no longer a sin for him to think of her or seek to make
her his wife. All this he would say to her, but nothing
more.
And all this he did say to her in the summer-house at
the foot of the garden, where he found her just as the sun
was setting. And Rosamond listened eagerly—never
questioning him of the past, or caring to hear of it. She
was satisfied to know that she might love him now, and
with his arm around her, she sat there alone with him
until the August moon was high up in the heavens. He
called her his “sunshine”—his “light”—his “life,” and
pushing the silken curls from off her childish brow, kissed
her again and again, telling her she should be his wife
when the twentieth day of November came. That was
his twenty-ninth birth-day, and looking into her girlish
face, he asked her if he were not too old. He knew she
would tell him no, and she did, lovingly caressing his
grayish hair.
“He had grown young since he sat there,” she said, and
so, indeed, he had, and the rejuvenating process continued
day after day, until the villagers laughingly said that his
approaching marriage had put him back ten years. It
was known to all the town's folks now, and unlike most
other matches, was pronounced a suitable one. Even Mrs.
Van Vechten, who had found Ben at Lovejoy's Hotel, and
still remained with him in New York, wrote to her brother
a kind of congratulatory letter, mingled with sickly sentimental
regrets for the “heart-broken, deserted and now
departed Marie.” It was doubtful whether she came up
to the wedding or not, she said, as Ben had positively refused
to come, or to leave the city either, and kept her
actress at Laura Keene's theatre.
Rosamond laughed heartily when Mr. Browning told
her of this sudden change in Ben, and then with a sigh as
she thought how many times his soft, good-natured heart
would probably be wrung, she went back to the preparations
for her bridal, which were on a magnificent scale.
They were going to Europe—they would spend the winter
in Paris, and as Mr. Browning had several influential
acquaintances there, they would of course see some society,
and he resolved that his bride should be inferior to none
in point of dress, as she was to none in point of beauty.
Every thing which love could devise or money procure
was purchased for her, and the elegance of her outfit was
for a long time the only theme of village gossip.
Among the members of the household none seemed
more interested in the preparations than the girl Maria,
who has before been incidentally mentioned. Her dull
eyes lighted up with each new article of dress, and she
suddenly displayed so much taste in every thing pertaining
to a lady's toilet, that Rosamond was delighted and
kept her constantly with her, devising this new thing and
that, all of which were invariably tried on and submitted
to the inspection of Mr. Browning, who was sure to approve
whatever his Rosamond wore. And thus gayly
sped the halcyon hours, bringing at last the fading leaf
and the wailing October winds; but to Rosamond, basking
in the sunlight of love, there came no warning note to tell
her of the dark November days which were hurrying
swiftly on.
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
10. CHAPTER X.
THE STORY.
“My home,” began Miss Porter, “is, as you know, in
Florida. I am an only child, as were both my parents, so
that I have now living no nearer relative than a great-uncle—a
superannuated clergyman, who superintends my
affairs, and who, in case I die before he does, which is
very probable, will be heir to my possessions.
“It is now nearly ten years since my father started for
Europe, and I went to an adjoining state to visit a widow
lady, whom I had met in New Orleans the winter previous.
It is not necessary that I should use real names, consequently
I will call her Mrs. Le Vert. She was spending
the summer on her plantation, at what she called her
country-seat. It was a large, old-fashioned, wooden building,
many miles from any neighbors, and here she lived
alone—for her only son, a lad twelve years of age, was at
some northern school. At first I was very lonely, for the
secluded life we led at Holly Grove was hardly in accordance
with the taste of a young girl. Still, I did not
mind it as much as some, for I cared but little for gentlemen's
society, and had frequently declared that I should
never marry.
“Toward the last of July, Mrs. Le Vert's brother came
to visit her. He was a handsome, boyish-looking youth,
six months older than myself—just out of college—full
chanced to be wealthy.”
“That's a little like Ben,” said Rosamond, and Miss
Porter continued:
“From the first, Mrs. Le Vert seemed determined to
make a match between us, for her brother was poor, and
she fancied it would be a fine idea to have the Porter estate
come into the Dunlap family. So she threw us constantly
together—talked of me to him and of him to me,
until I really began to believe I liked him. He, on the
contrary, cared for nothing but my money. Still he
deemed it advisable to assume a show of affection, and
one night talked to me of love quite eloquently. I had
been to a dinner party that day, and had worn all my diamonds.
He had never seen them before, and they must
have inflamed his avarice, for I afterward heard him tell
his sister that he never should have proposed if I had not
looked so beautiful that night. `I was irresistible in my
diamonds,' he said.”
Miss Porter paused a moment to witness the effect of
her last words, but Rosamond was looking over her
shoulder at a wrinkle she had just discovered in the waist,
and did not heed them. Still she was listening, and she
said, “Yes—go on. You were looking beautifully that
night. Did you consent to marry him?”
“Unhappily, I did,” returned Miss Porter, “for I had
made myself believe that I loved him. I wished that he
was older, to be sure, but he said we would wait until he
was of age. This plan, however, did not suit his ambitious
sister. She knew I intended asking my father's
approval, and from what she heard of him she feared he
would never consent to my marrying a poor student, and
to my father, who answered immediately, forbidding
me to think of young Dunlap, ordering me to go home,
and saying he always intended me for John Castlewell, a
neighbor of ours—a millionaire—a booby—a fool—whom
I hated as I did poison.
“Not long after the receipt of this letter I was surprised
by the sudden appearance of Uncle Bertram, who
had come at my father's request to take me home. This
roused me at once. My father was a tyrant, I said, and
I would let him know I could do as I pleased. In my excitement,
I fancied I could not exist a moment without
Richard Dunlap, while he declared that life would be a
blank for him if passed away from me. At this opportune
moment Mrs. Le Vert suggested that we be married
immediately—that very night. Uncle Bertram fortunately
was a clergyman, and could officiate as well as any
other. In justice to Richard, I will say that he hesitated
longer than I did—but he was persuaded at last, as was
Uncle Bertram, and with no other witness than Mrs. Le
Vert and a white woman who lived with her as half waiting-maid
and half companion, we were married.”
Rosamond was interested now, and forgetting to remove
her dress, she threw a crimson shawl around her
shoulders, and sitting down upon the bed, exclaimed, “Married!
You married! Why, then, are you called Porter?”
“Listen and you shall know,” returned the lady, a dark
look settling down upon her face.
“Scarcely was the ceremony over, when I began to regret
it—not because I disliked Richard, but because I
dreaded my father's displeasure, for he had a most savage,
revengeful temper, and his daughter possesses the same.”
an hour after we were married, a negro brought a letter
to Richard from an eccentric old man for whom he had
been named. In it the old man said he had made his
namesake his heir, provided he did not marry until he was
twenty-five.
“`I know just how frillickin' you are,' he wrote, `and
I know, too, how unsuitable and how unhappy most early
marriages are—so my boy, if you want Sunnyside, wait
till you are twenty-five before you take an extra rib. I
hate to be bothered with letters, and if you don't answer
this, I shall conclude that you accept my terms.”'
“Mrs. Le Vert at once suggested that, as the old gentleman
had already had two fits of apoplexy, and would
undoubtedly soon have the third, our marriage should for
a time be kept a secret.”
“But he didn't consent,” cried Rosamond.
“Yes, he did,” answered Miss Porter, “and though I,
too, said it would be best, I began to distrust him from
that moment—to think that he preferred money to myself.
Uncle Bertram promised secrecy and went back
alone, and then commenced a life of wretchedness, which
makes me shudder even to recall it. With the exception
of my own servant, who dared not tell if I bade her be
silent, the blacks knew nothing of our marriage, and though
we lived together as man and wife, so skillfully did Mrs.
Le Vert and Esther, her white domestic, manage the matter,
that for a time our secret was safely kept. A few of
the negroes discovered it ere I left; but as they always
lived in that out-of-the-way place, it never followed me,
and to this day no human being in Florida, save Uncle
Bertram, knows of the marriage.
“I am very impulsive, and the excitement being over,
my affection began to cool. Richard could have kept it
alive had he tried, but he did not. On the contrary he
was much alone, and when with me was always tormenting
me with conscientious scruples about deceiving `the
old man.”'
“Oh, I like him for that,” cried Rosamond, “I like him
for that. Why didn't you let him tell?”
“Because,” returned Miss Porter, “I had fears that
father would disinherit me, and if Richard lost Sunnyside,
we should be poor indeed.”
A shadow passed over Rosamond's face, and she said
involuntarily, “I could be happy with Mr. Browning if we
were poor.”
Marie started and answered quickly, “What has Mr.
Browning to do with my story?”
“Nothing, nothing,” returned Rosamond, “only I was
thinking that if you loved Richard as well as I do Mr.
Browning, you would not have cared for money.”
“But I didn't, returned Marie. “I was mistaken.
'Twas a mere childish fancy. I never loved him. I hate
him now.”
She spoke vehemently, and when Rosamond said mournfully.
“Hate your husband!” she replied, “Yes, more
than hate, or I had never come to tell you this; but listen—from
indifference we came to coldness—from coldness
to recrimination—from that to harsh words—from
harsh words to quarrels—and from quarrels to blows!”
She uttered the last word slowly, while Rosamond exclaimed,
“Not blows, Miss Porter! No man would strike
a woman. I almost hate him, now.”
The proud lip curled scornfully—a gleam of satisfaction
would say—nay does say I was the most to blame—that
I aggravated him beyond human endurance—but he provoked
me to it. Think of his swearing at me, Rosamond
—calling me a she-devil and all that. Think, too, of his
telling me to my face that he was driven into the marriage
wholly by his sister—that he regretted it more than I, and
to crown all, think of his boxing my ears!—he, a poor,
insignificant Northern puppy, boxing me—a Porter, and a
Southern heiress!”
She was terribly excited, and Rosamond, gazing at her
face, distorted with malignant passion, began to fancy that
the greater wrong might perhaps have lain with her.
After a moment's pause, Marie began again. “When
we had been three months man and wife, he wrote to the
old man, confessing his marriage, and saying sundry things
not wholly complimentary to his bride; but I intercepted
it, read it, tore it up, and taunted him with it. I believe
I called him a low-lived Yankee, or something like that,
and then it was he struck me. The blow sunk deep into
my soul. It was an insult, an unpardonable insult, and
could not be forgiven. My Southern blood was all on
fire, and had I been a man, he should have paid for
that blow. I feel it yet; the smart has never for a moment
left me, but burns upon my face just as hatred for
him burns upon my heart!”
“Oh, Miss Porter,” cried Rosamond, as the former
ground her teeth together, “don't look so terribly. You
frighten me. He struck you, but he asked your pardon,
sure?”
“Yes, he pretended to, but I spat at him and bade him
leave me forever. His sister tried to interfere, but she
of embarking for America, I determined to go home, and
when he came, tell him, the whole and ask him to seek
satisfaction from one who had dared to strike his daughter.
Richard made a show of trying to keep me—said
we had better live together, and all that, while his sister
called us two silly children who needed whipping. But I
did not heed it. I went home to Uncle Bertram and
waited for my father, who never came. He died upon
the sea, and I was heir of all his vast possessions. Then
Richard made overtures for reconciliation, but I spurned
them all. You've heard of woman-haters, Rosamond—I
am a man-hater. I loathe the whole sex, Uncle Bertram
excepted. My marriage was of course a secret in Florida.
My servant, who knew of it, died soon after my
father, and as Uncle Bertram kept his own counsel, more
than one sought my hand, but I turned my back upon
them all.
“Four or five years ago he wrote me a letter. He was
then master of Sunnyside, for the old man left it to him
after all. He was lonely there, he said, and he asked a
reconciliation. Had he never struck me, I might have
gone, for his letter was kindly enough, but the blow was
a barrier between us, so I refused to listen, and exulted
over the thought of his living there alone all his days,
with the secret on his mind.
“The sweetest morsel of all in the cup of revenge was,
however, for a time withheld, but it came at last, Rosamond.
It came at last. He loved a beautiful young
girl, loved her all the more that he could not marry
her.”
She drew nearer to Rosamond, who, though still unsuspecting,
emotion of coming evil.
“I saw her, Rosamond; saw this young girl with his
name upon her lips when waking—saw her, too, with his
name upon her lips when sleeping, and all this while she
did not dream that I, the so-called Marie Porter, was his
wife, the barrier which kept him from saying the words
her little heart longed so to hear.”
There were livid spots on Rosamond's neck—livid spots
upon her face, and still she did not move from her seat,
though her clammy hand clutched nervously her bridal
dress. A horrid suspicion had flashed upon her, but with
a mighty effort she threw it off as injustice to Mr. Browning,
and mentally crying, “It cannot be,” she faintly whispered,
“Go on.”
“The summer I met her,” said Miss Porter, I was at
Cartersville, a little out-of-the-way place on a lake—”
“You're telling me true?” interrupted Rosamond, joy
thrilling in her tones.
“Yes, true,” returned Miss Porter.
“Then bless you—bless you for those last words,” rejoined
Rosamond, burying her face in her companion's
lap. “A terrible fear for a moment came over me, that it
might be I. But it isn't. I met you at the Springs. Oh,
if it had been me, I should most surely die.”
“But she did not—the young girl,” resumed Miss Porter.
“She had a brave, strong heart, and she bore up
wondrously. She felt that he had cruelly deceived her,
and that helped her to bear the blow. Besides, she was
glad she knew of it in time, for, had he married her, she
would not have been his wife, you know.”
Rosamond shuddered and replied, “I know, but my
for her. But go on, how did she find it out? Who could
have strength to tell her?”
There was a pause, and each could hear the beating of
the other's heart. The November wind had risen within
the last half hour, and now howled dismally past the window,
seeming to Rosamond like the wail that young girl
must have uttered when she first learned how her trust
had been betrayed. The clock struck four! Rosamond
counted each stroke, and thought, “One hour more, and
he will be here.” Marie counted each stroke, and thought,
“One hour more, and I must be gone.”
“Rosamond,” she began again, “what I now have to
confess is an act of which I have repented bitterly, and
never more than since I sat within this room. But it
was not premeditated, and believe me, Rosamond, it was
not done for any malice I bore to that young girl, for I
pitied her so much—oh, so much,” and her hand wandered
caressingly over the bright hair lying on her lap.
“We went out one afternoon—two ladies, a gentleman,
and myself—in a small sail-boat upon the lake. I
planned the excursion and thought I should enjoy it,
but we had not been out long when my old affection of
the heart began to trouble me. I grew faint, and begged
of them to put me on the land. They complied with
my request, and set me down upon a point higher up
than that from which we had embarked, and near to a
dilapidated cabin where lived a weird old hag, who
earned a scanty livelihood by fortune-telling. I told her I
was sick, and sat down by her door where I could watch
the movements of the party. Suddenly a terrific thunderstorm
arose, the wind blew a hurricane, and though the
at length, and its precious freight disappeared beneath
the foaming waves. For a moment horror chilled my
blood; then, swift as the lightning which leaped from
the cloud overhanging the graves of my late companions,
a maddening thought flashed upon my mind.”
“But the girl—hasten to that part,” said Rosamond, lifting
up her head, while Miss Porter went back to her chair.
“I shall come to her soon enough,” returned Miss
Porter, continuing her story. “No living being, save
the old woman at my side, knew of my escape, and I
could bribe her easily. Fortunately I carried the most
of my money about my person, and I said to her, `There
are reasons why, for a time at least, I wish to be considered
dead. Here are twenty dollars now, and the
same shall be paid you every month that you are silent.
No human creature must know that I am living.' I saw
by the kindling of her eye at the sight of the gold that I
was safe, and when the night shadows were falling I stole
from her cabin, and taking a circuitous route to avoid
observation, I reached the midway station in time for the
evening train.
“Three days later in a distant city I read of the sad
catastrophe — read that all had been found but one, a
Miss Porter, from Florida, and as I read I thought `he
will see that, too.' He did see it. Before going to
Carterville I sent to Sunnyside a girl who was under
peculiar obligations to me, and one whom I could trust.
She secured the place. She was employed at last about
the person of that young girl, who had lived at Sunnyside
since she was a child, a friendless orphan.”
There was a quick, gasping moan as if the soul were
which the pillows concealed from view, while Miss Porter
hurriedly proceeded:
“There is but little more to tell. I wrote to the girl
who took her own letters from the office. I told her all,
and from her heard that the bridal day was fixed. The
obstacle was removed—not insanity, but a living wife.
Need I say more?”
She paused, but from the bed where the crushed, motionless
figure lay, there came no sound, and she said again,
“Speak, Rosamond. Curse me, if you will, for saving you
from an unlawful marriage.”
Still there was no sound, save the low sighing of the
wind, which seemed to have taken a fresh note of sadness
as if bewailing the unutterable desolation of the young
girl, who lay so still and lifeless that Marie Porter's heart
quickened with fear, and drawing near, she touched the
little hand resting on the pillow. It was cold—rigid—as
was also the face which she turned to the light.
“It is death!” she cried, and a wild shriek rang through
the house, bringing at once the servants, headed by Mrs.
Peters.
“What is it?” cried the latter, as she saw the helpless
figure and beautiful upturned face.
“It's death, madam—death, and it's coming on me,
too,” answered Miss Porter, clasping her hands over her
heart, which throbbed as it never had done before, and
which at last prostrated her upon the lounge.
But no one heeded her, save the girl Maria. The rest
gave their attention to Rosamond, who lay so long in the
death-like stupor that others than Miss Porter believed her
dead.
The clock struck five! and echoing from the Granby
hills the engine-whistle came. Then a slight tremor ran
through her frame, and Mrs. Peters whispered joyfully,
“There's life—there's hope.”
Along the highway the returning traveler came with
rapid tread, but 'neath the sycamore no Rosamond was
waiting.
“She is hiding from me,” he said, but his search for her
was vain, and he rapidly hastened on.
All about the house was still. There was no Rosamond
at the door—nor in the hall—nor in the parlor—nor on
the stairs; but from her chamber came the buzz of voices,
and he entered unannounced, recoiling backward when he
saw the face upon the pillow, and knew that it was Rosamond's.
Every particle of color had left it; there were
dark circles beneath the eyes, and a look about the mouth
as if the concentrated agony of years had fallen suddenly
upon her.
“What is it?” he asked, and at the sound of his voice,
the brown eyes he had been wont to call so beautiful unclosed,
but there sunny brightness was all gone, and he
shuddered at their dim, meaningless expression.
She seemed to know him, and stretching her arm toward
him as a child does toward its mother when danger
threatens, she laid her head upon his bosom with a piteous
wail—the only really audible sound she had yet uttered.
“Rosamond, darling—what has come upon you?” he
said, “and why are you in your bridal dress?”
At that word she started, and moving away from him,
moaned sadly, “It was cruel—oh, so cruel to deceive me,
when I loved and trusted him so much.”
“Won't some body tell me what this means?” he demanded,
and Mrs. Peters replied, “We do not know.
There's been a strange woman here, and she was with
Rosamond when it happened.”
“Woman? What woman? And where is she now?”
he asked, and Mrs. Peters replied, “She was faint—dying,
she said, and Maria took her into another chamber.”
Mechanically he started for that chamber—hearing
nothing—seeing nothing—thinking nothing for the nameless
terror which had fallen upon him. He did not suspect
the real truth. He merely had a vague presentiment
that some one who knew nothing of the drowning had
come there to save his Rosamond from what they supposed
to be an unlawful marriage, and when at last he stood
face to face with his living wife, when he knew the grave
had given up its dead, he dropped to the floor as drops
the giant oak when felled by the lightning's power!
Marie Porter, even had she been cruelly wronged, was
avenged—fully, amply avenged, and covering her face
with her hands, she moaned, “I have killed them both,
and there's nothing left for me now but to die!”
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE END.
Over the horrid awakening which came to the wretched
man, we need not linger; neither is it necessary to dwell
upon the first few days of mystery and dread, when death
seemed brooding over Riverside, and rumor was busy
with surmises and suspicions concerning the stranger, and
the relation, if any, which she bore to Rosamond Leyton.
We will rather hasten on to the morning when to Mr.
Browning the joyful tidings came that Rosamond was
better—so much better, indeed, that he could see and talk
with her if he chose.
Only once since the fearful night when he found her
moaning in her bridal dress, had he stood by her bedside
—for, though he longed to be there, he could not endure
to see her turn away from him, whispering as she did so,
“It was cruel—oh, so cruel to deceive me so.” Neither
had he been near Marie Porter, consequently he knew
nothing of the means by which she had imposed upon him
the story of her death. But Rosamond knew—Rosamond
could tell him, and from no other lips would he hear
it. So, when he learned that she was better, he asked to
see her alone, and Mrs. peters, to whom he had necessarily
confided the story of his marriage, carried his message
to Rosamond.
For a moment Rosamond did not seem to hear, but
when the message was repeated, the great tears forced
down her cheeks, dropped upon the pillow.
“He might have spared me this,” she said, “but if it is
his wish, I can see him.”
With a mighty effort she stilled the violent throbbings
of her heart, forced an unnatural calm upon her face and
whispered—“Let him come now; I am ready.”
He was standing without the door, so near that he
heard the words, and in a moment he was at her side.
Falling upon his knees before her, he clasped her hands in
his, imploring her forgiveness for the great wrong he had
done her in not telling her the truth at first. “But I am
innocent of the last,” he said; “believe me, Rosamond, I
thought her dead, or I had never asked you to be my
wife. I know not how she deceived me so terribly, but
you know, and I have sought this interview to hear the
story from your own lips. Will you tell it to me, darling
—Miss Leyton, I mean,” he added hastily, as he saw a
shadow of pain flit over her face.
“I will if I can,” she faintly answered, and summoning
all her strength, she repeated to him what Miss Porter
had told her, except, indeed, the parts with which she
knew he was familiar.
“The plot was worthy of her who planned it,” he said
bitterly; then, as Rosamond made no reply, he continued
—“she told you, I suppose, of our married life, and
painted me the blackest villain that ever trod the earth.
This may in part be true, but, Rosamond, though I may
never know the bliss of calling you my wife, I cannot
be thus degraded in your sight and offer no apology.
I was a boy—a self-willed, high-tempered boy, nineteen
years of age, and she aggravated me beyond all human
provoke me. I loved her at first—nay, do not turn away
incredulously. Heaven is my witness that I loved her, or
thought I did, but 'twas a boyish love, and not such as I
feel for you.”
“You swore at her,” said Rosamond, unable to reconcile
love with an oath.
“Once—only once,” he replied. “I blush to own it,
for it was not a manly act.”
“You struck her,” and for the first time since he had
been in that room the brown eyes rested full upon his
face.
“Yes, Rosamond,” he answered; “I own that, too,
but she goaded me to madness, and even raised her
voice against my sainted mother, who had borne so dastardly
a son as I!”
“And Riverside?” said Rosamond. “Did your uncle
die deceived?”
“Never—never,” Mr. Browning exclaimed, starting to
his feet. “I told the whole truth, or I would not have
lived here a day. Rosamond, I have greatly sinned, but
she has not been blameless. She insulted me in every
possibly way, even to giving you her wedding ring, and
then, lest I should not see it, wrote to me `to look upon
your finger. No wonder you thought me mad!”
“Her wedding ring! Could she do that?” said Rosamond.
“Yes, her wedding ring. It first belonged to Susan,
who gave it to me for the occasion, and two weeks after
I had it marked with Marie's name and the date of
our marriage. It is broken now, and I would to Heaven
I could thus easily break the tie which binds me to
must it be? Must I live my life without you,
when I need you so much—when my heart longs so to
claim you for its own?”
He covered his face with his hands, and Rosamond
could see the tears dropping slowly through his fingers.
Terribly was he expatiating the sin of his boyhood, and
what wonder is it, if, in his agony, he cried, “My punishment
is greater than I can bear!”
Rosamond alone was calm. She seemed to have wept
her tears away, and the blow which had fallen so crushingly
upon her, had benumbed her heart, so that she now
did not feel as acutely as the weeping man before her.
Very soothingly she spoke to him, but she offered no
word of cheer—no hope that all would yet be well.
“They would bear it with brave hearts,” she said, “and
he must be reconciled to his wife.”
“Never—never,” he exclaimed. “The same roof cannot
shelter us both, and if she chooses to stay when she
is better, she is welcome to Riverside, but I cannot share
it with her.”
Neither said to the other, “It may be she will die,” for
such a thought had never intruded itself upon their minds,
and yet Marie Porter's life was numbered now by days.
The heart disease, from which she had long been suffering,
was greatly aggravated by the strong nervous excitement
through which she had recently been passing. Stimulants
of a most powerful kind had created a kind of artificial
strength, which had enabled her to come to Riverside,
but this was fast subsiding; and when she bent over the
motionless form of Rosamond, and feared that she was
dead, she felt, indeed, that death would ere long claim
nigh been more than she could bear. For nearly nine
long years she had not looked upon his face, but she remembered
it well—a handsome, boyish face. His hair
she remembered, too—his soft, dark, wavy hair, through
which her fingers had sometimes strayed, in the far back
days at Holly Wood, before she was his bride. He would
not be greatly changed, she thought; and when, on that
fatal night, she heard his coming footsteps, she pictured
him in her mind much as he was that winter-day, when,
standing in his sister's door, he bade her a long good-bye.
Nearer and nearer he had come—faster and louder had
beaten her heart, while a cold, faint sickness crept over
her.
“Open the window—I cannot breathe,” she gasped;
but ere her request was obeyed, Ralph Browning had
fainted on the threshold, and she had asked that she
might die.
She had seen him only for an instant, but that sufficed
to tell her he was changed from the dark-haired, handsome
boy, into the gray-haired suffering man. His eyes had
met hers, but the fierce hatred she expected, was not
there; and the look of utter hopeless despair which she
saw in its place, touched her as reproach and resentment
could not have done.
“Oh, I hope I shall die,” she said, as she hid her face
in the pillow. “I hope I shall die.”
This wish she uttered every hour; and when, at last,
the physician said to her, “Madam, you will die,” she answered,
“It is well!”
She did not ask for Mr. Browning, for she knew he
would not come, but she inquired anxiously each day for
she laid her hand upon her heart, and watching
its rise and fall, smiled to think how fast her life was going
out.
“Listen, Maria,” she said, “Listen to what they say,
and hear if they talk of me.”
Noiselessly Maria glided to the door of Rosamond's
chamber—stood there for a moment and then as noiselessly
came back repeating to her mistress the substance of what
she had heard, together with sundry little embellishments
of her own.
“He will give you Riverside and go away himself,” she
said, and Miss Porter quickly rejoined, “Go where? Go
with whom?”
“With Miss Leyton of course,” returned Maria. “He
said he would not live without her.”
“The wretch!” ejaculated the angry woman, all her
softer emotions giving way to this fancied insult. “He
might at least wait now until I'm dead. I'll go to him
myself, and see if in my presence he dare talk thus to
her.”
She was greatly excited, and spite of the painful throbbings
of her heart and the dizzy sensation she felt stealing
over her, she stepped upon the floor, and hurriedly crossed
the room. The effort was too much for her feeble
strength, and she sank fainting upon a chair. The girl
Maria had seen her faint before, but never before had she
seen so fearful a look upon her face, and she ran in terror
to Mr. Browning, beseeching him to come “for her mistress
was dying sure, and would trouble no body much
more.”
For a moment he hesitated, but when Rosamond said
he laid her upon the bed as gently, though not as tenderly,
as he would have lain his Rosamond there.
“Call Mrs. Peters,” he said, and when that matron
came, he bade her give to the invalid every possible care.
Slowly Miss Porter came back to life, but it was only
to faint again, and with each fainting fit it became more
and more apparent that life was ebbing fast. They did
not say to Rosamond that she would die, but they told it
to Mr. Browning, who heard as one who hears not.
Every other sensation seemed to have given place to a
feeling of horror, and when at the close of the second day
word came to him that she was dying, and had asked to
see him, he arose mechanically and walked to her sick
room as calmly as he had visited it the previous night,
when he knew she was asleep. One glance, however, at
her white face and wild bright eyes roused him to the
reality, and bending over her pillow, he forced himself to
take her hand in his, saying kindly, “Marie, do you know
me?”
“Know you?” “Yes,” she answered. “You are my
husband—my husband.” She lingered upon that name
as if its sound recalled to life some olden feeling—some
memory of Holly Wood, where they first had met.
“Marie, you are dying,” he continued. “Shall we part
in anger, or in peace?”
“In peace, if you will,” she answered. “I have had
my revenge—but it is not sweet as some say it is. I
would rather, Ralph, that I had never known you, for
then I should not have been the wicked wretch I am.”
Mr. Browning did not reply to this, and for a few moments
there was silence, during which she seemed to
grasping nervously her husband's hand, she whispered,
“I am going now—there's no sham this time—five minutes
more, and you are free to marry Rosamond. Be
kind to her, Ralph. Deal with her not as you dealt with
me, and—and—come closer to me, Ralph. Let me whisper
this last so as no one can hear.”
He bent him down to listen, and summoning all her
strength, she said, not in a whisper, but in tones which
echoed through the silent room—“Never, never strike
Rosamond, will you?”
Rapidly the story circulated that the strange woman
who lay dead at Riverside had been Ralph Browning's
wife, and hundreds flocked to the funeral, hoping to gain
a view of the deceased. But in this they were disappointed,
for there was nothing visible, save the handsome
coffin, on whose silver plate was inscribed the word
“Marie.”
Some said that “Browning” might have been added to
the name, and while others marvelled that the husband
wore no badge of mourning, a few said wisely that the
mourning was visible in other than the usual signs—in the
hair gray before its time, and in the deep-cut lines which
a living sorrow alone had made. And so, amid surmises
of the past and foretellings of the future, the ill-fated
Marie was laid in the village vault, until word could be
received from her old uncle, who might wish to have her
rest among the balmy groves and fragrant flowers of her
beautiful Florida home.
And now our story winds to its close. Ralph Browning
was free indeed, but death had been at Riverside, and
a second bride. Rosamond, too, must recover from
the blow which had fallen so crushingly on her—must
learn to confide again in the man she loved—to think of
the great wrong he had done her as the result of an
early, boyish error, which he regretted even more bitterly
than herself.
And so the warm spring rains had fallen and the April
blossoms were bursting from the dark, moist earth ere
the wedding morning came. At the bridal there was no
satin dress—no orange wreath—no flowing veil—but there
was perfect love shining in the beautiful brown eyes of the
girlish bride, while the fine face of the bridegroom wore
a look of perfect happiness, as if the past were all forgotten,
and the world was bright and new. Europe was
still their destination, and among those who accompanied
them to New York, going with them even to the vessel's
deck, none bade them a more affectionate adieu than Mrs.
Van Vechten herself. She had spent a part of the winter
at Riverside, and had learned to appreciate the gentle
girl who she knew was to be her brother's wife.
Ben, too, was of the party. He had listened in amazement
to the story of his uncle's first marriage, wondering
how it could have been kept from him, and remembering
several little incidents, the meaning of which he now understood.
He had given up the Crimean war, as well as
the dancing girl, and now he had given up Rosamond,
too, but he bore it quite heroically, and ever after took
especial pains to speak of her as “My Aunt Rosamond.”
For more than a year the bridal pair remained abroad,
and then returned again to Riverside, where now the patter
of tiny feet, and the voice of childhood is heard, for
the world there is not a prouder, happier wife and mother
than the little Rosamond who once on a dreary November
day listened, with a breaking heart, to the story of Ralph
Browning's Youthful Error.
| Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond | |